Tuesday, April 19, 2005
He looks like the best years of his life were spent as a roadie for Lynard Skynard, when rock n' roll was his soul, whiskey was his blood and the opening chords of "Freebird" made his testicles shudder with pure sappy sentiment. He'd had his share of laughs and sorrows and mother-daughter threesomes on the road until that fateful plane crash in '77 killed three members of the band and left him devastated. He returned home to nurse a broken heart and a severe disillusionment with God.
These days, he owns a local bar in Delmar, Alabama that proudly serves beer out of 12 oz. cans, where the confederate flag hangs proudly in the back window of his pick-up, and his mutt, Lucy, sleeps faithfully at his side. Some call him a local legend, while others call him that weird feller who wears 'em roadkill on his hat. But mostly, they know him as that guy who's usually too pissed drunk to even know his own name and usually breaks down weeping uncontrollably if anyone is sadistic enough to put on some Lynard in the juke.
Incidentally, the man seated next to him feels smug in thinking that no one knows he's wearing a toupee, and sometimes he'll pee himself just a little bit just to see if anyone notices.