Doghouse Roses by Steve Earle

Author:Steve Earle [Earle, Steve]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

That night back at the beer joint there was a small private gathering. In attendance were J. W. Allen, Ronnie Rector, Mason Bell, and myself. Mason said that his answering machine had run out of tape after twenty-seven messages, mostly from record labels, but now that Billy was gone, film companies wanting to buy his story were coming out of the woodwork as well. Not to be outdone by the Alabama State Police, some of the more resourceful executives tracked down the number at the Blue Room. The phone rang constantly and we did our best to ignore it until, finally, J. W. ripped it off the wall, prompting a small standing ovation. Then we got down to the business at hand.

The discussion was short and sweet. As it turned out, we were all of the same mind anyway. Every label in the business wanted Billy's record. Every screenwriter, hack biographer, and talk show host wanted a piece of the action as well. It was easy to see that there were literally millions of dollars to be made, mostly by Mason, but if Billy's record was released and was a hit (a certainty, it was simply too good to miss), we could all sell our stories about Billy to the highest bidders. Talk shows. Tabloids. More money than any of us had ever seen or would see in our lives. Billy had no family at all and Annie's would only piss it away. With Billy not around to keep everyone honest by his very presence, there would be nothing to stop the feeding frenzy. We all agreed there was only one course of action.

Ronnie and J. W. went to the studio and loaded up the tapes, every last inch of them, masters and outtakes alike. Mason and I rounded up two pairs of scissors and a butcher knife. Well into the wee hours we unrolled and snipped and hacked and slashed until all that was left of the best damn record ever recorded in Nashville was six plastic garbage bags full of copper-colored confetti. That job done, we hauled the whole load downtown and dumped it off of the Shelby Street bridge, emptying the bags one at a time. As the sun came up we watched true beauty flutter down and settle on the dark, dirty water of the Cumberland River, disappearing around the bend forever.

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