Last weekend we went to see Brian Parton and the Nashville Rebels play at Arnie’s. I ran into Rebecca, my former hairdresser, who’s married to the bass player. Rebecca is the coolest, most rockabilly chick ever. She has the black bangs and the red lips and the dice necklace and the smoky Southern drawl. I asked her what she’d been up to.
“Not much,” she said. “Dave got me a CB radio for Christmas, so I hang out on that a whole lot, listening to the truckers.”
“What do they talk about?” I asked.
“Mostly just how they’re going to kick each other’s ass. They’re like, I’m gonna kick your ass, motherfucker, where are ya? And then the other one says, Hellllllll, I’m behind the Waffle House, motherfucker, and then first one’s like, Awww, you a Waffle House motherfucker, ain’t you?”
There is no way that the written word could ever do her trucker voice justice, but it was the best thing I’ve ever heard. Imagine it really slow and growly.
“Do you ever talk to them?” I asked. “Do you have a handle?”
“Yeah. I was Sugar Mama, but I got into some trouble with that one, so now I’m Little Red. I tell ’em my mama was a trucker named Big Red.”
Just then, they introduced her husband onstage as Dave “Skintight” White. I asked her if that made her Skintight, too.
“No, actually, I never went downtown and had my name changed after we got married. But I’m trying to convince David that both of us should change our names to Lightning. Then I could be Rebecca White hyphen Lightning.”
Even though she’s only one year older than me, when I grow up, I want to be Rebecca.