All By My Lonesome
I’m home from my trip, and I’m happy about it. During my first night back, when I woke up at 3am and wondered “Where am I now?” I felt a wave of comfort envelope me when I realized “I’m home in my own bed.” In the morning the weather was gorgeous, and the coffee I made in my own French Press was some of the best coffee I’d had in weeks.
I wouldn’t change a thing about my trip. One week less woulda been a joke, and one week more woulda been a slog. I’m excited to be home. I’m excited to see what the hell I do next. I feel grateful, content, euphoric, and — most dangerous of all — satisfied. I am a satisfied woman.
So, speaking of “satisfaction,” were there any vacation romances? To be honest, I fell in love every single day while I was in Memphis. Let’s see…
On the first full day of my trip, I found myself alone in a room with one of the most gorgeous specimens I’ve ever seen up close: the black leather suit Elvis wore in the 68 Comeback Special. This suit and I have history: I’ve seen it in my dreams. “I can’t be in a room with you!” I thought, but the suit beckoned me to come closer. My pulse quickened. I wanted to knock over the plexiglass case, crawl inside the suit, run for the exit, and live happily (sweatily) ever after. Instead, I restrained myself and took a few innocent pictures. When a group of tourists entered the room, I bid the suit “farewell” and walked away.
Two days later, sitting on the patio of Central BBQ in Memphis, I inhaled a plate of BBQ pork, collard greens, and mac and cheese. When I caught my breath and glanced at the banana pudding on my tray, I thought one little taste couldn’t hurt. I dipped my spoon into the fully packed cup, brought the pudding to my lips, and blacked out. Thank Goodness I had that patio to myself, because I moaned out loud every time I took a bite. Each spoonful was filled with slices of fresh banana, crispy pecan cookie chunks, and creamy pudding that tasted like bananas and not like yellow. I’m telling you, this was no cheap Nilla Wafers affair — this was the Real Thing. Blessed banana pudding, I’ll never ever forget you.
My goodness, what else did I fall in love with? There was the Hash Brown Bowl at the Arcade, the Jameson Slushie at the Slider Inn, the Langostino roll with red beans and rice at Flying Fish, and the red brick exterior of the Hotel Chisca. I also fell head over heels for the colorful lights of the Hernando de Soto Bridge at night. If I close my eyes, I can see it levitating in the darkness between the Mississippi River and the sky.
I’m sorry, were you expecting me to mention men? Fine. I’ll tell you about the men.
The first man I could have had a little somethin’ with was George, the sixty-something-year-old who held onto my bags at the Graceland Hotel. The fact that I was unmarried and traveling on my own made him speechless…until he started running his mouth.
“Who are all these men who messed up?” he asked.
“They don’t matter. They messed up.”
“How long you gonna be in Memphis?”
“I’m here until Sunday.”
“Can I text you?”
I laughed. George did not. I told him I was “on a man cleanse” and power-walked away.
A few days later, on March 16, downtown Memphis turned into a mob of green hats and green beers. I had just finished a tour of Sun Studios and was walking up Union Avenue toward my hotel when a young looking kid sidled up next to me. He asked if I was on my own, and I said yes. He told me he was visiting from Alabama, but his accent was so indecipherable I didn’t catch all the details.
“Whatchu like to do? Get drunk? Smoke weed?”
“Sometimes,” I said. “Not today.”
“How old are you? About twenty-eight? Twenty-nine?”
“I’m thirty-seven years old,” I said. “How about you?”
“I’m twenty-foh. You wanna come to the basketball game with me tonight? I got tickets.”
“Thanks, but I don’t like basketball.”
We got to the corner of Union Avenue and Front Street, and I saw a chunk of the sidewalk was roped off for construction. Dang.
“I’m gonna have to turn around,” I told the youngster.
“That’s cool,” he said.
We turned around, made a right on Second Street, and then another right on Beale Street. All the while, the youngster persisted.
“You sure you don’t wanna come to the game with me?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t like basketball.”
“You could, though.”
Finally, we got to the hotel. I couldn’t wait to get inside.
“This is it,” I said.
“You’re just gonna relax in your hotel room?”
“Yeah.”
“Can I come with you?”
Ah, to be a twenty-four-year-old man. So young. So clueless. So not what I want. To me, at this point, an afternoon with a persistent twenty-four year old sounds about as appealing as a night with a pathetic sixty-year-old — the answer, my dears, is “No.”
“Sweetie,” I said, looking him in the face for the first time, “I feel like I could be your auntie.”
With that, he finally walked away.
I went inside the hotel, sat at the bar, and was immediately pulled into a conversation with an Australian man named Gary. We talked about Elvis and tattoos and his twenty-two-year-old daughter who loves Trainspotting. I told him his daughter has good taste, and that he was cool for watching RuPaul’s Drag Race with her. He finished his second Old Fashioned at the same time as I finished my first margarita, and he asked if I’d like another drink. I told him it was time for me to go to bed (which was a lie because I went to the rooftop bar), but that I really enjoyed our conversation (which was not a lie because I did have a few laughs).
Alas, I didn’t fall in love in Austin, Texas, and, to my knowledge, no one fell in love with me. I did, however, meet a cute guy on a dating app. We made a plan to have drinks one night, but then I got my period while seeing DUNE II and decided to go ahead and cancel — I wasn’t gonna bother getting dressed up just to make small talk and bleed. Yes, God gave us towels, but She also gave us queso and ice cream.
I spent the last leg of my trip in Santa Fe, New Mexico, and for two days I hung out on a ranch with a group of incredible women. We were all there on a writing retreat, and when we weren’t writing, we were chatting, eating, taking pictures of horses, or pulling a few tarot cards. One night a handful of us had drinks at our motel and showed each other our recent Hinge likes and laughed at all the goobers with car selfies.
“Are you married? Or…have you ever been married?” one of the women asked me.
“Nope. You?”
She shook her head.
“I swear, I’m completely happy with it until a voice creeps in that says I’m only single because I’m trying to protect myself…but…I don’t think that’s completely true.”
“I do the same thing,” she said, “but to be honest, I can’t name a single married friend of mine I’m actually envious of.”
Later, in my motel room, feeling the heightened effects of one cocktail consumed at 7,000 feet above sea level, I posted a mirror selfie to my Instagram story with the caption “I’m feeling saucy.” I wasn’t trying to impress anyone in particular — I was just lovin’ on me.
On the last day of my trip, I stopped at the Mine Shaft Tavern in the small town of Madrid. Madrid is located off Highway 14, also known as the Turquoise Trail. Tourists come to Madrid to visit the tiny art galleries and jewelry shops, or — like myself — to take the scenic route to the airport. I sat at the bar for a quick lunch of chicken fingers, French fries, and black coffee. I also asked for coleslaw, but I didn’t like the look of it once it arrived.
Enter: Jaime Babba. White paint stained his brown boots, blue jeans, and gray Patagonia fleece sweater. A metal beaded chain hung around his neck, on which hung a dog tag and a small key at the end of a turquoise beaded lanyard. White shoulder length hair hung down from beneath a crinkled white Stetson. He took a seat next to me. I didn’t acknowledge him. Until...
Jaime: Are you here all by your lonesome?
Stephanie: Hah. Yeah. All by my lonesome.
Jaime: ...Really?
Stephanie: Yes.
Jaime: I don’t usually see that.
Stephanie: See what?
Jaime: I don’t usually see a woman here on her own.
Stephanie: Why? Is this place dangerous?
Jaime: It’s about the least dangerous place you can be.
Stephanie: That’s what I thought.
Jaime: You’re not from around here, are you? I woulda seen ya before.
Stephanie: No, I’m on my way to the airport.
Jaime: Where ya from?
Stephanie: Los Angeles.
Jaime: Los Angeles? LA! Whoooo-hoooo! Faaaaaaaan ceeeeee!
Stephanie: Ah, c’mon.
Jaime: Faaaaaaaan CEEEEEE!
Stephanie: It’s a working town. Like anywhere else.
Jaime: It is NOT a town. It’s a BIG CITY full a traffic an’ loud noises.
Stephanie: You ever been out there?
Jaime: I used to live there.
Stephanie: What did you do there?
Jaime: Mostly sat in my car in traffic.
Stephanie: And you live here now?
Jaime: I do. And I rent. I’m done with owning things. In fact, I even tell young people – just rent.
Stephanie: I mean, I don’t own anything.
Jaime: Keep it that way. I owned a business that blew up in 2008 —
Stephanie: “Blew up” in a good way, or…
Jaime: As in it exploded. In a bad way. Never thought I’d have to live off Social Security, you know? And I don’t have to, but I receive it. And you know what I do if I have any Social Security money left at the end of the month?
Stephanie: No.
Jaime: I BLOW IT! HEHEEE!
Stephanie: (beat) You got your checkbook with you?
Jaime: I don’t carry a checkbook. Why? You need money.
Stephanie: (beat) Nnnnnnnoooo. I’m…kidding.
Jaime: What do you do in LA?
Stephanie: I’m a freelance writer. Advertising. For film. Entertainment stuff.
Jaime: Were you part of that whole strike they had last year?
Stephanie: I’m not in the union, but the strikes definitely made it hard for me to find work.
Jaime: Oh, and did it just feel great to beg people for work?
Stephanie: Honestly, it felt better than it did to work for the company I left in 2022.
Jaime: Oh yeah. Never work a corporate job.
Stephanie: It wasn’t even that corporate. I just put up with way too much disrespect for too long.
Jaime: You don’t need to do that. You’re young.
Stephanie: I’m what??
Jaime: Oh, don’t do that. Why do you women always make such a big deal about your age? You’ve got nothin’ to worry about. You’re a very pretty girl. Lemme guess how old y’are.
Stephanie: Oh GOD.
Jaime: You’re in your 30s. You haven’t hit 40 yet. That’s when everything’ll start to go downhill.
Stephanie: STOP. THAT.
Jaime: Heheh! Gotcha!
Stephanie: I tell people I’m almost 50. Just so I can get used to the idea.
Jaime: What are you talking about?
Stephanie: It’s just so I can get used to the idea.
Jaime: I’m 83.
Stephanie: You are not. You’re 73.
Jaime: What the hell does that even mean? What’s the difference?
Stephanie: There’s a big difference.
Jaime: What’s your name?
Stephanie: I’m Stephanie.
Jaime: I’m Jaime. What’s your last name?
Stephanie: Why do you want my last name?
Jaime: Oh, c’mon, I’m not gonna DO anything with your information! I know the woke thing is leave everyone alone and not ask this or that, but when I talk to a person I wanna learn all I can about ‘em.
Stephanie: There’s nothing woke about a woman keeping certain things private when she’s all by her lonesome.
Jaime: Now wait, when I said that I meant it as a compliment.
Stephanie: How so?
Jaime: Well, usually a woman doesn’t go around all by herself – she has to be with a man. Ya know? Or she feels like she does.
Stephanie: Yeah. Not me. I’ve been on my own a long time.
Jaime: You a lesbian?
Stephanie: No, I am not a lesbian.
Jaime: Nothin’ wrong with bein’ a lesbian. I ask because ‘bout half the women I meet around here are lesbians. No idea why.
Stephanie: Got it. Yeah. I’m not a lesbian, I just...I dunno.
Jaime: About a year and a half ago I was told for the third time to get outta the house and never come back.
Stephanie: What’d you dooo?
Jaime: I didn’t do anything. I was the sweetest, most loving, caring man a woman could hope to be with. But ya know...those stories of coming home to the note left on the kitchen table? I’d heard friends talk about that kinda thing. So. It happens.
Stephanie: I’m sorry. (beat) It’s Callas. (noticing a red drink in front of Jaime) Is that a Shirley Temple?
Jaime: It’s cranberry juice. I don’t drink anymore.
Stephanie: Good for you.
Jaime: I still do alotta weed. And I micro-dose LSD every morning.
Stephanie: …You micro-dose LSD every morning?
Jaime: Just a micro-dose.
Stephanie: …Are you on LSD now?
Jaime: Yes.
Stephanie guffaws in a way that makes her sound like a chicken coop for several prolonged seconds while Jaime looks at her, stone-faced.
Jaime: What’s funny about that?
Stephanie: I...I don’t know. That just. Got to me. Why do you micro-dose everyday? Is it that much better than being sober?
Jaime: I’m sorry, did you just ask me if it’s BETTER than being SOBER?
Stephanie: I...guess I see your point.
Jaime: I did LSD every single day when I was in Vietnam.
Stephanie: Well, yeah…
Jaime: I did everything in Vietnam. They gave me a Dishonorable Discharge.
Stephanie: What’d you dooo?
Jaime: I went to college at Boulder. You know Boulder?
Stephanie: My brother went there.
Jaime: So this was back when I used to drink. You ever drink? You ever been drunk? Well, ya know how the morning after you get drunk you’re still technically drunk but you can get things done? I call it flyin’ low to the ground. Well, my buddies and I got drunk one night, and then the next morning, when we were still a little messed up, we passed by a recruitment officer and enrolled in the Marines.
Stephanie: So…you did the stupidest thing you possibly could have done.
Jaime: I met with Ho Chi Minh.
Stephanie: You what.
Jaime: Oh yeah. (dramatic pause) I went to Hanoi. I met with Ho Chi Minh.
Stephanie: And…?
Jaime: Eisenhower had sent us over there without congressional approval. JFK wanted to bring everyone home. But I met with Ho Chi Minh. When I came back to Camp Pendleton my officers asked me what he was like. I said, “I think he’s a saint.”
Stephanie: You…
Jaime: They asked me to step outta the room so they could caucus, you know? And then they called me back and said they were sending me home. Dishonorable Discharge. No benefits. But they also weren’t sending me to jail. So after that I moved to Berkeley and joined the Vietnam protestors. Did that for two years with Jerry Rubin and all them.
Stephanie: ...Holy shit.
Jaime: Then I got into the music business. A buddy of mine – ever hear of Bill Graham? He was a buddy of mine. We started this music school up in Sausalito – know where that is?
Stephanie: Oh yeah. The boat people.
Jaime: We had a boat. It was me, Bill. Santana was the music director. David Crosby was one of the instructors. It was a great time. Did it for about a year.
Stephanie: ...Holy shit. What’d you do after that?
Jaime: Well...at that time it was easy to get a high paying job if you were odd, but smart. I was smart. It’s the same way nowadays, except the guys are even more odd and they make even more money. Like Elon.
Stephanie: Yeah. But maybe you were less destructive.
Jaime: Oh, I like him. I’m a fan. He bought twitter to protect our freedom of speech. They took away YouTube, ya know. You can’t get any real news on YouTube. It’s getting to be real bad now.
Stephanie checks her watch.
Jaime: You okay on time? It’s about an hour to the airport.
Stephanie: Yeah. Plus I’ve gotta return a rental car.
Jaime: Well, you should gimme a call if you’re ever back in New Mexico. Or just text me. I’ll give you my number and you can text me.
Stephanie: Uhhh...
Jaime: Or you don’t have to text me! Here. I’ll give you my number. Write it down. You don’t have to do anything with it. You’ll just have it. I’m Jaime: J-A-I-M-E. Last name: Babba. Ya like that? Picked it up in Mexico. Babba: B-A-B-B-A.
Stephanie writes the information in her journal and then stands up to leave.
Stephanie: Well, Jaime, it was great talking to you.
Jaime: You really should text me next time you’re in town.
Stephanie: We shall see.
Jaime: I think we’d have a great time.
Stephanie: You have a good day, Jaime.
Jaime: I think you might be my type.
Stephanie: (sighs) Jaime, we both know I’m your type.
Stephanie pats Jaime on the shoulder.
Stephanie (con’td): See you down the road.
Stephanie exits the Mine Shaft Tavern to return to her faaaaaaaan ceeeeee life.
They’re kinda humiliating — men, I mean. The ones I don’t want don’t have the sense to leave me alone, and the ones I do want don’t have the spine to stick around. I mean, look: I’m only human. I would have welcomed a hot vacation affair with open arms, but I didn’t like what was being offered, and I wasn’t committed to being on the lookout. Plus, Memphis isn’t the kind of place to waste energy on a man — Memphis is a place to fall in love with life (and banana pudding).
On my final afternoon in Memphis, after touring the STAX Museum, I had my Lyft driver drop me off on Main Street so I could walk by the Chicsa Hotel one last time. I hopped out of the car in front of the Slider Inn, where a brass band was playing Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit” to a crowd of people enjoying food and drinks on wooden picnic tables. Everyone was visibly delighted by the music, and I practically ran to the outdoor bar to get a drink and secure a seat. The band then went into “Hey Ya!” by OutKast, followed by a hypnotizing rendition of “Dancing Queen” by ABBA. I didn’t think the crowd could go any wilder after Ginuwine’s “Pony,” but then the band broke into C-Murder’s “Down For My N****z” and everyone danced in their seats. For their final number, they played “When the Saints Go Marching In,” leaping off the stage and running into the crowd. My eyes welled with tears as everyone sang and clapped and literally jumped for joy.
“I’m surrounded by love,” I thought. “I am love.”
Right as the band finished playing, I was startled out of my reverie when a pale, redheaded man plopped himself across from me at the picnic table. He had on giant green sunglasses with black lenses.
“Excuse me,” he said, smiling sheepishly, “would you like to go out on…a date? Sometime?”
I put my right hand over my heart and smiled.
“That’s so sweet of you, but I’m leaving Memphis tomorrow.”
He was quiet for a second, and then he told me to “Be safe,” and walked away.
And I was safe. Safe and happy. All by my lonesome.
Fucking love this piece. The whole thing, and especially every around this: "They’re kinda humiliating — men, I mean."
I love your observations and reflections on life. I felt like I was there! “creamy pudding that tasted like bananas and not like yellow” is brilliant. And the folks you met? Ooh weee! Fannn ceee!