Blushing on Reba

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It was the spring of 1990 and I was proudly wearing a mullet while sitting my skin-tight, Levi 501 clad ass on a hard, concrete step. I was just about to wrap up my freshman year of college and was working as a stagehand for a Reba McIntire concert. 30 minutes before I had ended 3 hours of hard, manual labor helping unload seven trucks worth of Reba concert gear. I was happy to be sitting, not so happy to be sitting on a hard, concrete step, and flat pissed that I had drawn this job during the concert. I had dreamed of running stage lights or waiting like a panther ready to strike at the sides of the stage for anything the band or Reba may need to produce their twanging, country tunes. Instead I was guarding a door at the back of the building that lead down several hundred feet of concrete before making a turn to the dressing rooms.

Now keep in mind this was before smart phones or mobile gaming devices. I basically had nothing to do for 3 hours during the concert except gaze down the concrete hall or stare at the door. To make matters worse there was no chair to sit on to provide some level of comfort. I had a hard, concrete step to lounge on.

Despite growing up on a large ranch in Northern Montana I had never liked country music. I could ride a horse and buck a bale of hay, but I had only owned one pair of cowboy boots, never a plate size belt buckle, and certainly never a cowboy hat. I was not a fan of Reba’s music. I was more of an AC/DC or Motley Crue type of guy.

I was damn sure that no one was going to walk down the hallway. This was going to be an excruciating 3 hours of guard duty. To top it off, I had to help load the seven trucks of Reba’s concert gear. It wasn’t going to lay my head on my dorm room pillow until well after 2 a.m. The icing on cake was that I was making just a nickel over minimum wage. The situation was shitty.

And then I heard a click, click of a woman’s heels walking on concrete. I could not see the woman, because she was behind the corner of the tunnel. However, I had something to grab my attention away from my glum predicament. Around the tunnel corner walked a lady. She was too far down the tunnel to really make out any features, but I could tell it was a woman.

Click, click and the woman started to get closer and I could start to make out a mane of red hair and a short, very fancy dress. As the woman walked closer I began to think there is no way that this could be Reba. Up to this point I had only seen her on television or magazines. Internet surfing was not going to be common for at least another decade.

Click, click and the woman was close enough to see it was Reba. Just like on the television and magazines. I must have looked like a deer staring into a car’s lights. It wasn’t that I was star struck. I really didn’t give two hoots about Reba. It was the fact that she was beautiful that had me looking like an idiot. Her flaming red hair was massive and must have consumed a half-gallon of Aqua Net. With the aid of sparkly heels she was tall. Her dress was very ornate in a country type design, cut short to showcase her flawless legs, and had a plunging neckline leading to a valley of cleavage.

Her eyes were a piercing, sky blue. I could not take mine off hers. She looked directly into my eyes and I was mesmerized, I was stunned, and I could not even think. I could feel my cheeks blushing and hear myself making sounds responding to her questions, but in all honesty I have no idea what she said to me or how long we talked. I can only remember she patted my hand before turning to walk away.

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CASHING IT IN ON HOLMBY STREET

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One calm nice night, I went to see a movie. I was innocently sitting there, eating my neighbor’s popcorn, watching the 2005 movie, “I WALK THE LINE” starring Joaquin Phoenix and Reese Witherspoon and about the early part of Johnny Cash’s life.

A little known scene flashed on the big movie screen, and I thought I was going to faint. I know my heart stopped, and my tiny hairs stood up on the back of my neck. I lost all color in my face, and the feeling went out of my limbs. All I could think of was the next shot would be a close up of my childhood house.

The scene was about midway through the movie. By that time in life and the film, Johnny Cash was becoming a very big deal and had sold many #1 hit songs. The scene in the movie showed Cash on stage in Vegas. He stumbled a bit, was perspiring big time, and had just begun to sing, “Folsom Prison Blues.” Just beginning the song, he leaned over slightly and in the next second collapsed right on stage. Now that’s what happened in the movie.

The rest of the true story of this scene went like this:

After Johnny Cash collapsed, the backstage medics rushed on stage and quickly got Cash on a stretcher. The medics made their medical assessment and determined that Cash had passed out on drugs & alcohol and was not in immediate danger. The medics determined that Cash just needed to sleep it off for however long that was going to take. The medics called the Sun Rise Hospital, just off the Strip. Apparently, the decision was made NOT to bring Cash to the hospital, but rather take him to a safe, quiet place where the media or other nasties could not get to him while he slept it off.

At that time, my dad was part owner of a small off-the-strip casino/bar called the Lariat Club that featured live entertainment. Sometimes some of the headliners on the strip would stop by after their shows to relax, chill, whatever. As I remember it, the place was very comfy and quiet.

And I bet you can’t guess what happened to good old Johnny after he collapsed on stage? Well, the medics decided the perfect place to stash Johnny was at the Lariat Club. To make a long story shorter, my dad decided a better place was to bring him and a couple of his right-hand men to my childhood house on Holmby Street.

Dad had just turned our entire two-car garage into a big bar with super cushy couches & loungers, and a big, big roll-out bed. The ambulance pulled up to our house just as I was walking out the front door. Now being a young teenager, I was wondering who in my family had screwed up once again. I remember the medics rolling a stretcher with someone one it into the side door of the used-to-be-garage. I ran over, and my dad sternly said, “Not Now.” That night at dinner, I learned that the guest at our family home was Mr. Johnny Cash and a couple of his friends. Well, of course the next thing on my mind was to get a peek, an autograph, a picture, a long look, whatever.

As it turned out, Johnny Cash and his extra baggage stayed with us on Holmby Street for 4 days and 5 nights. He walked out on his own and got in a nice, but not flashy Pontiac. I did get to say “Hi” to him and catch brief glimpses of him several times during those 4 days. I also got his autograph on a pamphlet that looked something like this.

Everything was really hush, hush and to my knowledge no one bothered him or tried to contact him during those days.

When he left our house, my dad said he also left Vegas and went back to Memphis, where he began his long road to recovery with June Carter’s help. As far as I know, the rest of the movie was probably fairly accurate – they just left out that little part about coming to my house to dry out. Maybe they left it out of the movie, because it was only very, very important to my family and me.

        

After the incident in Vegas and Holmby Street, as we all know, Johnny spent the rest of his life singing, writing, and acting his way to fame and fortune with June Carter. He ended up recording more than 1,500 songs and writing most of them among his many many accomplishments in his life.

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