32 Country Songs

by Jenny Ortiz

Issue 57, 9/14/09

There have been thirty-two country songs written about me. Thirty men, and two women who wrote songs about me leaving them with a broken heart and lyrics for a new song. They put me in blue dresses, dirty cowboy boots, or nothing at all. Lyrics describing me in a room at a little motel on the side of the road. My naked body wrapped in crème colored sheets. Truthfully, the sheets itched, but for those singers it was a chance for them to win a country music award. Actually, three of the songs about me did win. I remember every singer and every song, but my favorite was by a guy named Paul. Wrote a dirty swamp pop melody about me. Sang all about how he bought me vodka with ice at a bar, then left me before the sun crept through the blinds. Real badass guitar solo after the second chorus.  I think he could’ve left me if I stayed long enough. We liked the same books and sex with him was full of sweat and cursing under our breaths. Wasn’t his fault I left.  Wasn’t any of their faults, really. But like all of the bodies I sleep with, I think about somebody else. I think about a third person watching us have sex, then walking out in the middle. And as soon as they do, I want to follow. With Paul, I thought about Sam Trammell, the actor. I’d seen him on TV late the night before, and as Paul kissed my body, I could see Sam Trammell sitting on the wood chair in the corner of the motel, grinning—his eyes partly on his hands and partly on the bed. After a few minutes he just walked out, didn’t even look back at me.  I’m just a waitress, a travelling housekeeper for third rate motels, a drifter. Sure, had I known about Trammell when he was starting out, we could’ve met, but by the time I was in that motel with Paul, Trammell was a big star. No way I could meet him. Yet, there I was ignoring the man on top of me, planning where I could meet up with Sam Trammell.  Airport, car rental, onset, at a bar, at a movie premiere, at a hotel. Before I knew it, Paul was asleep, and I was wide awake looking up at the ceiling thinking about what kind of eggs Sam Trammell would like in the morning. Not fair to the man next to me, no? So I get up, grab my sandals, ripped jeans, fedora, and head out to catch the next bus. Next time I wait tables, I hear a song about Paul leaving me. I’ve got to smile about it, because it’s all true. Those country songs always are.