Mobile, Alabama—“Just Married.” That’s what’s written on the back of a ratty tailgate in white shoe polish. The plates are North Carolina. The old Ford Ranger has seen better days.
I’m at a gas station when I see the truck. The windows are rolled down. The vehicle is empty. The young couple is inside the convenience store, paying for gas.
I am at the pump, filling my tank.
My friend is nosy. He is inspecting the small Matrimony Wagon. He peeks into the truck bed.
“They sure don’t travel light,” he says. “There must be ten pink suitcases in there.”
Welcome to marriage.
Tonight, my friend and I are on our way home after playing music in Mobile. It was a pathetic venue, but the music wasn’t bad. And besides, I’ve been playing pathetic gigs since I turned eighteen. What’s one more?
I’ve played some doozies. Bingo parlors, bowling alleys, rundown bars, a shoe store clearance, and the dreaded all-you-can-eat seafood joint.
A girl exits the store, walking toward the
vehicle.
My nosy friend is almost caught red handed. He trots away from the truck. He lights a cigarette and pretends to be inspecting my tires.
The girl reaches through the window and grabs her purse. She counts a few dollars, then steals handfuls of change from her ashtray. She counts quarters in her palm. She darts inside.
Money. It’s hard to come by when you’re a newlywed.
My friend tells a story: at his wedding, twenty-five years ago, his sister placed a money tree on the cake table. People clipped dollar bills to the branches to fund the couple’s honeymoon.
“We had ninety bucks on that tree,” he tells me. “We needed that money for our honeymoon, we were flat broke.”
My honeymoon was no lavish affair, either. We went to Charleston on a shoestring budget. I’d hocked…