The Ballad of Johnny Wales: Abner, #3

By Justin Trout

Country singer Johnny Wales can't seem to put his guilt behind him.

 

The only thing that is constant in Johnny's life has been his taste for alcohol. Plagued with one wrong decision after the next, Johnny's finally ready to quit losing and start over. Johnny doesn't know where to begin, especially when temptation is lurking around every corner. After Johnny finally hits rock bottom, it's time for him to stick to his guns. But Johnny needs help along the way.

 

When a stranger named Abner arrives, Johnny's life turns upside down. Abner walks alongside Johnny to help him overcome his trials and addiction, and when Johnny fails, Abner is there to pick him back up. Once he recognizes that the only way to get ahead in his life is to follow Abner's guidance, Johnny must make some big choices.

 

Can Johnny quit drinking?

 

Can he be redeemed?

 

Who is Abner?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Justin Trout
• Release date: Mar 24, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393865698

Book preview

Prologue

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I stood on the stage, drenched in sweat, wearing my black cowboy hat and holding my guitar that draped over my shoulders. My hand moved down the fret board like a magician doing a trick. I could conjure magic with my strings.

The lights blinded me, but thousands of people roared and chanted my name. On the stage, I was the hero. On that stage, I felt like God. My black boots clicked and I strummed the B chord hard before turning back to my drummer and kicking off my newest song at the time, Country Fullness, a song about a girl I met one fine summer when I stayed at my cousin’s lake house.

The song kept a steady pace. The lights beat down on me and sweat poured from me. The top of the risers were blocked by the stage lights, the bottom of the crowd was in the center of my view. Their hands reached up to touch my boots and legs, just so they could say, I touched Johnny Wales!

I was the hottest thing to happen to country music since Dolly Parton, Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings, and Willie Nelson. And I had played with all four. I had a good living. All of my songs hit number one and even when the world found out that I was an alcoholic—they didn’t seem to care. My songs stayed in first place.

After the concert came the after party. I’d told my wife, who was staying in the hotel with our daughter, that I’d only be a few minutes. One drink right after the other and I lost track of time. It was often difficult to find a sitter, so I encouraged my wife that if she came along, I wouldn’t participate in the after parties. I told her that I would focus on us.

I guess I lied.

I staggered into the hotel smelling like a pub. I balanced myself between door frames, rocking on my heels. My wife, Charlotte, who we all called Charlie, was losing her patience. She had been living with my alcoholism since my second album Busted on Moonshine was released.

It started with a drink here or there, especially in the studio. My bandmates and I would take shots between each track. Then it’d be a game, whoever messed up would drink a shot per minute we recorded on a song. Four minutes was four shots and if you messed up on the song again, you were drinking.

Then I took it on the road.

Jack was my drink of choice but I’d settle for anything.

I knew it was a real problem when I came home and drove my truck into the swimming pool that we just installed. It was four in the morning and I drove home from our recording studio in Nashville. Thank God I made it home without killing anyone. I guess I dozed off or something, but I didn’t wake up until the water was spilling into my lap.

Charlie was madder than a hornet. She let me have it. I told her that I would stop drinking and—well, every time she wasn’t around, I was drinking again. And like bad habits, I was still in the same boat. I could never seem to get out of it. It was always best to face the consequences. I shook the drunkenness off of my face so that I could pull out of the memories. I tried to focus on Charlie, standing in front of the bed—shaking her fist at me.

You said you’d quit, she snarled, breathing heavy in anger.

Lorin, my daughter, poked between a door and a frame, hidden in the shadows from the cracked light of the bathroom. I knew that she was accustomed to this. The fighting. I knew that damage was being done as she saw how her daddy treated her mommy.

I yelled. I yelled all of the time.

What do you want woman? I asked, lifting my hands up, standing in a haze of my own drunkenness.

I want you to keep your promise and stop drinking!

I kept the promise that matters, I argued. To love you and take care of you. You have everything you could every want. You’re lucky. You’re spoiled. And all you ever do is complain.

She bit her lip. She always bit her lip. Her lovely dark hair hung lank around her shoulders. Her dark eyes were filled with grief and anger as she pulled out her suitcase from under the hotel bed and started packing her clothes.

Lorin, we’re going home!

Lorin slowly started out of the bathroom, reaching for a teddy bear that was resting on pillows. She snuggled it close. I won it for her at a carnival earlier that summer. It was her current favorite toy.

You ain’t goin’ nowhere, I growled, my voice thick with heated passion. I grabbed her by the arms and spun her around. I jerked her a moment so that she would stand straight, but she avoided my eyes. I love you! We got Lorin. Don’t leave me.

I ain’t leavin’ you, she said, I’m leavin’ here. I’m going to stay with my mom until you grow up.

Baby, I ain’t done nothing wrong. I been drinking a little, that’s all, I said. I released her arms and staggered around the bedroom, leaning against the wall. I relaxed myself, feeling the front of my pants getting warm.

Did you just pee? she asked.

My eyes opened. I grunted and looked down to see the front of my pants soaked in my own urine.

Johnny Wales, we aren’t a song to you. We aren’t inspiration for you to go out and get drunk and sing about us on your next album, she said. We’re your family.

Then don’t go, I argued. ‘Please!"

It’s time to pick what’s more important, she said, closing the trunk. She reached back to get Lorin by the hand and she pulled her past me.

I put my hand up to stop Charlie. I’m sorry baby.

And I ain’t your baby! I’m your wife. I can’t be a punchin’ bag for an old drunkard, she said. She left the hotel room, dragging Lorin with her.

I stood in the doorway, watching her pull my daughter down the hallway until they stepped into the elevator.

You ain’t nothing without me babe! I screamed. You hear me! You ain’t nothing!

She never looked back at me, but my little girl did. Her eyes met mine and I felt like the world was being pulled from me. I felt like I’d never see her again.

I went into the room. I paced around, wiping sweat from my brow. I kicked a chair, flipped the mattress and threw the television off of the balcony. I punched a mirror, went into the bathroom and pulled the sink out of the wall. The whole time I screamed and cursed God under my breath.

I fell down on my knees in the bathroom. My heart beat like the trembling of a dozen guitar strings being played violently. When my body decided to let the alcohol take over, I passed out.

I woke up groggily to the Nashville Police pulling me up to my feet, telling me that I was under arrest for destruction of property. It was two police officers. Something McDaniel and the other, I don’t know. They were friendly fellows and asked for my autograph afterwards, but they were just doing their job. As we came down the elevator and out into the lobby, people gathered around me and were taking pictures.

They pulled me outside where more flashes of light flickered, forcing me to squint. They gently pushed me into the back of a cop car and off we went. We drove down the strip of Nashville. I admired the beautiful city lights, but my heart felt a void inside it. Johnny Wales strikes again.

Dude, the one officer said, "I went to your concert earlier tonight. That was amazing. I love your version of Over the Rainbow. I sing that to my daughter."

That’s great man, I said, hoping he took the gruffness in my voice for drunkenness and not guilt. He sings to his daughter. I don’t even do that.

I stayed quiet as they played cowboy roundup. They took my mug shot, the third since my musical career took off, and then they locked me up. I sat there, my head in my hands, smelling the urine on me. That’s when I heard the sound of a voice like that of an angel. He hummed through the cellblocks. He came to my cell and he stopped, putting his arms through the bars.

Boy, you something else.

I looked up. Before me was a tall black man in his sixties. He had on a suit jacket with elbow patches, a stained shirt underneath, baggy britches, and house shoes. He wore a cap of some kind.

You a fan? I asked.

He raised his eyes. Oh, I gave you the gift to play.

I rolled my eyes. Another crazy fan. Go on man. I don’t have time for you.

"I’ll Come Home to You is my personal favorite."

You and a million other people, I scoffed.

He laughed. About six-hundred and seventy-nine thousand. Not everybody is a fan of Johnny Wales.

I frowned. This wise guy thought he knew me so well. Lots of fans did, but they don’t know me at all. I stood up and staggered to the cell bars. Okay man, what’s your deal? You think you know me?

I do, he replied.

Alright, then when was I born? I asked.

September 21st, 1960, he replied.

I rolled my eyes, no biggie, a lot of people probably knew that. What’s your name?

He grinned. You can call me Abner. It means Father of Light.

Okay, Abner, go away. I’m really not in the mood to deal with crazy fans tonight.

He snickered and pulled back from the bars. How much you gonna lose before you do what’s right?

I ain’t lost nothing, I said.

Okay, Johnny Wales, but you ain’t that sly, Abner said. You need me.

Sure, I gave him a false smile. I was too tired to puzzle out his nonsense.

Abner grinned, then left the bars. I watched him walk out of the cell blocks and then I realized I was alone. I sat back, reflecting on my own encounter with this strange man, but brushed it off. It was nothing new to me to have strange fans. One gave me her underwear. Another tried to shoot me once.

When morning came, the police officers let me out, and told me that somebody paid my bail. I knew Charlie would come through for me. I knew that she must have heard about me being arrested and wanted me home. They let me use the phone so I called her up.

Thanks Charlie, I said.

For what?

For bailing me out.

I didn’t bail you out, Johnny.

I was floored. I paused for a moment, thinking about who would have done it. A diehard fan? My parents? I loosened the grip on my phone, letting it rest on my shoulders. Then who?

I don’t know, Charlie continued, but I saw you on the news this mornin’. Every time Lorin sees you on the news like that it breaks her heart. What kind of future you makin’ for our daughter, Johnny? I can’t keep this up. I can’t keep doin’ this. It’s been years now and nothing changes.

Charlie, I said. That’s the last time.

You said that before and the time before that and the time before that. Nothing ever changes, Charlie argued.

There was a long pause.

Listen, Charlie said. I think we both know it’s been comin’. Johnny, I can’t keep doin’ this. I need to do what’s best for Lorin. I want a divorce.

Before I could say anything she hung up on me.

Like that, my life was over and I’d lost everything.

"How much you gonna lose before you do what’s right," I reminded myself.

I hung up the phone, trying to calm my racing mind.

I walked toward the bailiff sitting behind a desk. She was a stout woman with curly hair. Who bailed me out? I asked.

She flipped through some paperwork, then found a name.

Abner, she said.

I turned from the desk, facing the glass doors that would allow me to escape to freedom. Abner? Abner saved me? I found it hard to believe that somebody like Abner would want to free a man like me. He had to have been some sort of crazed fan. Just had to be, right?

I rolled my eyes and took off out the doors, leaving the thought of Abner behind me.

Chapter 1

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I woke up in my truck's front seat, sitting in the parking lot of a superstore. Last night I played one of my gigs at a bar in Charlotte, North Carolina. I had been touring for two months. I don't usually do shows in August and September. Those were my months to write music and get back in the studio for the remainder of the year. However, it had been difficult for me to concentrate with everything going on this past year. I got sued by a fan. I crashed a rental car into a light pole. There were a few other things that kept pulling me away from the real world as well.

The sun was hotter than the eye of a stove. Must have been nearly 85 degrees by nine this morning. I propped my seat up and squinted through the dirty windows to see that employees were walking into the store. I reminded myself of the days I worked in retail before I hit it big with my first album, Country Biscuits. It was about country living in America.

I threw out empty beer cans and liquor bottles from the floorboards. I found a candy bar I bought on the road. It was nearly melted, but it was edible, so there was breakfast. I looked at my eyes in the rearview mirror. They had dark circles under them. I hadn't slept well in over thirty years. At least, that's what it felt like to me.

The musician's life was complicated. Alcohol made it worse.

Many people said I was a washed-out singer. They said that I'd never see fame like I did when I was young, but my youth was plagued with multiple arrests, a failed marriage, a daughter I didn't know anymore, and promiscuous nights. My songs were darker now. I sang about death and life and how death seemed always to be the victor.

My long hair had gone dark grey, and I now wore a thick dark grey beard. I usually wear a black gambler hat, white shirts (the ones with the least amount of stains), and my signature black vest. It was a bit worn now, but I felt more like myself when I wore it.

I got out of the truck, feeling my knees buckle the moment my feet touched that concrete. The sun reminded me of how unbearable it was going to be, and I groaned. No wonder my attitude never changed, even the weather was against me.

Johnny Wales, said a man, pushing a cart to his red truck.

I grunted. That's me. I searched my pockets for a cigarette but found none.

Dude, can I have your autograph? He pushed his cart by his truck, reached in the front seat, and pulled out a CD case and a pen. I'm a huge fan!

You are? Did you go to the show last night? I asked, reaching in my front pocket and pulled out thick sunglasses.

This young guy was in his early thirties, I presumed. He handed me the CD. Country Biscuits, of course. The cover had me sitting in a bar, a pretty lady singing in the background, and I had a beer in my hand with a plate of biscuits in front of me. That picture took nearly two days to shoot right.

I signed the CD case and handed it back to him. Say, you got a cigarette on you?

He pulled out his vape. No, I quit some time ago. Vaping is the thing that gets me through.

Those things blow up, ya know you, I murmured.

He laughed. He must have thought I was