I was born a wanderer. A baby nomad. A baby Bedouin in a rock and roll desert. WPOS is my oasis. With four tall palm trees that have no coconuts, only little mirror balls rotating and reflecting bright light in all directions and shining clear path for my little Baby Tussin future.
I know pain. I know the pain of a kid ten times my age. I know heartache. I was conceived in the sidecar of a cheap motorcycle in Asheville, NC. My father was a heavily tattooed organ grinder with bad teeth; my mother was a gypsy with rainbow ribbons in her hair, barefoot with toe rings on each toe, always carrying a butterfly net.
The road is no place for a baby. Waking up in the middle of the night on the tour bus. I don’t know. Maybe middle of the day. Listening to Uncle Mike, drunk, singing Rainbow. Or Uncle Tony, snoring loudly or arguing with the driver about the New Testament. It’s always most quiet around dawn. Everyone is sleeping. Except Uncle Jimmy. He’s looking at his reflection in the window and then breathing on it and writing bad words in the condensation, laughing to himself and mumbling something about somebody named biatch.
No, the road is no place for a baby. Not even a mature, streetwise baby. Since being sold to a checkout girl at Dollar General in Saluda, NC, I have seen the darkest of humanity. Blocking out the sun from God’s Earth. Aisle 6-B is my roots. Traded for cigarettes or some sexual favor. I don’t know. I barely remember. Rehab is brutal. Worse the next time.
I have made my decision. I won’t be a baby forever. One day I too will wear clothes. I will wear tight black pants on stage like my Daddy.