Suncookin’ with Rob Azevedo: Road tripping

Sometimes, I can be foaming at the teeth to get out of Pembroke for just a day or three, to drive anywhere but up-and-down Broadway seven times a day. And when I get to that point, I call my friend, Ohio, who lives in East Nashville, Tenn., and say, “Brother, let’s do something.” And off I go.

But it’s getting harder to navigate these road trips as I age. From 20 to 50, I didn’t care if I slept on a cold bathroom floor covered by a shower mat when I was traveling around, visiting old friends in different states, seeing concerts in different halls, telling lies to different faces. Something always came out of those trips — a revealing conversation, a landscape seen but once, a slow burning sunset shared with strangers. Juicy, life affirming stuff.

And there I was a couple weeks back, foaming, feeling the walls close in on me, doing too much, thinking too much, sleeping too little. In the throes of yet another seasonal boo-hoo, I felt skinny, fat and boring all at once. My inner clock was telling me to hit the road.

Next thing, I’m driving to catch the earliest flight out of Manchester so I can join my best friends by 10 a.m. in Nashville for a cold beer and a scotched egg. They arrived in East Nashville a day earlier, having cooked the Five Points down to a hard nub.

When I arrived, my friends were still looking puffy and creased from the night before. We then waited for our leader, Ohio, to finish moisturizing his beard so we could hit the honky-tonks, hear locals croon and slobber on some street food.

I was more than willing to trade one trip down Broadway for another.

Robert’s Western World, hands down one of the greatest bars on earth, was piping hot by noon, with people of all ages swinging to the band plopping down tub notes on stage. We ate “Recession Specials” (fried bologna sandwich, bag of chips, moon pie and a PBR beer for $6) and danced with seniors. For hours we trolled Broadway, recharging our batteries and shedding dead skin.

Morning came quickly, as did the anxiety. Boom! Welcome back. I forgot I can’t leave home without it. How did the band do at Pembroke City Limits? Where were my grown children? Had my wife run off with the piano tuner? My mind was back in Pembroke, thinking of all the stuff I just ran away from.

Before I knew it, I was searching for flights home, not an uncommon but equally distasteful flaw in my character. I’m the King of Irish Goodbyes. When the rooster crows, she crows. Adios.

Sniffing my intentions, Ohio settled me down with a pep talk over coffee and some football. “We’re going to have a great day. There’s a benefit concert at a bowling alley we can pop into later,” he said.

“I really just want to be mopping the floors at PCL,” I told him.

Deciding to ride out the day, we saw a former New Hampshire musician named Dean Harlem play a terrific set at a place called Chiefs. We got chased out of a Titans bar for asking to put on the Patriots game. I found a track at a local high school and walked it while Ohio napped.

“Let’s go see that benefit now,” Ohio said later. “I think Hayes Carll is playing.”

Begrudgingly, I agreed. I do like me some Hayes Carll. That’s when God told me to stop whining. Pembroke would be there in 12 hours. So would the dirty floors and all my anxieties. Look up, son!

As the room emptied out after a great show, I was finishing a beer when I “looked up” and there stood an idol of mine, Lucinda Williams, a country music legend of the highest order.

I walked right over to Lucinda, who was with a few other women, and introduced myself, before taking both her hands in mine and telling her how much her music has meant to me and how thankful I was for all her hard work. I considered kissing her cheek. She was kind, and normal and exactly how I expected Lucinda to be in the few moments we shared.

I could have flown back to Pembroke on my own arms off the wind of that experience.

That’s why, I suppose, you get on the plane when your world gets foamy.

Rob Azevedo can be reached at onemanmanch@gmail.com.

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