TumbleDweeeb

   The late June sun was bearin’ down somethin’ fierce on the old wooden dock where Jessup Reed and I sat with our lines cast into the slow-movin’ waters of Paint Rock River in Jackson County. High above, a group of buzzards circled lazy-like against the clear blue sky, their dark wings spread wide as they rode the thermals, patient as time itself. Jessup eyed them warily.
   “Them vultures been followin’ us all mornin’,” he muttered. “Like they know somethin’ we don’t.”
   “They’re just hopin’ we’ll leave behind some fish guts,” I said with a chuckle that didn’t quite reach my eyes. In these mountains, folks said buzzards circlin’ was either a sign of death or change comin’. Sometimes both.
   We’d been out since dawn, our tackle box between us and a rusty transistor radio cracklin’ with the latest hits from WKRM out of Bristol.
   “Reckon we’ll catch anythin’ worth fryin’ up today, Harlan?” Jessup asked, adjusting his worn trucker cap and reeling in a bit. His fingers were calloused from years of pickin’ at guitar strings, same as mine.
   “Fish ain’t bitin’ much,” I replied, wiping sweat from my brow. “But I ain’t in no particular hurry to get back to the hot shop neither.”
   We’d both taken the day off from the auto repair shop where we worked durin’ the week. Nights and weekends were for our music—what folks had started callin’ rockabilly, though we just called it playin’ what felt right. Our band, had been buildin’ a decent followin’ at the local dancehalls and county fairs ’round these parts.
   The radio DJ’s voice cut through the summer air: “And now, the latest hit climbin’ the charts from Donny Wallace and the Boys of the Shoals…”
   My blood ran cold as the openin’ notes filled the air. Jessup’s head snapped toward me, his eyes wide beneath the brim of his cap.
   “That’s our song, Harlan,” he hissed, reachin’ over to turn up the volume. “That’s ‘Fireflies & Nightlights’—that’s our song!”
   I clenched my jaw, listenin’ as Donny Wallace belted out lyrics I’d scribbled on the back of a napkin at my mama’s kitchen table last winter. The melody was ours too, note for note, but with fancy studio production and a polished sound we couldn’t afford.
   “That low-down, dirty snake,” I muttered, settin’ my fishin’ rod aside. “He heard us play it at the Dancehall last month. Remember how he was hangin’ ’round backstage, actin’ all friendly-like?”
   Donny Wallace was a big name in these hills—had himself a regular spot on the Alabama Hayride radio show and a contract with Hunts Records. He also had a mean streak wider than the Tennessee River, and a habit of lookin’ down on local musicians like us who hadn’t “made it” yet.
   “What we gonna do ’bout it?” Jessup asked, his voice tight with anger. “Ain’t like we got money for lawyers and such.”
   I stared out at the creek, watchin’ a blue heron stalk through the shallows, patient-like, waitin’ for its chance.
   “I got a notion,” I said finally, reelin’ in my line. “You still got your cousin’s tape recorder? The reel-to-reel he brought back from the service?”
   Jessup nodded slowly. “Up in my grandpappy’s shed. Why?”
   “‘Cause we got proof. We recorded that song at Reverend Simmons’ church back in January for his daughter’s weddin’, remember? And I still got the original lyrics in my song notebook, dated and everythin’.”
   A slow smile spread across Jessup’s face. “And Miz Abernathy at the post office—she’s sweet on you somethin’ fierce. Bet she’d notarize them papers without askin’ too many questions.”
   I nodded, a plan formin’. “Then we pay a visit to WVOV down in Scottsboro. DJ Turner’s always been fair to local boys. If we can get him to play our version on air and tell the story…”
   “Wallace won’t take kindly to bein’ called out,” Jessup warned, his smile fadin’. “You remember what happened to Jimmy when he crossed Wallace last year? Couldn’t get a gig within a hundred miles after Wallace spread them rumors.”
   I started packin’ up our fishin’ gear, mind made up. “Wallace is a bully, and bullies only got power when folks is scared. My pappy always said the only way to deal with a bully is to stand your ground. Might get knocked down, but if you don’t stand for somethin’, you’ll fall for anythin’.”
   Jessup was quiet for a long moment, then he sighed and said, “Well, I reckon if we’re goin’ down, might as well go down playin’ our own song.” He picked up his tackle box. “Besides, Uncle Silas owns the Guntersville Lake Roadhouse, and ain’t no way he’s turnin’ us away, no matter what Wallace says.”
   As we trudged back up the dusty path toward Jessup’s old Chevy pickup, the stolen song faded away on the radio, replaced by an advertisement for Coca-Cola. But in my head, I could hear our version—rawer, hungrier, and honest as the hills themselves.
   I glanced up at the buzzards, still wheelin’ overhead. Their circles had tightened now, lower than before.
   “Look at that,” I said, pointing up. “Even them buzzards look like they’re circlin’ round somethin’ that ain’t quite dead yet.”
   Jessup squinted skyward. “Maybe they’re just dancin’ to our song,” he said with a grim smile. “The real version.”
   “Or maybe,” I added, “they’re waitin’ for Donny Wallace’s career once we’re through with him.”
   “You know what else Pappy used to say?” I asked as we loaded our gear into the truck bed.
   “What’s that?” “He said the truth is like cream in fresh milk—might take time, but it always rises to the top.”
   Jessup cranked the engine, which roared to life. “Well then,” he drawled with a determined grin, “let’s help it along some.”
   The truck kicked up a cloud of dust as we headed back toward town, the future uncertain but our path clear as mountain spring water. Some things were worth fightin’ for, and our music—born of these hills and hollers just like us—was surely one of ’em.