I wait in line at Starbucks, thinking idly about the day ahead, tapping my foot, almost imperceptibly, to the music. Slowly the tune dawns on me: Tex Ritter—"I've Got Spurs that Jingle Jangle Jingle".
I've got spurs that jingle jangle jingle,
As I go riding merrily along,
And they say, "Oh ain't ya glad you're single."
And that song ain't so very far from wrong.
Oh Lulu-Belle, Oh Lulu-Belle,
Though I may have done some foolin'
This is why I never fell.
It takes me back, to the radio in my mother's kitchen that was on all summer vacation. "How Much is that Doggy in the Window?", "The Yellow Rose of Texas", "Mares eat oats and does eat oats..." But something bothers me.
It takes a moment, listening through all that sepia, but finally I spot it.
...that song ain't so very far from wrong.
If the song ain't far from wrong, it must be close to wrong!
All my life I have classified this song with "Green, Green" by the New Christie Minstrels, "Don't Think Twice" by Bob Dylan, and the theme song from Maverick, as another archetypal tribute to the wonderful rambling innocence of the adolescent, male, ain't-no-woman-gonna-tie-me-down mentality. But here, hidden behind a jaunty tune and convoluted grammar, is another level altogether.
In his soul, he knows.
This song is no longer the happy independent anthem of ignorance. It's the tortured cry of a man who is trapped by his fear of commitment. The song, he senses deep down, is mistaken.
He ain't so glad he's single at all.
That hearty upbeat tune suddenly takes on a frantic, ironic note. The beat becomes obsessive. The song that keeps him from falling is a lie, he knows it, and still it holds him in its power, driving him from one relationship after another.
I have trouble now, holding on to the sepia tints. They drain away, leaving mundane panchromatics.The whole thing seems so layered now, so fractured, so post-modern.
"What can I get you?"
I step forward, peering at the drink menu. The song pulses frantically in the background.
Oh Bessy-Lou, Oh Bessy-Lou,
Though we've done a heap of dreamin' this is why it won't come true...
"A latte," I mumble. Then, darkly, "No—make it a double."
