Pandora is playing “(Hey, Won’t You Play) Another Somebody Done Somebody Wrong Song” sung by BJ Thomas.
It is a hot summer day and we are having a drink in a little bar out in the middle of nowhere in Upstate New York. We were supposed to be on our way to a big family weekend campout at my brother’s place, which was out in the middle of nowhere, but we got lost and couldn’t find Nowhere so we stopped at the bar.
And sitting at the bar, “Another Somebody Done Somebody Wrong Song” came on the juke box. John and I, without comment, saluted each other with our beers, grinned, and began to sing along. John and I were not so much lovers as survivors.
He and his second wife had left California—she was pregnant—and moved back east to live with her parents in a ritzy little community on a nearby lake. He opened an employment agency and was working hard to make it a success. Then she miscarried the baby and blamed him.
One night he came home from the agency, they all had supper, and then she said she was going out to the movies. Shortly thereafter, two deputy sheriffs showed up at the door. They served him with divorce papers and escorted him off the property with little more than the clothes on his back.
The love of my life was a Marine Corps fighter pilot. On Thanksgiving Day I mailed him a letter saying that I would be joining him on base as soon as I could make arrangements. On Saturday his plane crashed, his parachute didn’t open and he died. After the funeral, my letter was returned unclaimed. He died without knowing.
And so, in a cool, dark bar in Upstate New York, John and I sang the Somebody Done Somebody Wrong Song. We knew all the words.