Released on the Smash record label in January 1965, "King of the Road" was written and recorded by the Country Music Hall of Famer Roger Miller.

Roger Miller's fifth Single for Smash records, "King of the Road" tells the story of a down-and-out hobo who revels in his freedom.

One of the main lyrics of the song is "I'm a man of means by no means." Another is "King of the road".

The two of them seemed to fit me well at the time. Aw, but is anybody really ten feet tall and bulletproof?


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I HAD NO SPECIAL PLACE TO GO AND THE REST OF MY LIFE TO GET THERE. For the most part, the hoards of plebians I encountered as I milled around Downtown Nashville ignored my presence. That was more than okay by me. Faded into the shadows perhaps I'd disappear.

No telling what event drew so many people. Plenty always happened in Music City as those of you who have ever been here could attest to. The only thing I knew for sure was I would never return to Hermitage Hall if there was any way I could prevent the purgatory's occurrence.

I quickly tired of being pushed, shoved, and batted around like the little silver orb inside a pinball machine. Bounced into by this stranger. Stumbled over by another. It was plenty to make me yell, "Enough already! Go find someone else to torment!"

Do you remember those strange contraptions? At one time their playing was actually banned in many cities around the country. Bet you did not remember that news, did you? I made my way to a pedestrian bridge that crossed the Cumberland River, a popular swimming and fishing locale. Non-stop, bumper-to-bumper, traffic whizzed by my perch in all directions. I stopped counting after about a million vehicles. Yes, that is a slight exaggeration, but not by much.

A semi rolled up. The 53-footer stopped at a red light. I heard his Jake Bark's loud blat-blat-blat sound. Back then, I was unfamiliar with this term, but it is made by compressed air being forced through the exhaust valve in the engine cylinder. Amazing what this boy learned under the tutelege of Dusty West. When the signal cycled, and changed to green, the vehicle lumbered on its journey.

I said to myself, "If only I could be inside one of those rigs headed anywhere but here."

My yearning remained wishful dreaming. I had no method of departing Nashville and had to make do with where I was abandoned. With multitudes of people roaming about it dawned on me I needed to find some protection in the event I encountered the wrong neurotic psychopath. One never knew what dangers lurked out there.

I held what I considered a real good idea where I could locate what I hunted. I knew several vagrants were often spotted in the area I approached. I'd seen them from the window of Hermitage Hall's clangorous Bluebird 44-passenger bus while on different day trips they provided us boys. A gun. A blade. They were of little significance to me. I wanted something in my pocket just in case I confronted a situation where I needed fortification.

Feeling brazen and bold was not a good combination for a young boy with nothing but time on his hands. Time, that rhythmic mocking that never slowed down for anybody. Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock. The metronome droned on...and on...and on...

Once each precious second dissipated, try as hard as you may, you could never retrieve it again. The clock's ceaseless ticking reminded me so much of my endless days at Hermitage Hall.

My primary target laid in a tight, tucked, semi-fetal position lost in Sawing Logs Land. I spotted the tramp under the Jefferson Street bridge. His grizzled, stubble-adorned left cheek rested on his folded, withered, hands that served as his pillow.

In close proximity, for all I knew his tattered, dirty, pack must have contained all his worldly possessions. I did not know, or care, why he was on the streets. My keen eye observed the bottom of his canvas bag was caked in dry mud. That told me he'd been homeless for awhile. Who knew what else infested his tote. I decided to rifle through his property on the off-chance I might discover what I sought. I had no way of assurance he carried cutlery, but I had to begin my quest for a blade somewhere.

This thought entered my mind, "There ain't no telling what goodies you might find in there."

Quietly, so as to not rouse him from his slumber, I advanced a few steps forward never taking my line of vision off him. I saw no need for the confrontation sure to transpire if he caught me robbing from the old hen. Disregarding the small puddles that would saturate the knees of my jeans, I knelt down beside the pack and told the decrepit galoot to, "Stay in Dreamland. I'll be out of here in a flash."

Inhaling a deep breath, I double-checked to ensure the transient wonder wasn't playing oppossum. He didn't stir. Post haste, I unzipped the bag and reached into the pack. The first item I removed was a half-smoked stogie. Its end had been disgustingly chewed off.

Barely audible enough to be heard, I muttered to myself, "Gross!"

What I wanted to do was puke my guts out, and almost did, but managed to keep the limited contents inside my stomach where they settled. With a scrunched up expression on my youthful face, I wiped my fingers on the seat of my jeans. Served me right for stealing from him, I supposed.

Torn remnants of a filthy tee shirt came out of the bag next. Two small, round, blue pills dropped out of its pocket. Your guess is as good as mine as to what those were. I left them laying in the dirt between us. I also found a used hypodermic syringe. All I would have needed was to accidentally prick myself with that scuzzy needle.

Grabbing the pack with both hands, I turned it upside down and shook the remainder of its containments out in a scattered pile. Nothing useful appeared. There was a pair of crusty underwear that led the charge of the bag's cargo as it fell to the ground.

Like the good little laddie I always am, I retrieved the wares from off the ground and commenced to stuff them back inside the bag. I left the underwear where it fell and hoped there were no brown streaks inside them. I did not check for "tread tracks". Finished with that chore, I rezipped the bag and spotted a small pouch on its front I quickly unzipped.

Sleeping Beauty received another peek as I removed a red bandana from the pouch. Feeling something hard wrapped up in the handkerchief, I unfolded the cloth and struck bonanza gold. The ancient hobo stirred as I shoved the rolled up head covering back into the pouch.

He noticed my presence and sprung up to a seated position in an exasperated manner. I waved bye with my left hand, and its five spread fingers, in his face. I didn't dawdle around to hear what obscene profanities he exclaimed.

As he grabbed his pack, and clutched it for all he was worth, I made steps as fast as I could lay them down. Somewhere I had heard that old adage, "Never run with a sharp object in your pocket". Did I listen to those sage words of wisdom? What do you think?

All the time, I crammed my new prized possession deep into the right front pocket of my denims. Jesse Owens in the 1936 Olympics had nothing on the smoke I left in my wake. Not once did I glance back over my shoulder to see if the bum chased me. I easily would have outrun him.

I'll confess I was more than a little klepto in those days. If something was not nailed down tight, and I even remotely decided I needed whatever the item was, it belonged to me. I considered my actions to be the survival of the fittest. A couple strategically placed sessions under the supervision of Dusty West's patented tail end warmer curbed me of that appetite prudently. That was how I absconded with the switchblade knife I mentioned in Chapter One of my autobiography.

If only for a fleeted moment, I felt like the King of the Road. That sensation did not last long. I knew snakes crawled at night, and when the cat was away the mice would play. What I observed popped those words into the empty space between my ears.

The slippery reptiles wore Davidson County blues, carried badges, wielded nightsticks, were armed with pistols, and had one singular, tunnel-visioned, thought on their minds.

Moi!

(TO BE CONTINUED:)

In Chapter 13, I desperately tried to outrun the wind.