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A Poor Man's Elvis • Gregory Smith The Man for those Rainy Days

I was dog-tired after unloading my haul in Nashville. I planned to grab a bite to eat and stretch my legs before turning my rig around and heading back to Philly. I couldn’t wait to finally rest in my own bed. This was my last rodeo. I was hanging it up and retiring. I just didn’t have the spirit to drive anymore.

I pulled into a Choke and Puke on I81. Now, I had done this trip a million times before, and I knew all the bars and restaurants around Nashville. This place called The Rabbitt Hole had to be new, because I had never seen it before much less stopped there. I did a quick Google search on my phone but nothing came up.

The place was pretty much empty for lunchtime, save for the pretty blonde waitress behind the counter. “What will you have?” she asked.

“Fried egg sandwich and a cup of coffee,” I replied.

“You got it. That’s it?”

“Yep. Got to get back on the road.”

“Just passing through?”

“Yep. On my way back to Philly.”

“Let me put this order in for you,” she said, yelling my order to the back. “Be right up.”

“Much obliged. Say, can I ask you a question? How long has this place been open?”

“Well, we always open at six for breakfast,” she answered.

“No, I mean how long has this fine establishment been open? I come through here all the time, and I don’t ever remember this place being here. It’s not even on my phone.”

“We been here a long time,” she said. “Way before my time, but I think Jack said we opened around 1998.”

“Say, do you know that your sign is misspelled- ‘Rabbit’ only has one T at the end,” I informed.

“That’s how the family spelled their name,” she replied. “’Rabbitt’…with two T’s. This here place is in honor of Eddie Rabbitt, the country singer.”

Come to think of it, there was Eddie Rabbitt memorabilia decorating the walls- posters, signed photos, autographed guitars. “Step By Step,” an old Eddie Rabbitt song, was playing over the sound system. When that finished another Rabbitt tune began, this one called “Someone Could Lose a Heart Tonight.” I liked Eddie Rabbitt, but I wouldn’t actually call him a star or someone worthy of all this attention. To me, he was just a guy passing through life.

“What is this, like a museum to a faded country music singer? By the way, ‘Loretta’ is a beautiful name.” I said, reading her name tag. Maybe I was flirting a little. I admit to feeling a bit lonely back then.

“Faded? What do you mean, cowboy?” she questioned, a little perturbed.

“I’m not a cowboy. I’m from Philadelphia.”

“You’re a lot like Eddie,” she mused, narrowing her blue eyes. “He was from up that way too. Isn’t New Jersey up there somewhere?”

“ I never knew that Rabbitt was from Jersey,” I murmured.

“He never really was accepted by the country music community down here. They thought he wasn’t country enough. Just because he wasn’t born in the South doesn’t mean he couldn’t sing country. Look at Keith Urban- he’s Australian yet he’s every bit country as there is in Nashville. Hang on, sweetie. Your sandwich is up.”

Loretta handed me the egg sandwich on a small plate as I took a swig of hot coffee.

“I remember Eddie Rabbitt,” I reminisced. “When I first started driving trucks in the eighties, his music was everywhere. ‘Driving My Life Away’ was a trucker’s’ put- the pedal-to-the-metal song.’ That song inspired me to drive truck back in the day.”

“ Eddie was popular back then, but he never got his just due,” she commented, “’The Poor Man’s Elvis’ they used to say. He had all those hit records- 34 consecutive top ten songs- and the only award he ever won was ‘Best New Male Vocalist of 1977.’ Don’t get me wrong- Elvis was and always will be ‘The King’. But Eddie had his fans. He had over twenty number one country records. He played to sold-out concerts and Las Vegas showrooms. He did television shows. He’s in the Songwriter’s Hall of Fame. He even wrote songs for Elvis…”

“Kentucky Rain,” I mentioned with a mouthful of sandwich.

“…And Ronnie Milsap,” she finished. “Sang duets with Crystal Gayle and Juice Newton. They wanted him to be more. They wanted him to be the next Elvis. But Eddie was just Eddie.”

“Somebody must be a fan. This place is like a shrine,” I said, my eyes searching the walls.

“His family owns the place. His mother was a singer and his father played a mean Irish fiddle back in the day. They wanted to make sure he wasn’t forgotten.”

“And you? Are you family too?”

“No,” she said, blushing. “I’m just a typical Tennessee girl, hoping to get her break in Music City. But I’m very close to the family. Might as well say I am family.”

“Hey, listen…I didn’t mean nothing by that ‘faded star” remark,” I said.

“No offense taken,” she said, smiling. “Let me refill your coffee, sweetie. Remember that line in his song, ‘Hey waitress, pour me another cup of coffee’? I like to think I’m the one he’s singing about.”

“You’re way too young,” I replied.

“I’m not as young as you think,” she said.

She gave me a refill and I caught a whiff of her perfume. The scent was familiar…lavender.

“So, what’s your name, cowboy?”

“Tom,” I replied, sipping my steaming brew.

“That was Eddie’s middle name! Edward Thomas Rabbitt.  Did you ever visit his grave?” she asked in a whisper, inching closer to my face.

“No. My wife was more of a fan. She loved Eddie Rabbitt. I can still hear her singing ‘I Love a Rainy Night’ around the house, even when it wasn’t raining. No reason for me to visit his grave.”

“Well, I think you should, “she insisted. “The Calvary Cemetery is only right down the road. I think it would be nice to pay your respects before you leave Nashville.”

That was odd, I thought. Her telling me that I should visit Eddie Rabbitt’s grave. “Maybe next time passing through,” I replied. “I got to keep rolling if I want to make it home tonight.”

“Wife waiting for you?” she asked.

“My wife died six months ago. Damn cancer.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss," she said softly. There was something familiar about her, the way her eyes sparkled. I swear it was the first time I ever saw Loretta the waitress and yet…it was like I knew her forever.

 “Well, just in case you change your mind,” she informed me. "the Rabbitt family is buried in Plot 15, number 235-8, section 15, on the down-slope of a little hill, just off the road. If you see a white cross with Celtic knotwork, that’s the spot. Eddie is buried right there, along with his parents, his baby son Timmy, and his brother Jack.”

“Thanks for the info,” I said. I paid the bill and left Loretta a nice tip. I didn’t mention to her that my late wife’s name was also Loretta. She loved a lavender scent too. How ironic.

                                                          *******

I had no intention of visiting some dead country artist’s gravesite. I had over 800 miles to cover in about 12 hours. In the rig I turned on the radio and wouldn’t you know it, the song playing was “Every Which Way but Loose” by Rabbitt. Too freaky. I couldn’t wait to hit 81 out of Tennessee. I was sick of everything related to Eddie Rabbitt.

Then the strangest thing happened: for some reason I can’t explain, I pulled my rig over to the side of the road when I saw the sign saying “Calvary Cemetery.” I swear to God, something out of my control made me walk by those open gates and into the beautiful, green cemetery.

All of those numbers that Loretta threw at me - plot, section - somehow stuck in my head. Chilly mid-afternoon shadows greeted me as I scoured the grounds. Absolutely no one else alive was on the grounds. The place was dead - literally. Rows of tombstones, some flat, others standing upright, stood serenely around me. Dried, crisp leaves blew at my feet. It gets dark early in Tennessee in Autumn. Everything seemed so brown and lifeless around me- sort of like my heart Soon I felt a bit overwhelmed and lost so I asked a lonely groundskeeper where Eddie’s grave was located. It turned out that the gravesite was nearby.

There was the Celtic cross with the chiseled name Rabbitt. In front of the cross were five graves, side by side: those of Eddie’s parents, Thomas and May, and Eddie’s brother “Jack” Rabbitt, a Navy veteran who had served in Vietnam. Near them was a beautiful statue of an angel at the head of a marker for Timothy Rabbitt, Eddie’s young son who died at the tender age of two. And there, beside his little boy, lay the man himself, the great Eddie Rabbitt.

Eddie’s stone was simple but sweet. It read: Eddie Edward Thomas Rabbitt November 27, 1941- May 7, 1998 In Loving Memory of my Dearest Irish-American Husband

The marker was adorned by a shamrock at the top left corner and a guitar on the right. A few copper pennies lay on the stone, along with fresh white and blue flowers. I brushed aside several crunchy brown leaves that tried to invade the flowers.

I squatted beside the grave and touched the cold stone. It crossed my mind how Elvis was buried in the elaborate Meditation Garden at Graceland in Memphis, whereas Eddie rested here, along with his family, but in a much more modest yet peaceful setting. “A poor man’s Elvis” for sure.

 I began to think of my Loretta. How much I missed her. How I wished I had another chance with Loretta. How much I regretted driving a truck all those years - the long runs lasting weeks at a time and the wasted time neglecting her at home. And now she was gone…and I was going to be retiring soon. Everything I loved in life was slowly fading away. Just like Eddie, I seemed to be “passing through” as well. Sadness overwhelmed my soul.

“Eddie,” I whispered, “thanks for all the music. Rest in peace.”

As I was rising to my feet, the old caretaker walked over. “I see you found it,” he said. I nodded, not saying a word. This guy looked to be around my age, in his early fifties. He was tall and thin, with shoulder-length salty hair and a graying, neatly-trimmed beard and moustache.

“Thanks for visiting,” he said, his eyes a searing blue, the kind of eyes that looked deep into a man’s soul. “Do you know your way back to your truck?”

“No, I confess I don’t,” I answered.

“Come on,” he said, gesturing, “I’ll take you to the front gates. We’re about to lock up for the night anyway.”

“What are you planning on doing next?” the caretaker asked as we walked side-by-side. “You never were one for just sitting around.”

He knew I was retiring? He knew I had a truck?

“I don’t know,” I replied. “Stay in bed all day. Isn’t too much to get up for anymore.”

“You shouldn’t feel guilty about your work,” he advised. “Your wife was always there when you got back. She knew that driving was your livelihood. She knew you loved it. She never felt neglected.”

“Yeah, but she should’ve been more of my life. She was more important to me then driving a truck. I just didn’t tell her enough. I didn’t show her enough.”

“Your memories will never fade away,” the old-timer commiserated. “Now it’s time. Time to let go. Loretta wants you to embrace life again. Don’t give up driving the truck. Don’t give up on life.”

“Now wait a minute,” I said, stopping to face the caretaker. “How do you know…?” I wanted to ask how he knew about Loretta dying. How did he know my wife’s name was Loretta? How did he know so damn much about my life?

 Only I couldn’t ask him…he had vanished into thin air!

I climbed into the cab of my rig, bewildered and scared. I needed to get out of Nashville as soon as possible.

                                                     ******

Maybe it was the stress, or maybe I was just plain exhausted. Visiting Eddie Rabbitt’s grave did something to me. Whether we are truck drivers or country music artists, we all end up in the same place in the end. The point is to live life to its fullest, with no regrets.

A purple twilight was descending over the area. I decided to drive all night. I found my way back to 81 North, my highway to home. That’s when I saw the lights ahead for The Rabbitt Hole. I pulled in, figuring that I would use their bathroom, grab a cup of coffee to go, thank Loretta if she was still on duty, and pay one last tribute to Eddie Rabbitt before he forever vanished from my memory.

The place was packed when I entered the bar area. Irish music was playing from the little stage, a kicking little band playing Irish fiddle, accordion and organ. It could’ve been St. Patrick’s Day, if I didn’t know better. I looked for Loretta behind the counter but she was nowhere to be found, so I dipped into the vacant men’s room to relieve myself. It was then I heard muffled cheers and applause as someone was being introduced to the stage. I couldn’t make out the words exactly but the bar patrons cheered and music began.

As I exited the men’s room I was startled by the sound of a familiar voice, so clear and strong, singing along to an acoustic guitar. I ordered a coffee to go at the counter. I craned my neck to see who was singing up there. He looked like the caretaker at the cemetery, only this guy was much younger, maybe in his thirties, his long locks dark and curly, his facial hair neatly-trimmed, his black open-neck shirt unbuttoned nearly to his belt, exposing a tanned, youthful chest. And wouldn’t you know it, he was singing “I Love a Rainy Night” as the crowd sang along.

“He’s great!” I commented to the fellow beside me at the counter. “He sounds so much like Eddie Rabbitt. He even looks the part.”

“He should,” replied the chap. “It IS Eddie.”

This guy was holding a beer in one hand, and after he made that bizarre comment, I imagined it wasn’t his first drink of the night.

“But pal, the real Eddie Rabbitt died a long time ago, back in 1998.”

“You must be joking,” the fellow replied, “for there he is on stage, right in front of your eyes. You must’ve had one too many tonight.”

I stayed silent, not wanting to get into a brawl with an obviously intoxicated know-it-all who was twice my size. I continued to be mesmerized as this Eddie Rabbitt impersonator went into a touching rendition of “I Don’t Know Where to Start,” one of my wife’s favorite songs. My hot coffee was up and I paid for the brew.

“I would like to dedicate this next song to Tom and Loretta… two of my most loyal fans,” said the fake Rabbitt. That’s when he started into a rollicking version of “Driving My Life Away.”

Holy crap, I thought. This guy knows! What the hell is going on here? This is too freaky, I told myself. I turned away to leave the counter when my phone rang.

 Caller ID read “Loretta.” An icy chill went up my spine.

“Honey, is that you? Is that really you?” I answered. The phone went dead.

Suddenly, someone touched me on the elbow. It was Loretta the waitress, wearing normal clothes. “What are you doing back here, cowboy?” she asked.

“I’m not sure,” I confessed honestly. “I’m not sure about a lot of things on this trip. Does this place really exist? Is that really Eddie Rabbitt on stage? And do you really exist?

“Maybe it’s better not to know,” she replied. “Does it really matter as long as you are happy?”
                                                         
                                                                  ******

Fate is a funny thing. I ended up not retiring after all. In fact, I moved down to Nashville. My second chance with Loretta came true. Only it was Loretta the waitress. I wasn’t lonely anymore. I had a purpose in life again.

The Rabbitt Hole is still open. It’s like a little piece of Heaven. Eddie Rabbitt plays there every night. Sometimes he brings in “friends” like Buddy Holly, Jim Croce and John Denver to do one-night stands. Stop by the next time you visit Nashville - that’s if you can find the place.

Visiting Eddie Rabbitt’s grave did something to me. Yep, whether we are truck drivers or country music artists, we all end up in the same place in the end. The point is to live life to its fullest, with no regrets.

Thanks to Eddie Rabbitt- yes, the Eddie Rabbitt- I found my way back on the highway of life.

© Gregory Smith April 2025

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