"Tennessee Interlude," A One Act Essay in Five Scenes, by Cindy Sams

Cindy Sams writes from Macon, Georgia, where she teaches theatre and chronicles the restless geography of Southern girlhood. Her essays appear in Reckon Review, The Plentitudes, Tiny Memoir, Brevity Blog, and others. She is the author of Humble Pie (Bottlecap Press, 2025) and is at work on her hybrid memoir Reverse Migration. She holds an MFA from Reinhardt University where she studied literary nonfiction.

Tennessee Interlude:

A One-Act Essay in Five Scenes

PROGRAM NOTE
This interlude marks a departure from Benson, Arizona, into Kingsport, Tennessee. A stage set for new marriages, borrowed dreams, and roles we never rehearsed. Characters speak their lines, but what’s unsaid hovers in the wings.

DURATION: Ninety days, give or take.

Characters: Mama, Brick (the latest husband), Bobby (my brother), Cindy (me)

Setting: Kingsport, Tennessee

Time: 1970s.

[House lights down. Audience quiets.]

SCENE I

TENNESSEE TWO-STEPPING

We rolled into Kingsport on a rainy September afternoon, the kind that smeared the windshield and blurred the mountains like a dream gone bad. We’d traded Arizona dust for Tennessee mud, a so-called blessing from the Lord.

Mama’s latest husband, Brick, had gone ahead to set up the rental house and park his baby son with the neighbors. His new job teaching dance would pay the bills with cash to spare.

Or so the grownups said.

Mama chattered nonstop from the driver’s seat, pitching Brick’s plans like we were headed for a Bob Hope tour.

“This is our big chance. Tennessee folks love a good show,” she chirped, her voice in league with her lies.

Sensing our silence, Mama pivoted to the scenery.

“Look at those trees,” she said, gesturing at the crimson and gold leaves scattered on the damp ground. “You don’t see those in Arizona.”

[Aside: Big whoop. Everybody’s seen a tree.]

She slowed past the school where Brick would teach and direct, then pulled into the driveway of a white two-story Colonial with a swing set in the side yard. I claimed the slide for myself, vowing to give it a go when the weather improved.

“That’s better than I expected,” Mama said. She threw a toothy grin our way. “Big house, huh?”

Bobby rolled his eyes. A big house didn’t mean squat compared to what we’d left behind. He shifted his weight, bracing for something he knew was coming but couldn’t avoid.

Brick rushed to the car. He grabbed Mama and spun her around in the driveway. She simpered and giggled, her soft shoe collapsing into a duck-footed waddle.

“Unload,” Brick barked, and they headed inside. He turned back to us and smiled—a feral grin tight as a vise. His laugh—half chortle, half growl—froze the air between us.

The door swung shut behind him with a thud. Bobby and I stood outside with suitcases in hand, staring at a place that already felt like a trap.

[Cue ominous music. Slow fade out.]

SCENE II

 Da-Da-Da-DUMB

You Are Cordially Invited:
To yet another round of misguided matrimony

Bride: Patricia Ann Avery Doolittle Hunnicutt Lausch (collect ’em all!)
Groom: Brick “Twinkletoes” Flame

Processional: Da-da-da-DUMB, da-da-da-DUMB. Everybody sing. You know the tune.

Officiant’s Note: The minister pronounced them husband and wife but whispered to anyone who’d listen, “This won’t last.”

Reception to follow immediately:

·         Dance number choreographed by Ric

·         Hangovers served daily

RSVP: Not required. Do yourself a favor and skip it.

SCENE III

SHUFFLE-BALL-CRINGE

Tap.

            Tap-tap.

            Clunk.

            A dozen pairs of shoes rattled against the wooden floor at Ric’s afterschool dance program, half the class sharp, the other stumbling. At 15, I was the oldest in a group of grammar-school girls who still wore pigtails.

            We all sported pink tights and leotards, but that’s where any resemblance ended. In my body, a simple four-count step lumbered off beat into a theatrical mess. Bless my heart, I danced on two left feet.

            Brick hammered the rhythm between his hands—one-two-three, one-two-three. He could chant shuffle-ball-change until Kingdom come, but my feet still landed lurch-stumble—CRASH. The little girls flinched, mules spooked by a rattler.

            Heat crept up my neck as the class giggled. Brick sighed, rubbed his face, and called it a day. I ran to the dressing room and locked myself into a stall. The girls’ laughter didn’t bother me as much as my body’s refusal to follow simple commands.

            [Blackout. Applause withheld.]

            I fared a bit better at ballet. Brick choreographed a simple version of Peter and the Wolf  and cast me as Sonia the Duck—the clumsy comic relief waddling straight into the wolf’s jaws.

            A perfect part for me. Short, quick, and no rhythm required.

            Tap and ballet filled my afternoons. Bobby attended high school. As a ninth grader in Tennessee, I got shuffled to a junior high which had no drama department but did have a chorus class. I could sing better than I could tap.

            Bobby’s high school theater friends adopted me as their mascot. At the Carpenter’s Shop coffee house, we rehearsed a local production of Harold Pinter’s The Birthday Party.

            Our favorite line, “I have not come for breakfast, sir,” became our hello and goodbye.

            Brick’s paycheck kept bread on our table. When it vanished—without any warning I knew of—so did our breakfasts. Whatever curtain Tennessee raised fell just as fast. Brick was fired before the Thanksgiving holiday arrived.

Why, I never knew.

My sixteenth birthday came and went unremarked. By Christmas, we were grateful for canned green beans and cranberry sauce.

[Blackout. Scene III ends on empty plates.]

SCENE IV

LOUNGE LIZARDS

[Stage Directions: A smoky lounge at the Red Roof Inn. Cigar haze. Sticky floors. Bottles clink. A chair scrapes. The ice machine hums off-key.]

Cindy adjusts a bedazzled thrift-store prom dress, tugging at the plunging neckline.
[Aside: A Georgia girl like me had no business in a getup like this, not in a Kingsport bar.]

Brick signals the downbeat.
Band (imagined): You’ve got to change your evil ways, baby…
Mama: tambourine shaking, smile too wide.
Brick: rasping through Stop the World, I Want to Get Off.
[Stage Directions: He swings his hips like Sinatra’s taking notes.]
Mama: If they could see me now…
[Aside: Thank God no one we knew could.]

Bobby & Cindy: shaky backup on MacArthur Park.
[Stage Directions: Mics fizzle before the chorus. Silence heavier than failure.]

Brick, grinning:

·         “We’re like Damon and Pythias, folks — only cheaper suits and worse timing.”
[Drum rimshot.]

·         “Give it up for the Red Roof Inn, where the drinks are watered down and so are the dreams.”
[Pause. Crickets.]

·         “Old Blue Eyes looked at the moon. I’m just hoping this crowd looks up from their drinks.”

·         [Aside: We’re desperate, trying to patch the hole in Ric’s lost paycheck.]

[Stage Directions: Cindy squirms, flop sweat dripping. Bobby’s jaw locks tight.]

Owner rises, face flat, pushing away his drink.
[Stage Directions: Decision made. Lights dim.]

All scuttle out.
[Aside: The act bombed, but life handed us a new script.]

SCENE V

EXIT STAGE LEFT

            The phone rang in the empty Kingsport house. Mama snatched it up like it held the last scrap of bread. Dale’s voice carried through the receiver, calm as if no time had passed. My previous stepfather, and the one I loved the most.

            We’d been in Tennessee for three months. The set already had collapsed: no food in the pantry, Mama’s bruises hidden under pancake makeup. I craved Grandmama’s cracklin’ cornbread and a cup of coffee. Bobby scowled, stage-hand who’d had enough, meaner than a wet hen every time Ric so much as breathed.

The phone chimed in on cue.

            “He wants to talk to you,” Mama said.

            I wiped my sweaty palms on my pants legs and reached for the phone. Mama slipped out of the room, letting me carry her pitch.

            Our conversation followed its usual pattern. Dale asked questions. I answered in short bursts.

            “Are you doing ok?”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “Is there anything I can do for you?”

            “No, sir.”

            “Your mother says you want to come back to Arizona.”

“Yes, sir.”

            “I’d be happy for you to come home if that’s what you want to do.”

            I spilled my heart out to the only father figure I’d ever known. School, dance, friends, my first real boyfriend who loved The Beatles. Mama’s fights with Brick and how Bobby and I were homesick and hungry and scared.

            I thought I was finally being heard, but I was only the mouthpiece. To Dale’s credit, his care for me was real, and I responded to that.

            “Give your Mama the phone. We’ll work something out.”

            Mama returned, cigarette in one hand, beer in the other. I passed the receiver to her.

[Scene change: Tennessee fades. House goes dark. Set struck.]

EPILOGUE

RUNNING ON EMPTY

Mama’s left hand twitched against the steering wheel of her ’67 Dodge Polaris, a worn-out teenage hotrod with a chartreuse paint job and a universal joint held together by the Holy Ghost.

Her right—damaged in an accident years ago—lay in her lap, no match for Texas highway driving. We were bolting from Tennessee back to Arizona in a ride as shaky as the Spirit of St. Louis sputtering over the Atlantic.

We made it by the skin of our teeth.

We were running, running, running—from one state to another, one man to another. We left Brick behind and headed back to Dale. Where calm would replace chaos. Where want would be met with plenty. Where stability would overturn flux.

Or so I hoped.

Ahead lay the Dallas-Fort Worth Turnpike. The six-lane toll road bisected our trip and scared the Bejesus out of us all. With a jerk, Mama shot the juice to the accelerator like she was late to Wednesday night prayer meeting. We flew from the on-ramp into the thick of rush-hour traffic. Cars, trucks, and motorhomes blurred past, blind to life or limb.

This was the Longhorn Autobahn.

No rules. No speed limit. No mercy.

The car’s transmission whined and complained. We were too slow for the middle lane Mama favored. Long-haul truckers thundered past, horns blaring. Brake lights flashed. Traffic squealed to a stop. My butt cheeks gripped the leatherette seat as Mama jammed both feet on the brakes.

“Hold on, young’uns. I don’t know if I can stop.”

She did. So did everyone else. Traffic slowly eased back into motion. Mama exhaled, while my pulse crawled back from wherever it had gone to hide.

We pulled into Tucson like a three-legged dog—dead tired, dead broke, and dead certain we wouldn’t make it one more mile.

[Blackout.]