Waylon by Waylon Jennings, Lenny Kaye

to me, and this woman who had been hiding between the cars tried to get into his cab. “Get your ass out of there,”
     he told her. “That’s not your cab.” I started pouting on him, but he said, “You don’t understand how to get along in New York.”
    Eating the food was like being in a foreign country. Buddy, Tommy, and I went into a delicatessen. I had never been in a delicatessen
     in my life. I’d never seen so many different sandwich meats. Baloney was all I was used to, and they didn’t have any, nor
     ham and cheese. Tommy ordered liverwurst, and I said “I’ll have one too.” The waitress brought our sandwiches over and I took
     a bite. It tasted awful. It sat there with one bite out of it.
    The waitress came back. She was real gruff. “All right, I know you don’t like that. I’m going to give you another sandwich,
     and I’ll just charge you for half.” Buddy suggested I get some corned beef. I had never had corned beef either. “Now there,”
     she said, “eat that.”
    I took a bite and it was worse than the liverwurst. I thought she’d kill me if I left it over, so like any good, red-blooded,
     macho, bigger-than-life Texas hombre, I did the manly thing. I put it in my pocket.
    I was starving to death. The steaks weren’t any better. I was a beans-and-potato boy, and in Texas we cook our beef till it
     stops wriggling on the plate. In Manhattan, you’d order it well done and they’d tell you you were ruining a perfectly good
     piece of meat. You’d get a hamburger, and half of it was raw. To a Southern boy, that’s a sacrilege. I think maybe if those
     New York people ever saw a side of beef being butchered, they’d never order rare again.
    We didn’t stay in New York too long, enough for maybe a rehearsal and to buy some clothes. Buddy bought me a jacket and an
     ascot, along with two or three shirts. Goose and I bought long trenchcoats and hats, just like the gangsters.
    We were so friendly, it was easy to forget how big a star Buddy was. But one afternoon we went up to where Irving Feld, who
     booked the tour, had his General Artists Corporation (GAC) office. Everybody on the tour was supposed to meet there, and Buddy
     said he’d be back in a minute. He went into the office. I waited out in the lobby.
    Dion came in. The secretary introduced me. “Where’s Buddy?” he asked, and went looking for him.
    The Big Bopper slid through the door. “Where’s Buddy? Is Buddy here yet?” I don’t think Ritchie Valens was due in for another
     day. Everybody was looking to find Buddy.
    Buddy never asked if they were there at all. That’s when I knew how big a star he was. He was the one that everybody wanted
     to be around.
    Right before we left, Buddy recorded a bunch of songs in his apartment. He’d just gotten a new Gibson guitar, and Petty had
     sold him the tape machine he recorded his biggest hits on. He was always thinking music and trying new ideas. He was musical
     all the time.
    He sang “Peggy Sue Got Married” and “Love Is Strange.” He thought the world of Mickey and Sylvia. One of the things he did
     was a version of Little Richard’s “Slippin’ and Slidin’.” That was supposed to be a Chipmunks-type song. They had just had
     a hit over Christmas, and Buddy thought those high, squeaky voices were the coolest thing. So he performed it real slow, figuring
     he could speed it up when he was done. Later on they released that, him singing half-time. They just didn’t get it.
    Flash!
We’re in a photo booth at Grand Central Station, Buddy and I, smoking cigarettes. He has his glasses on; I’m in my sunglasses
     and trenchcoat.
    I smoked Salems. Buddy was trying to quit smoking, but he liked to bum them off me. “Waylum, you gotta Salem?” he’d ask, and
     I’d flip him one over.
    The Winter Dance Party was about to head out of town. “Stars in Person” read the ads: Buddy Holly and the Crickets (though
     that upset Buddy, since the Crickets were back in