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This girl I used to waitress with in Austin, we moved to New York together in 2003 on a literal Greyhound bus. Shared a fifth floor walk-up studio that, when it rained, had more leaks in the ceiling than we had pots and pans. We used to get drunk and smoke off the fire escape and do “sad-offs.”

A two-story barbecue restaurant in Times Square “took a chance” on me because I aced the barbecue fundamentals test without having to study. All the other servers were aspiring Broadway, including this gay blond guy in his thirties who loved Dolly so much that when I told him about the “sad-off”

winner, he said “Which version?” Whew. I didn’t even know about 1970. Wikipedia was just a tiny baby then and hadn’t gotten to “obscure Dolly Parton” just yet. I asked him once why he loved her so much — because he really loved her, like interrupted-you-every-shift-to-talk-about-her loved her —

and he said when he was a baby he had terrible colic. Cried day and night. His mom was a young military bride, all alone on a base in Germany, and tried everything she could to help her baby feel better — swaddling, rocking, different formula, long walks, tummy massage — but he was inconsolable.