I rolled my pickup into Centerville that afternoon -- a dusty little southern town that didn't offer much of nothin' except maybe a nice place to raise your kids up. I pulled up to a parking meter that hadn't worked for years in front of the Metro hotel -- a $10 a night flophouse filled with bedbugs, lice and cheap hookers that I'd be callin' home sweet home for the next few days.

Gus, the hotel keep, who himself wasn't good for much of nothin' except that he could keep himself awake for half of his shift and still manage to put away a case of beer during the waking hours, gave me a nod of recognition as I walked in the hotel's front door.

Without a word, he flipped me the key to a room on the second floor, but just as I turned around -- to head out back to the truck and grab my guitar and the rest of my gear -- Gus let out a little grunt to signal that there was one more piece of business to bring to my attention.

He handed me a mysterious envelope with my name scrawled in pencil on the outside. Not only wasn't I accustomed to receivin' mail on the road, but I wondered who it could be that knew enough to pin me down in this two-bit hotel in this two-horse town.

I was about to rip open this curious bit of correspondence when the door to the kitchen popped open and I was greeted by another familiar face -- Monique, the hotel cook, who spoke in a peculiar kind of accent that was stuck somewhere between Paris, France and Paris, Texas.

Wearin' high heels and a tight, sexy dress that was more fit for hookerin' than kitchen work, she snuggled up close and whispered into my ear, "Doc, be careful. A man was through here asking about you. A New England yankee I suspect. I didn't like the looks of him. Better keep an eye out."

I thanked her for the warning, grabbed my belongings from the truck, and proceeded up the rickety stairs to my room, where I planned to open up that envelope and see if I could unravel this little bit of buddin' mystery.

Now Sherlock I ain't, but something told me I'd better take notice of every little detail and inspect the letter carefully before opening it. I sat on the dusty bed, pulled down on the piece of white string attached to the bulb hangin' over my head in order to shed some light on the subject, and examined it.

It wasn't anything fancy -- a cheap envelope, the kind that maybe George Costanza would buy. It looked kinda bent and wrinkled, like someone had been carrying it around in a pocket for a while. There was nothin' printed on it -- just plain old white paper with my name written in sloppy script -- in a man's handwriting no doubt -- on the outside.

I hoped it would contain some friendly words from a long lost friend, or a message from Ed McMahon trying to track me down and give me the ten million bucks I had won, but I feared from the looks of it (and from what Monique had told me) that I might be in for some trouble instead.

The contents of the envelope turned out to be as mysterious as its arrival. There wasn't a letter...or even a note. Just a bus ticket to Las Vegas and a backstage pass to a show -- an appearance by someone (or something) called the Great Scumbini.

I wondered what it all meant, and became even more curious about the strange visitor that had come to town asking about me. I somehow knew that he held the answers to all the questions that were now racing through my mind.

I could hear the highway callin', but decided I'd first nose around town to see if I could locate this mystery man, before boarding that bus to the city of Lost Wages.

I found out that Monique would be getting off work about midnight, and made plans to meet her later at Mickey's Tavern -- the little club where I'd be strummin' my guitar and singin' for my supper that evening.

I laid down on that lumpy bed, just to rest my eyes a bit, and started thinkin' how I still hadn't made that call to El Whoppo. I tried to wrestle myself up to use the pay phone in the hallway, but I was overcome by my long journey and just drifted off to sleep.