“Dolly” is a short story written in 2023. 

Dolly

It’s hotter than hell in Bakersfield, and Boyd, even with the air conditioner blasting, is uncomfortable at his computer.  Hours a day for months he’s been writing a screenplay he knows or at least prays will get him some real money before he runs out of savings from the job he quit in the oilfields.   He thinks he’s got it now.  No one’s written a Dolly-inspired screenplay like this.  She’ll love it if she sees it, and Boyd has a friend in Nashville who knows a guy who works for the star.  Better not wait any longer, Boyd figures.  He drives down to LAX and catches a redeye flight to Nashville for ninety-nine bucks and at six a.m. marches out of the airport and catches a cab to a modest motel where they charge him for the previous night as well as the next.

“Go ahead and bill me for a week,” he says.  “I’ve got business in town.”

“Music business?” asks the young lady behind the counter.

“Damn right.”

“Would you please listen to some of my songs?”

“Sure, but not till I talk to Dolly.”

“Dolly Parton?”

He nods.  “Yep.”

Boyd’s a little tense as he calls Dale and says, “Hey, partner, let’s go see Dolly.”

“We’ll try, Boyd, but it could be tough without an appointment.”

“You mean I don’t have one?”

“Not yet.  I asked Dolly’s maintenance supervisor to tell her about you, but she’s been too busy to talk.  He said come on out, though, and he’ll see what he can do.”

A shower and shave refresh Boyd and he slides into his best and only suit but then decides Dolly would probably appreciate a more casual look so he puts on jeans and a cowboy shirt he thinks make him look like George Strait.

Dale picks up Boyd at the motel and, once they leave the city, says, “I oughta make you wear a blindfold.  You gotta promise to keep this secret.”

“Of course.”

In about twenty minutes Dale drives by a smooth coffee-colored driveway and ornate wrought iron gate far beyond which they see the red roof of her mansion.  Dale lifts his cell and says, “Don, we’re here.”

“Okay.  Park a ways down the street.”

In a lipstick red van the supervisor drives down to the gate he electronically opens before turning and easing next to Dale’s car.

“This is Boyd, Don.”

“Honored to meet you,” Boyd says.

“Listen, guys, we gotta do this right,” Don says. “Boyd, you get in back of the van and put on that khaki uniform just like mine.  I’ve got to change some lights in her hallway.  You’ll be my assistant.”

“What about me?” Dale asks.

“You better take a drive.”

“Can’t I hang out here?”

“No way,” says Don.  “Her security guys would be all over you.”

He turns the van and drives Boyd toward the royal residence. They carry a ladder inside, Boyd also bringing a binder, and replace some ceiling lights before Don points down the hall and whispers, “Second door on the right.”

Boyd exhales, picks up his binder, tucks it into his side, and walks to the door and knocks.

“Who is it?” sounds a familiar voice.

“Boyd Campbell.”

“Who?”

“I’m assisting Don with your lights.”

“Go right ahead,” she says.

“I’ve got something to show you.”

“What is it?”

“A screenplay I’ve written.  Can I come in?”

There’s no response until the door opens to reveal a pretty little lady with big blond hair over a low-cut, long-sleeved white blouse and light blue jeans.

“Pleasure to meet you, Dolly.”

“Same here,” she says, smiling.

He holds up his binder.

“I’m awful busy, Boyd.  I write songs just about every day.  I’m still a workin’ girl.”

“Nine to five.”
Pushing hands together in front of her chest, she laughs.  “Okay, but just for a little while.”

Dolly extends her hand toward a chair in front of her desk and moves behind it.

“What kinda story’s this, Boyd?”

“I got the idea from an interview with you.  The guy asked what you’d have done if you hadn’t made it in the music business.  And you said you’d have been a hairdresser.”

“I’m a confident person and knew I was going to be a star.”

“I know, but this is fiction.  What if the main character’s voice hadn’t been very good?  What if she’d only been an average entertainer?  That’s where I start this screenplay.  I see this lady going to beauty school, and in a few years opening a salon and doing well and then opening another and another and building a major franchise throughout the South.  Several pretty young actresses would be great for the role.”

“That’s fine for the start of the film, Boyd, but I’d have to come into the movie somewhere.”

“We’d bring you in well down the line.”

She pretends to be offended.  “I know that.  But I could play a billionaire who finances the lady.”

“Good idea,” he says, “but we need some tension.  The young lady has some failed marriages, jealous boyfriends, and problems with drinking and prescription drugs.”

Dolly props an elbow on the desk and leans forward, pointing a bejeweled hand at him.  “And I could help her with those problems.  I want to make sure there’s a happy ending.”

“Right now, I’ve got two endings.  In the first, she gets clean and continues her business career, and maybe has a promising new boyfriend.  In the second, she relapses and the movie ends with her back in rehab or dead.”

“I like the first ending.”

“I’ll think about it more after I fly home,” says Boyd.
“Fly home where?”

“Bakersfield.”

“You mean you don’t work for Don and me?”

“Not at present.”

“And not in the future.”  She stands and calls, “Don. Don, get in here.”

He walks in sheepishly and says, “Hello, Dolly…”

“What am I gonna do with you two guys?”

“I’ll leave a copy of the screenplay with you,” Boyd says.  “It’s a winner.”

“I’ll see if we need any changes.”

“I’d have to okay them.”

“Have you sold this yet?” asks Dolly.

“Not yet.”

“Then you’re still dreaming, Boyd.  I’ll write the second draft based on my decades of experience.  If things work out, we’ll share screenwriting credit.  But for now, this is all speculation.”

Waving bye, Dolly says, “Okay, Boyd.  Nice meeting you.  Don, I need to talk to you.”

“Dolly” is a short story from the collection Anne Frank on Tour and Other Stories.