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| Talking Story with Arlo |
Baby, it's You
By Arlo Agogo
Put in the wide-open heart of Texas dust and neon dreams, there lived a woman named.....
Honey Hot Sauce.
Yeah, that was her real stage name—born plain old Honey Mae, but the rodeo promoters slapped "Hot Sauce" on her because she could burn up an arena faster than a jalapeño in July. She was the prettiest rootin'-tootin' cowgirl to ever straddle a wild bull and make it look like Sunday brunch.
Voluptuous curves that could stop traffic on I-20, a face like a sunrise over the Panhandle, and a voice that grabbed a microphone and turned 20,000 screaming fans into quiet believers.
But here's the cosmic joke: Honey Hot Sauce was so stunning, so electric, that every man who moseyed into her orbit got spooked. Cowboys with hats bigger than their egos, bull riders with scars and swagger—they'd tip their Stetsons, flash a grin, flex a bicep that could bench-press a calf, and then... vanish.
"Too pretty," they'd mutter to their buddies over warm beer. "She's gonna break my heart into a million pieces and mail 'em back C.O.D." So they rode off into the sunset before the first sunset even happened.
Heartache insurance, they called it.
Honey said screw it. She bought herself a new RV that smelled like saddle leather and dreams deferred, hitched it to the rodeo circuit, and became the star.
Trick-riding under spotlights, roping steers like they owed her money, announcing the shows with a wink and a drawl that made grown men blush.
She loved the road—the thump of hooves, the smell of popcorn and manure, the way the crowd roared when she flew around barrels on her paint horse, Starlight. Alone in her RV after the lights dimmed, she'd crank up old records, sip black coffee, and wonder if anyone out there had the guts to stick.
Enter Arlo.
Arlo was a beatnik straight out of a Donovan fever dream. Long blonde hair tied back with a leather cord, sunglasses smudged from too many daytime thought sessions, a duffel bag full of dog-eared notebooks and half-finished short stories.
He drifted north and south like a tumbleweed with a liberal arts degree, picking up freelance gigs—blog posts about obscure jazz, ghostwriting travel pieces for websites no one read. He lived in a luxury 40ft RV with a backside he'd painted with constellations and quotes from "On the Road." for traffic behind him to read.
No schedule, no mortgage, no plan beyond the next cup of joe and the next open highway.
They met a year ago at a dusty fairgrounds outside Lubbock. Arlo had wandered in chasing a story about modern cowboys; Honey was headlining. She spotted him in the crowd—black cowboy hat (ironic on a beatnik), long hair spilling out, looking like he'd rather be reading poetry than watching bronc busting.
They talked under the stars after the show. He quoted Keith Richards; she quoted Calf-Roping Times. Sparks flew like a shorted-out lasso.
For a few weeks, they were inseparable—late-night drives, her teaching him to two-step (he was terrible, all elbows and apologies), him reading her his latest scribbles while she braided her hair.
Then the old fear crept in.
Arlo watched the crowds swarm her, the cameras flash, the cowboys circle like hopeful vultures. "She's too much," he thought. "Too pretty, too bright. I'll just get my beat-up heart burned."
So he moseyed on down the road, leaving a note that said something poetic about "the highway calling" and "not wanting to dim her shine." Honey read it, laughed through tears, and cranked up her old record player.
The Shirelles came on—"Baby It's You"—and she sat alone in her RV, singing along, voice cracking:
🎶 It's not the way you smile that touched my heart.
It's not the way you kiss that tears me apart.
Uh-oh, many, many, many nights go by,
I sit alone at home and I cry over you.
What can I do?
Don't want nobody, nobody...
'Cause baby, it's you. 🎶
It's not the way you kiss that tears me apart.
Uh-oh, many, many, many nights go by,
I sit alone at home and I cry over you.
What can I do?
Don't want nobody, nobody...
'Cause baby, it's you. 🎶
Baby, it's you. She cried knowing he didn't believe her—that he was the one.
The laid-back poet who listened without judging, who loved her for the woman under the sequins and spotlight, not just the Rodeo Queen. But out of a million cowboys and drifters, what were the chances?
Arlo never forgot.
He chased the circuit in his own quiet way—showing up at shows when the wind blew him there, sitting in the cheap seats, watching her shine. He told himself it was research for a novel.
Truth was, he was hooked. Then came Abilene.
The National Finals. Big deal, bright lights, the Super Bowl of rodeo. Honey was in the thick of it—trick-riding, announcing, owning the arena.
Arlo spun his world around 400 miles out, scalped a ticket for the Sunday finals, got himself "prettied up".
He sat ringside, black hat low, heart hammering like a bad bongo solo. There she was—microphone in hand, starlight prancing beneath her, hyping the crowd:
"Y'all ready for the wildest ride of your life?"
She scanned the stands... and froze.
That hat. That hair. Arlo. She pointed right at him mid-announcement, mid-spin: "You! Black hat, long hair—trouble written all over ya. You better still be sittin' there when this show's over, 'cause I'm comin' to get you!"
The crowd whooped, thinking it was part of the show. Arlo just grinned, tipped his hat. The finals roared on—bulls bucked, riders flew, cheers shook the rafters.
When the last steer was roped and the lights dimmed, Honey marched straight to him. No hesitation. She grabbed his hand, pulled him into the shadows behind the chutes.
They stood there at midnight, arm in arm, slow-dancing to the faint echo of a country band packing up.
No words at first. Just breathing the same air.
Arlo finally spoke, voice low and beatnik-soft: "Darlin', I'm no cowboy. No big muscles, no bad scars. All I got is this heart and soul, and they're both pretty banged up from the road. You need somebody stronger, badder—"Honey cut him off with a laugh, pure and bright.
"Baby, it's you.
"He blinked. "What?" She pulled him closer. "Don't leave me alone. Come on home. You know I need your lovin'. You know I love you. Baby, it's you. Baby... it's you.
"She sang it soft, right into his ear—the words she'd cried to alone in her RV.
The words that said it didn't matter what the world whispered about her being "too much." It didn't matter if they said he'd never stay true (beatniks have a rep, after all). She knew. Any old way, she was gonna love him. Arlo's eyes went wide, then soft.
For once, the wanderer stopped wandering.
He kissed her—slow, real, no poetry needed. They climbed into her RV that night (his RV would follow later). She drove, he navigated by stars. Somewhere between Abilene and the next horizon, they laughed about how ridiculous it all was—a Rodeo Queen and a beatnik poet.
Two misfits who finally fit.
Honey Hot Sauce still rules the arenas. Arlo still writes his stories—now with her as muse, co-pilot, and co-conspirator. They bicker over coffee (she likes it black; he likes it with existential dread), dance in truck stops, and remind each other daily: Baby, it's you.
And in the quiet nights, when the road hums beneath them, one of them will hum those old lyrics. The other smiles. No more crying alone.
Just two hearts, finally believing.
Groove is in the Heart - Arlo
