I’m pinching myself. I can’t believe I’m sitting in the lobby of the Coconut Grove Hotel in Miami Beach waiting for Johnny Cash and his wife June Carter to come down from their room. This is not a dream.

It’s not like I’m here with a bunch of other fans, hoping to get an autograph and a quick glimpse of the famous couple. I’m the only person in the lobby. Johnny and June are coming down to see ME, and no one else. And then, we’re going to ride off in a limo I’ve hired, which is parked with its engine running under the front canopy of the hotel. The driver’s name is Emil. He only speaks Spanish. I was told to be here at 5 p.m. Emil and I arrived at 4:30.

So, why am I here? I’m the marketing director for Victoria Station, a restaurant chain based in San Francisco. Our restaurants are built out of boxcars and cabooses and we specialize in prime rib.

We’re one of the fastest-growing companies in the United States. We opened our first restaurant in December, 1969, and as of today--April 19, 1975--we’ve opened 44 more, all over the United States. Our sales this year will exceed $45,000,000.

Why am I about to shake hands with a man and his wife who have been my idols since they burst on the country music scene in 1958?

Four months ago, our new advertising agency, a “boutique” agency called Pritikin and Gibbons, told a group of Victoria Station executives that we needed a company spokesperson, someone nationally-recognized, known in all of the cities where we have restaurants, and in cities where we plan to build new ones.

Jerry Gibbons said, “You need someone identifiable with your train car theme. Because of his love of trains, and his songs about trains like Orange Blossom Special Folsom Prison Blues--we suggest you hire Johnny Cash to sing your commercials.

When I heard those words, I nearly exploded out of my seat. Johnny Cash! My favorite singer of all time. Representing Victoria Station. My heart was thumping; I tried to conceal my excitement. My eyes darted around the room, studying the expressions on the faces of the rest of our executive team, trying to judge their reactions. And the expression that mattered most—on company president Dick Bradley’s face—told me the agency’s recommendation was going to fly.

As the agency went into more detail on what would be involved in trying to sign Johnny, I realized—as the marketing director—it would be my job to spearhead the project. The straw vote of the six VS executives in the room that day was 6-0 in favor of pursuing Johnny Cash.

As we left the Sacramento Street offices of Pritikin and Gibbons, Dick Bradley turned to me and said, “Make it happen, no matter what it costs.” He was worried about a sales slowdown in our restaurants. He felt Johnny Cash commercials would reverse the trend.

That was four months ago. Dick’s been pushing hard for me to get Johnny hired, but until now, there wasn’t anything more I could do. Johnny’s been on the road for two months performing in little towns and was never close enough to any of our restaurants to pop-in for a quick visit

Johnny won’t sign a deal or let us use his name until he sees one of our restaurants. So, the limo will take us to our restaurant just north of the airport here in Miami—Johnny, June, their manager Lou Robin, and I will go inside for a tour—and then the limo will take us to the Miami Beach Convention Center, where the Cashes have two concerts, the first at 6:30 p.m., the second at nine. After the concerts, the limo will bring them back to the hotel and I’m confident we’ll have a deal.

Needless to say, our restaurant employees are waiting in anticipation for the Cashes to arrive. Our regional manager, Ed Pacult, is at the restaurant, having come from San Francisco to be sure all is perfect, that Victoria Station will put its best foot forward. The bar will be packed with happy hour patrons.

I check on Emil. The engine’s been running in 92-degree temperature for 45 minutes. I had requested from the limo company the best driver in their fleet. In the little Spanish I knew, I asked Emil how long he’d been with the company. Expecting to hear ten years or so, I was shocked to discover he’d arrived from Cuba three weeks before and had been driving for two days. When he said he didn’t know where the Convention Center was, I about died. It was too late to do anything about getting a replacement driver. He is studying a roadmap on the hood of the limo. He assures me all is fine. I go back inside the lobby. It’s 5:22 p.m.

I think back to the concert my wife and I attended in November, 1968, at Madison Square Garden in New York City. Johnny and June were on a rotating stage singing “If I were a Carpenter,” everyone was on their feet, and I was thinking that someday I’d like to be somebody important like Johnny Cash. Not as an entertainer, of course, but maybe as a corporate executive, with a vice president title I had wanted to shake Johnny’s hand that night, but getting near the stage was impossible.

After the concert, my wife and I went home to our Upper East Side apartment and played the “Ring of Fire” album three times.

So, here it is, six years later. I can’t sit down and I’m nervous about Emil. How could I have planned every detail today and yet have a nagging issue like the driver not knowing his way around Miami?

The elevator door opens. A man steps out and walks toward me. He’s not Johnny Cash.

“Tom? Lou Robin, John’s manager. They’ll be down in a few minutes. We’re running a little late.”

It’s 5:43 p.m. The Cashes had to be at the Civic Center by 6:30. We were 43 minutes behind schedule. It would be a quick stop at the restaurant. Lou and I made small talk.

At 5:58, the elevator bell goes “ding.” June Carter steps out—beautiful, glowing, vibrant. And then Johnny Cash enters the lobby, his presence is overwhelming. Johnny looked bigger than he had on stage. He’s dressed totally in black except for a huge silver belt buckle with turquoise in-lays. His boots are laced to his knees. A giant hand extends to shake mine. One can’t prepare themselves for a moment like this. A deep-throated, grainy, powerful voice fills the lobby, reverberating off the Mexican pavers. I swear the porcelain statues moved on their pedestals. “Hello, I’m Johnny Cash.”

As the four of us walk toward the limo, I say, “Do we still have time to go to the restaurant?”

The Man in Black replies, “Sure, son, I don’t go on until ten till seven.”

TOM, JOHNNY AND PAM (TOM'S SISTER) - 1989
Humphrey's San Diego, Ca

There's much more to the story and my experiences with Johnny Cash, which will appear in my book. He took me with him to a concert inside the walls of San Quentin. Before his opening night concert at the Sahara Tahoe in 1976, he asked what my favorite song of his was. I told him, Sunday Morning Coming Down. He dedicated it to me.

The world will miss him. His music will go on forever. Knowing Johnny as I did, I feel he moved on to be with June, his wife, who died on May 15.

Tom and Johnny 1992	June, John Jr., Johnny and Tom 1976
A tribute to June Carter Cash
Johnny Cash in Beverly Hills
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