3
Saturday morning I rode the elevator down and fixed a plateful of sausage, biscuits, and gravy. I didn’t have a lot of experience being a woman in control of her own time, and when I finished I walked into the lobby feeling like I was waiting for something to seize me and shake me into consciousness over what to do with all the endless minutes stacked up against one another until Monday night. A picture of George Jones inspired me to go back upstairs and tune my Washburn.
After that, I worked on my pitch control so long my voice was as silky-smooth as Joan Baez’s. Then I dug my turquoise blouse and blue jeans out of the bottom of one of my paper sacks, washed them in the sink with flowery shampoo and hung them over the shower rod to dry. Every now and again I’d feel a twinge of guilt over taking off from Blue Ridge without a word, but I squelched it quickly by saying to myself that I sure didn’t have to take root some place just because I’d germinated there. Didn’t birds swallow seeds only to fly miles and miles away to poop them out where they sprouted? How could nature be wrong? Speaking of nature, I’d been in downtown Nashville two days, and I’d begun to miss the wideopen outdoors a bit. But every time I thought about how I was actually in the place described as “a fertile womb for aspiring country musicians,” how I was at the intersection of my dreams and real life, I smiled so hard my eyes almost disappeared. For the rest of Saturday, I sat on my bed, alternating listening to the radio with working on some songs as I ate Paydays and Lance Toastchee crackers from the motel vending machine. Sunday came. I’d never missed a Sunday of my life being in church, and all morning a certain guilty feeling hovered over me. I made coffee in my room and turned on the television to flip through a smattering of church services, listening briefly, yearning toward what? I wasn’t sure. A bit after noon, when church would have been over anyway, I set out for another walk, as much to kill time as anything.
Every time I took a breath, whether I was rifling through tons of souvenirs and music at the Ernest Tubb Record Shop or checking out the menu of a meat and three taped to a window, I had one thought running through my head: Bluebird, Bluebird, Bluebird. As I walked the sidewalks of Broadway, I wandered into several old buildings with high ceilings where fans turned slowly. It seemed Mr. Roy Durden was right on when it came to fashion, at least on Sunday. Twirly sundresses and seersucker suits were staples of Southern ladies and gentlemen on their way from church to lunch downtown. What struck me was that Blue Ridge had a population of twelve hundred, and I’d read Nashville’s was around six hundred thousand, but there was this graciousness about Nashville that made her feel vastly more welcoming.
At a place called J & J’s Market, which looked like a convenience store but turned out to have a nice sitting area in the rear, I bought a Coke and sipped it as I tried to relax. Someone had left a colorful flier on my table. Spend a warm afternoon at Riverfront Park, lounging on the grass overlooking the Cumberland River. Be sure to wave to the folks on the General Jackson Showboat!
From childhood, I’d been drawn to the broad, slow curves of rivers snaking along through mossy banks, to gushing torrents gouging their way through sheer rock. The most peaceful moments of my past were those spent along the Toccoa and the Ocoee rivers. I finished my Coke and set out to walk the mile and a half down Broadway to Riverfront Park. As I turned onto First Avenue, I spied the famous Wildhorse Saloon and smelled the Cumberland River for the first time: a musty mix of dead worms and decaying plant matter. A wonderful smell. My heart was thumping like crazy as I crossed the street, leaving the asphalt and concrete to gallop past a lamppost with a sign reading “No Fishing or Swimming Permitted” and down a sloping bank of grass and clover striped by three terraces of cement steps.
Looking at pictures of the Cumberland had left me totally unprepared. She was majestic, a nice fat brown thread winding her way through the city. I sank down for an infusion of nature and the words to John Denver’s “Annie’s Song” rolled through my mind. My senses were literally overflowing as I watched a gray heron skimming along the water’s surface, legs behind in a graceful curve while balmy breezes brushed my cheeks. I sat worshipfully still for a long spell, recalling what I’d just read about the Cumberland.
She went for 688 miles, beginning in southeastern Kentucky, flowing through northern Tennessee, and then curving back up into western Kentucky before draining into the Ohio River. The settlers who built the village that grew into Nashville were drawn to her wealth of natural resources, and historic Fort Nashborough there on the bank behind me was a New Deal reconstruction project to remind folks how Nashville began. Nearby, the remnants of Warehouse Row recorded a later phase in my city’s history, a time when steamboats ferried goods along the waterway.
What awed me more than anything was thinking how this proud river had been here for centuries before any human eye had seen her grandeur. Native Americans made rivers into symbols of strength and nourishment for a reason, and the phrase “river of life” was perfect. I scrambled down some large boulders, pretending to be an Indian just discovering the Cumberland as I stretched my arm to trail my fingers in her waters, warm and cool as tears on cheeks, feeling the depth of her quiet strength.
Finally, I lifted my eyes to gaze across the waters. On the far bank several joggers bounced along, and there was a couple walking their dog, and beyond that a huge stadium said LP Field. Upriver I recognized the reclining forms of some homeless folks next to an old train depot. Turning to look over my shoulder toward the city I spied my landmark, the Batman Building, and what I figured was a radio station with the huge red letters WKDF.
Back at my spot on the bank, I basked in the soothing song of the Cumberland’s waters, feeling more relaxed and complete than I had in a long time. It grew late and I realized I needed to find a bathroom. I rose reluctantly, wishing I could bottle up the beautiful sense of peace I had here and carry it with me. Then it hit me—I could come to the river anytime I wanted! Which seemed odd to me at first, reminding me that I hadn’t yet fully comprehended being a woman in control of her own decisions, her own destiny. Part of me was still looking over my shoulder, making sure none of those things I’d left behind were trailing me.
As I trudged up the bank that Sunday afternoon, it occurred to me that the so-called God all those television preachers had been extolling, the one I’d heard about all my life, had let me down numerous times. In the past I’d asked God time and time again to keep me safe, protect me from a man who made the blood in my veins freeze just by thinking of him. But the rocks, the trees, and the rivers in my life—they’d never disappointed me! And now I had the Cumberland, and she knew what I needed. I could come and release all of my fears and tears into her depths, and her strength would carry them away. The fist clenched around my heart relaxed a bit, and I breathed in a mystic peace, a communion with this steady and constant river. My sanctuary.
Roy Durden was at the front desk when I got home. I wasn’t feeling social, only eager to get to my room and practice and think about tomorrow at The Bluebird. I thought he wasn’t going to notice me, but when I was just past the mirrored column in the center of the lobby, steps away from the elevator, he called, “Jennifer Anne Clodfelter!” in this too eager voice.
I turned, made myself smile. “How are you?”
“More like, how are you? Nashville treating you okay?”
He was wearing a seersucker suit and a bright orange tie, had his Elvis pompadour going, a Solitaire card game up on a laptop sitting on the counter, but he seemed a bit deflated. Sad somehow. I’d overheard one of the maids saying Roy’d been a very successful musician in his younger days, a banjo player in a bluegrass group, but then had some falling out with the other band members.
“Treating me fine,” I said, pushing the button for the elevator.
“Alrighty. Good. How’d you like to come set a spell and visit with an old man?”
“Um . . .” I hesitated, turned just enough to see the pleading look in his eyes, and then walked slowly over to the front desk. “Sure. Let me run use the ladies’ room first.”
“Sunday nights are slow around here,” he said when I returned. “Thanks for humoring an old man.”
“My pleasure,” I said, and it became true as I was saying it, as I leaned my elbows on the counter across from Roy. “So, how’s the solitaire?” I gave a nod at the computer.
“Solitary.” He laughed. “Actually, not too bad tonight. Won four, lost two so far. Grab a seat, take a load off.”
I looked in the direction he was nodding and there, several feet from his stool was a chair from the dining room. I sat down on the edge at first, then slowly slid my fanny back.
“Had supper yet?” Roy asked, his face lit up with eagerness.
“Nope,” I said, suddenly realizing I was ravenous.
“Well, I’m fixing to call Big River Grille and order me a hickory bacon burger with smoked cheddar cheese and sweet magnolia barbecue sauce. Comes with a side of fries and creamy coleslaw that’s just right. And I’m a fool for their tea. Can I make that two?”
My mouth was watering. “Sure,” I said. “I’ll go get some money from my room.”
“Nope. Treat’s on me. It’ll give me pleasure.” Roy dialed, ordered, then turned to face me with his arms crossed over his chest in an imperious way. “Best Western doing you right? You comfortable?”
I nodded, trying not to stare at his huge belly.
“Good, good. We want our guests to have a real nice experience. So, tell me, what you been doing in Nashville? I want to hear all about it. Every last detail.”
My expected payment for the coming meal would be lively banter. I twirled a strand of hair around my finger awhile, not used to off-the-cuff conversation. “I um . . . on Thursday night I went to Broadway and looked around,” I offered, and was grateful that Roy was perceptive enough to begin asking leading questions.
“You did? Well, that was a mighty fine idea. What did you think of beautiful Broadway?”
I omitted the part about the nasty-minded doorman, told him how I’d felt Willie Nelson’s presence at Tootsie’s, and how I ultimately wound up at the Station Inn. “I heard Raul Malo live,” I said. “He was really good, and I stayed until they closed.” I didn’t tell Roy I’d spent the whole time pining to be up onstage, singing.
“I imagine old Raul really got that crowd going,” Roy said, shaking his head in delighted wonder. “He was with the Mavericks for years, you know, but he left because they got so big they weren’t leaving him any room for his spontaneity. Boy likes twanging his guitars like a madman.” He pantomimed strumming an electric guitar.
“You do anything touristy?” Roy asked after a bit. “The Ryman, the Grand Ole Opry, or the Country Music Hall of Fame?”
I sat up straighter in my chair. I didn’t want to sound poor or seem like I was hinting for charity. “Nah,” I said. “Saturday I just hung around here, and today I spent at Riverfront Park. I’m more the outdoor type.”
“Yep. I knew you were a tomboy the first time I laid eyes on you.” He chuckled. “Let me warn you, though, there’s some places around here a young gal ought not go alone. When you’re going along the Gay Street Connector that runs right along the river, be sure you don’t go beyond the Woodland Street Bridge. Plus, the Cumberland sure ain’t no river to swim in. Got a fast top current, as you probably noticed, but there’s also a strong, deep current you don’t want to mess with. And I wouldn’t even wade in it without getting a tetanus shot first.”
I nodded, but inside I didn’t take those warnings to heart. Being raised in the country had its advantages.
“What’d you do on Friday?”
“On Friday.” I drew in a long breath. “I spent the entire day going up and down Music Row to all the record labels.”
Roy pantomimed removing a hat. “You don’t say! How’d it go?”
“Um, don’t know yet. I left demos at a bunch of them. But I went to this place called Bobby’s for a rest and met this really nice man, a musician, and he told me I ought to go to the Bluebird tomorrow evening for their open mic.”
“Now, why didn’t I think of that!” Roy slapped the counter with his palm.
“I don’t know.” I smiled at him.
“You don’t by any chance need a ride to the Bluebird, do you?”
“Yeah, I guess I do. Thanks.”
“My pleasure. Can’t stay and give a listen as I’ve got to be somewhere by six and then back to my throne here by seven, but I’m tickled to get you there. Know what you’re gonna sing?”
“I’m still trying to decide,” I said. I’d been fairly certain I’d sing a song called “Spooky Moon” I wrote when I was nine, except I was beginning to feel queasy inside as I thought about it. Some part of me was afraid my subconscious would betray me and I’d end up with a soul-wrenching memory leaking out, the beginning of a crack in the dam holding back unmentionable times.
Roy nodded. “Yep. Sometimes it’s hard to decide what you’re gonna sing. But if I was you, I’d choose a song you could sing in your sleep. I remember back when I was still playing and singing, I always . . .” He trailed off and his body seemed to deflate a little.
“You okay, Mr. Durden?” I asked after a long, uncomfortable moment.
He nodded, ran a hand through his white cloud of hair. “Yeah, I’m okay. Forgive me. I promised myself I wasn’t going to bring up my musical career.”
“That’s all right,” I said, “I want to hear about it,” and I did. For several reasons. Anything about a career in the music industry was fascinating to me, and also I felt that he needed to share this, and finally, not the least, I thought it would spare me from any more talk about my song choice for tomorrow night.
Roy shifted his position on the stool, stretched his fat, short arms overhead, situated his enormous belly, then rested his open palms on his thighs. “Twenty-one years ago this September,” he began, and with that his shoulders slumped even lower, “I had me a gig in Arkansas with the Born Again Boys. Before I took off that morning, I kissed the kids; my boy, Carter—he was two—and Maygan—she wasn’t but three months—then me and Angie knelt and prayed for traveling mercies, you know, on account of I would be on the road so long?”
I nodded.
“Well, the last words I said to Angie as I left out the door were, ‘See you Sunday evening, Honey-bunch. Remember now, when we sing “God Gave Me You,” it’ll be you I’m thinking of.’ ”
There was a long moment of silence. Roy closed his eyes, and took in a deep breath. I sat there waiting, my heart knocking in my chest until he spoke again. “We didn’t even get settled into the Holiday Inn good when news came that there’d been a car wreck back home. Thought I was literally gonna die when I learned all three of my people had died instantly.”
I felt my throat tightening and my eyelids tingling. “I’m sorry,” I said, so softly it was only a breath.
Roy turned to look over at me, his wet, pink lips trembling. “When you lose your people, Jennifer—the folks you love more than life itself—all kinds of things get shook up. You simply got to redefine yourself.”
“Yeah, I bet.”
“ ’Specially you got to redefine what it is you believe in,” he said. “Gotta take a good, hard look at what you believe about us having this benevolent creator who cares about us down here on this planet.”
I said nothing.
“I got to the point where I decided that if God’s gonna do a person like he did me, he don’t deserve to be worshiped, prayed to, served, whatever.”
“Hmmm.”
“I’ll tell you when I’ll listen to what he has to say.”
“Okay.”
“When he brings Angie and Carter and Maygan back.”
I didn’t know what to say. Finally I reached out to pat his wrist. “That must have been awful.”
“Yep. Awful. I couldn’t get out of bed, couldn’t enjoy a single breath for over three solid months. I’d lived my whole life with this deep faith. You know, praying without ceasing and measuring everything by this heavenly yardstick. Tried my best to walk uprightly. Even singing and playing gospel music with the Born Again Boys was my way of trying to keep on the narrow path. I was living for God, and I thought he’d take care of me.” Roy slapped his thigh. “What a load of crap!”
I was awed by such irreverence spoken aloud.
“Now, some folks need that kind of stuff, Jennifer,” Roy continued. “They need themselves a crutch to lean on. And some just get indoctrinated as they grow up. Especially growing up down South, you know, in the Bible Belt. That was me. I was raised on ‘The Lord loves you, and the Lord’s got a plan for you.’ ” His gaze on mine was steady, intense. “In fact, Nashville’s called the city of churches. There are more churches per capita here than in any other city. Southern Gospel and country music, they go together like a hand in a glove. You know?”
“Yeah,” I breathed.
“But you know what?” Roy’s voice was matter-of-fact. “I’m free now. I live life on my own terms. Way I wish I had from the very beginning.” His blue eyes were intense.
“Really?”
“Really. I do what I want, when I want. I live without constantly thinking, ‘Is this wrong? Shouldn’t I be—?’ ”
A crowd of folks walked through the lobby, talking and laughing loud. Roy paused to take a swallow from his Dr Pepper. “I use to be, oh, what’s that word I’m looking for? Repressed! I was repressed, or maybe oppressed is a better word. I didn’t do a blasted thing without looking at it through this religious filter. I lived like there was this gigantic magnifying glass sticking out of the clouds, hovering right over me, and you know what? It cramped my style.”
He smiled when he saw me looking so hard at him.
“God doesn’t give a flying fig about us, Jennifer. If he did, why would he allow me to lose my family? Why doesn’t he do anything about all the pain and evil in this world? Sometimes I even wonder if he doesn’t get some sort of perverse pleasure out of watching us squirm down here.”
I nodded, even though I was a little scared to think a thought like that. I’d been taught to believe in a being who, even if I had no warm fuzzy feelings toward or urge to pray to, was at least someone to be afraid of, to respect. But if what Roy was saying was true, it certainly would be freeing. I looked away, realizing that a moment like this was where my mother would operate on blind faith. She’d say something like, “Oh, the Lord has a purpose in it all. We’ll see his purpose by and by.” That was the moment I decided to hang my hat on the freedom of Roy’s philosophy. I would be free and live life on my own terms. I felt like a baby bird cracking out of her shell, all wide-eyed and shaky, stretching her wings after tight confinement, right before the mother bird pushes her out to fall a ways before she soars up high, through lavender skies and golden afternoons.
I laughed then, just as the front doors opened and a skinny guy in a white apron zipped in holding two Styrofoam take-out boxes. Roy flipped up the lid on the one set before him. “My, my!” he said, looking up to beam at our server. “You outdid yourself again, Colin. This looks absolutely dee-licious!” He handed him two twenty dollar bills, waving a hand and saying, “Keep the change,” as Colin bowed slightly and hustled back outside.
“Mmmm, this is to die for,” Roy’s voice cracked with emotion as he bit into his burger. I looked over at him as I took a bite, expecting to see tears streaming down his cheeks. But he was smiling around his mouthful, and so was I. I hadn’t had a real, complete meal in more than a week.
Roy Durden was a serious eater. I watched his eyes literally roll back in his head as he scarfed down the burger, the fries, and the coleslaw. He slurped the last of his tea noisily, released a satisfied sigh, sat back, and focused on me. “Tell me about your music,” he asked after a soft belch.
I literally jumped. I couldn’t swallow my bite of burger until I told myself Roy had not asked about my childhood, nor my family. Just my music. “Well,” I choked out after I’d finally swallowed, “music comes as naturally to me as breathing. Even when I was little I could sing other artists’ songs after hearing them a couple of times. I started composing songs when I was around six. I’d be hanging out the wash, feeding the chickens, riding my bike, sitting in church, walking down the hallway at school, and it was like they just came through me, you know?”
He nodded.
“I’d be in the middle of something and I’d literally think up a bridge, or a hook, or a prechorus, and I’d have to stop to scribble it down. I practiced singing constantly.”
“A natural,” he mused. “What I really want to hear about is your first time.”
“What?” My voice came out shrill because I thought for a split-second Roy was referring to sexual intercourse and I’d been going with my gut instinct that he wasn’t the lecherous type.
“You know,” he answered, chuckling, “the first time you sang for an audience. A real audience that wasn’t family or friends.”
Too much baggage, I thought, after mentally tiptoeing over a scene as carefully and quickly as if it were fiery coals. Finally, I squeezed my hands into fists and launched in. “Um, okay . . . I was six, and my mother and I were at church one night during revival week in the summer. There were lots of visitors there—folks who’d come to hear this new young preacher—and the woman who was supposed to sing a solo didn’t show up.”
“Really?” Roy encouraged. “Well, that’s certainly interesting. She didn’t show up. Did you get up there and fill in for her?”
“Um, yeah . . . the preacher asked if anyone in the congregation ‘had a pretty voice they was willing to share,’ because he’d been counting on Ms. Turlette to sing ‘Love Lifted Me’ to set the tone for his sermon. Normally I was hiding in my mother’s skirts, but I shocked myself when I hopped up from the pew, ran to the microphone, and started belting out Dolly Parton’s ‘The Golden Streets of Glory.’ ”
The next part seemed a strange thing to share with Mr. Durden, but for some reason, I did. “I actually felt like Dolly was right there beside me that night, like her hand was on my shoulder and she was smiling at me while I sang.
“I mean, it amazes me even now how calm and confident I was with that sea of eyeballs zoomed in on me. Normally I was scared of my own shadow. But it was like I’d found my place in life, and I started strutting up and down in a little puddle of light from overhead, basking in those beaming smiles and nodding heads, singing pitch perfect. I could’ve stayed up there forever. The applause, the whistles, in church, made it feel like this out-of-body experience.
“In fact, that night was when the stage began her siren song for me. After that, I could never turn down a microphone, and anytime I’d sing—at church, at school, at local festivals and fairs—afterward people would flock up to me saying, ‘That was incredible, Jennifer!’ and ‘You’re truly amazing!’ with these breathless voices, and I thought, Okay, here’s something I was born to do. I may get nervous in crowds, be tongue-tied in social situations, I may not be the brightest at math, but I can sing songs that make people smile.”
“Six years old,” Roy mused, “that’s mighty young. How old are you now if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Twenty-two,” I answered.
“Sixteen years of experience, hmm?” The twinkle in Roy’s eye let me know I was safe with him. “Bet you got a heck of a lot of songs, don’t you, missy?”
I nodded. “After that night in church I wrote a song called ‘Dolly, Hold My Hand,’ and I kept it in a shoebox with other songs I’d write. This may sound weird, Roy, but I’d curl up in my bed at night, mash my face into the pillow, and practice saying stuff like, ‘Ladies and gentleman, let’s welcome Jennifer Anne Clodfelter to our stage tonight!’ ”
“That’s not weird,” he said. “That’s beautiful.”
After I finished my meal and Roy’d cleaned up the trash, he looked intently at me. “Sing for me, would you? Can you sing on a full stomach?”
I looked at his greasy lips curved into a smile. “What do you want me to sing?”
“Sing your favorite. You and Dolly.”
I got to my feet, closed my eyes, and sang the first two verses and the chorus of “Spooky Moon.”
When I finished, Roy hopped off his stool, stood not three feet away, staring at me for the longest time, then began clapping and nodding so hard his forelock came loose from the rest of his hair. I saw tears shimmering in those blue eyes. “You’ve got real, honest-to-goodness natural-born talent, Jennifer,” he said, “and I’m gonna tell you something you can take to the bank. You’re gonna do well here! Trust me. I’ve been in this town for a long, long time, and some things I know.”
Warmth flooded my body. “Thank you.”
“I’m the one should be saying thanks. That was what I call a holy experience.” Roy lowered his voice to an excited whisper. “Care for some dessert?”
“Maybe,” I whispered back.
“Don’t let anybody around here hear me, but The Hermitage Hotel makes a milk chocolate crème brûlée I’d kill for. It’s this perfect custard, topped with caramelized sugar and fresh strawberries . . .”
Roy’s delight was so disarming, it was tempting to say yes, but something in me needed to give back. “Let me treat. Would you like half a package of Hostess Zingers out of the vending machine? They’re my favorite.”
“Certainly,” Roy said, a twinkle in those blue eyes. “I love Zingers.”
At last Monday dawned. I made coffee in my room, gulped it, splashed water on my face and went downstairs for breakfast. Sitting in the carpeted dining area with a cup of milk, a boiled egg, and two sausage patties, I looked at the stage across from the bar. I rested my elbows on the table, sunk my chin in my hands, willing the hours, the minutes to pass speedily.
Time passed the way it always did, and at five o-clock sharp I walked out to wait on the curb, guitar case in hand. Right on the dot this ancient white Cadillac pulled to a stop. It seemed just the sort of car Roy Durden would drive, and I didn’t even check to see if it was him behind the wheel before opening the back door to slide the Washburn in, then climbing into the passenger seat.
“Afternoon, Madam. Where to?” Roy asked in a fake British voice, his nostrils widened on purpose.
I had to smile. “The Bluebird Cafe,” I commanded in a snobbish voice. Trying to find a spot on the floorboard that wasn’t littered with fast-food cartons and soda cans was almost impossible, but I nudged a Hardee’s cup and a Dunkin’ Donuts bag over and settled my feet. From the corner of my eye I could see the white swoop of Roy’s pompadour, his big pink-knuckled fingers on the steering wheel, his enormous belly perched on his thighs.
“You ready?” Roy asked as we paused at the first stoplight.
“Mm-hm.”
“Well, I’ve told you once, and I’ll tell you again, I’m not going to fret about you one little bit, missy. You’re going to do fine.”
I nodded and we rode along in a comfortable silence, me thinking how great it was to have a friend who knew his way around Nashville. Roy seemed happy too. He fiddled with a radar detector on the dash, rustled around in a bag of potato chips on the seat between us, and slurped from a huge Styrofoam cup between his legs. “Alrighty. Here we are,” he said at last, nodding at a nondescript shopping center.
Heart thumping fast, I turned to look at a strip of businesses, and at last spied The Bluebird Café, next to a place called Helen’s Children’s Shop.
“Now wait just a minute here,” Roy said when he’d pulled into the parking lot, idling not more than twenty feet from the Bluebird’s door. He put a beefy hand on my arm and I didn’t even flinch. “You knock ’em dead, okay, Jennifer?”
“I will, Roy,” I said. “And thank you.” He could not have known all that my ‘Thank you’ encompassed.
There was no cover charge at The Bluebird Café, and I walked right in, surprised at how tiny the place was! I counted twenty small tables set so close together I wondered how waitresses could move between them. To the left was a bar beneath a Jack Daniels guitar-shaped clock, to the right a stage with spotlights. Christmas lights and a row of framed photos circling the walls made it feel cheerful.
It was 5:20 p.m., and there were a good number of folks there. Roy told me you signed up at 5:30 for a chance to perform, and then the Bluebird picked about twenty-four people per night. I had no doubt I’d be selected, and I wasn’t surprised when a woman touched my arm. “You’re here for open mic?”
“Yes ma’am. I’m Jennifer Anne Clodfelter.”
“Barbara,” she said. “Let’s go ahead and put your name in the hat.”
“Great.” My fingers were crossed behind my back. I didn’t want to go first, but I also didn’t want to be last.
“Lineup’s announced and show starts at six. If you’re picked, you’re allowed two original songs. We don’t provide an accompanist, and no tracks are permitted, but we do have a Kawai keyboard you’re welcome to use.”
“Thanks. But it’s just me and my Washburn, and I’m only going to do one song.”
Despite nothing since breakfast, I wasn’t hungry, so I leaned against the wall, watching the clock over the bar, which ticked along annoyingly slowly. A little before six Barbara climbed onstage. “Welcome to open mic night here at the Bluebird, one of the world’s preeminent listening rooms. Remember our policy.” She held an index finger to her pursed lips and hissed out, “Shhhhhhh! Please keep your background conversation to a minimum. Our ‘Shhhh’ policy is designed to support a listening environment where the audience can concentrate on the song. Speaking of that, we’ve got a wonderful lineup for you tonight—”
Her voice faded to distant background noise as soon as I heard I got the number-four slot. I ran over the words to “Spooky Moon,” vaguely aware of the first performer: a huge, hulking bear of a man in tight faded jeans and a sleeveless flannel shirt and with a long Charlie Daniels beard. He surprised me with a high-tenor voice accompanied by a saucy guitar line. He whined and wailed and twanged his way through a song called “Gimme Back My Catfish.” There was a smattering of polite applause and a few soft whistles. Then up came a plump, peroxided blonde with a very low-cut spangled top that got some subdued catcalls before she even opened her mouth.
She introduced her song called “Mayhem Mama.” She wiggled and jiggled around up there a while, strumming and singing way off-pitch on the very first line, but sounded okay in a hillbilly way once she got going. Seemed the audience was more focused on her chest than her music, however, and I was glad for my modest blouse with only the top snap left undone.
Next came a man in a white suit who reminded me of Colonel Sanders. He sang a song called “Walking the Railroad Blues” with a gravelly Johnny Cash sound. He got a good reception from the crowd.
When it was my turn, I climbed up onstage wrapped in that magical preperformance euphoria I always got. I leaned in to kiss the microphone, feeling the little electric buzz on my lips that I love. I adjusted the Washburn and moved my brain into that small-town dialect I’d sure heard enough of and that audiences loved, smiling at each face I could see.
“Good evenin’. My name’s Jennifer Anne Clodfelter, and I’m gonna sing a song I wrote called ‘Spooky Moon.’ I wrote the chorus of this song one summer night when I was eight years old as I lay on my pallet out on the screen porch, which incidentally was my bedroom. I was watching the moon from underneath a little burrow I made out of my covers. Mainly, I wrote the chorus to calm myself down. You know, as a sort of good-luck charm, because my mother was constantly warning me not to sin, not to walk down that wide, easy road that leads to hell, and many a evening she’d grab my hand and look up at the sky and say this little poem that went, ‘I see the moon, the moon sees me, please old moon, don’t tell on me.’ And of course, being a kid, the first thing I thought of when I did somethin’ bad was that the moon was gonna tell on me.” I paused as laughter rippled through the crowd.
“Well,” I continued, “now I know the moon ain’t gonna tell on me.” I paused again, waited for the knowing smiles, the encouraging nods among the hundred or so people in the audience. “And so I wrote the rest of this song around that comforting chorus. A chorus I credit for getting me through many a long, scary night.”
My guitar pick was like a part of my hand that found the right strings instinctively. My voice soared on the first note as I strummed a mournful A minor on account of the song started out sweet and melancholy:
When I was a little, wide-eyed gal
I hated for darkness to fall
I hid in the covers and hugged myself
Squinched up in a tight little ball
Singin’ ‘Oh, spooky moon, you taken the
sunshine and you hid her away.
But I guess it’s your turn to shine.
I know I done wrong, but if you’ll keep your mouth shut,
I promise to be better next time.’
The melody moved into something more lively and playful, and I switched to a D minor, and then after a few stanzas right back to the tearful part, playing around with a sad bluesy line about night falling way too quickly when you’re little.
Everything felt smooth and natural, and when I reached the chorus for the third time, I really poured my heart into the lyrics, going back to the screen porch in Blue Ridge, Georgia, where I did have lots and lots of fears, but not particularly about the moon. I could sense that the crowd was totally with me as I heard my own clear, high notes boomeranging off the ceiling.
As I moved along to the final verse, I could see the people’s faces changing. I could feel every single person in that room straining to hear what the adult me had discovered about that scary moon, wanting me to overcome my terror. I saw tears glistening in a few of the eyes on the front row when I got to the part about how children believe whatever adults say to them and how it affects them, for good or for bad. I knew I was doing it right because I felt that surge of joy, a velvety-petaled rose of knowing that bloomed inside me whenever I sang something the listeners connected to so strongly, when I literally felt myself merging with a song. Those final twanging notes rose and dipped and threaded themselves in and through the crowd, alive, by some miracle, lingering like a dream.
I finished, and there was a stunned silence of maybe three seconds, which felt like the calm before the storm, and then a thunderous burst of applause and boot stomps and whistles and “Yeah! Way to sing!” I knew without a doubt it was louder and longer and more heartfelt than the previous three performers put together. I bowed humbly from the waist, and said, “Thank you very much,” just like Elvis, and then there was another sweet round of applause as people got up out of their seats and cheered with fists in the air.
Waves of love from the crowd rolled and crashed over me as I stepped off the stage, threading through the tables toward the back wall. I wasn’t surprised by the lineup of hands patting my shoulder, my arm, touching my hair, or the voices saying more nice things to me. I wasn’t surprised that I wanted to stop time and just revel in that moment a spell—like I always did after I sang. When the euphoria did pass, as the next performer was talking into the mike, I had such a letdown I felt trembly. But I kept a smile plastered on my face as I watched the skinny young girl in a Minnie Pearl getup warble a song about pickled okra, which was really funny and quite good. Before she finished, a man appeared at my elbow, tapping my forearm insistently, as though I should have been ready to acknowledge him. When my eyes met his, a feeling of awe washed through me, and I knew: This man’s a big shot, somebody I ought to know. I held my breath, waiting for him to speak. “Mike Flint,” he said, nodding without smiling, only he didn’t look mean or grumpy as he held out a hand. I put mine in his and it was huge, warm and so solid.
“Jennifer Anne Clodfelter.”
“I know,” he said, “wonderful name, but I’m thinking we oughtta shorten it to Jenny Cloud.” His voice was deep and very Southern, with a drawl that was soothing like a river can be.
I could only nod, staring at his face, which was attractive in a rugged way: a Roman nose and hazel eyes that had lots of smile crinkles, topped by intentionally disheveled sandy-colored hair in a Keith Urban style. He was tall, lanky, in his mid-forties I guessed, wearing khakis and a rumpled Oxford. For some reason I glanced down at his feet, and from what I knew from my forays into shops downtown, he wore very expensive cowboy boots.
“Looks like you created quite a stir,” Mike Flint said, drawing my eyes to his. “How long you been singing?”
“I was born singing.”
He didn’t laugh. “It shows. You’ve got a gorgeous voice, and you were born to be onstage. What you did up there was amazing. You have the gift of truly connecting with an audience. They were captivated, and that’s rare.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said, swallowing my pleasure, feeling it spread like soda bubbles through my body.
“You’ve got spunk too. I can tell you’re a hard worker.”
I nodded and didn’t add the word desperate.
“Ever think about a career in the country music industry?”
“Maybe.”
He didn’t bother to ask if I wanted to leave, he just said, “We can talk better out in my truck,” and started guiding me by the elbow toward the door. I had to twirl around to grab my shoulder bag and the Washburn.
My heedless trust that night amazed me later. The way I hung on and believed Mike’s every word, never doubted his motives as I climbed into the cab of a huge red truck that smelled like chewing tobacco and cologne. Heart beating like crazy, I crossed my legs, clasped my hands in my lap, and waited as he sat quietly for a while.
“I don’t think you know what you possess,” he said finally.
Responding to this was tricky because I did know. I’d heard it so much I believed it. But if I answered yes, it made me sound like I thought I was really something, and I knew there were a lot of talented singers out there. I also knew humility was a very attractive character trait. “I’ve been told I’ve got a gift,” I said.
Mike nodded. “You’re phenomenal. Like I said, you had that audience eating out of your hand. I never saw anybody get a crowd into a song like that. And here’s the amazing thing—you did it with no backup singers. Do you know how incredible that is?”
“Really?” More humility.
Mike nodded, leaned back and stared up at the ceiling. “You got any more original songs?”
I pulled my song notebook out of my bag and handed it to him. He turned the pages, leafing through them with his mouth open for at least ten solid minutes without a word. When he got to the end, he thumbed back through it and paused on the page with “Smoke Over the Hills” and began singing with his pointer finger tracing the lines. His pitch was way off, but he had the melody. He tapped his boot toe as he did the same thing with “River Time” and “Sitting and Rocking Is Good for Your Soul.”
“There’s enough here to make an album,” he said after a loud breath, cradling my open notebook to his chest.
“Really?” I answered in my best amazed voice.
He rubbed his chin before he continued. “Listen, I’ve been retired from Rockin’ Rooster Records for six months, but I’ve also been kicking around this idea that I might launch a new label. If I did, I wouldn’t mind recording you if you can come up with another original tearjerker like ‘Spooky Moon.’ Something that tickles my fancy.”
“Pardon?”
“I said, I’d like to record you if you can come up with another tune that works the audience the way the one you sang in there tonight did.”
“You don’t like any of these?” I retreated to the nervous gesture of twirling my hair around my pointer finger.
“They’re good. Real good. But they all seem to be from a young girl’s viewpoint. I want you to write a song from an older female’s perspective, one that pulls the heartstrings. Maybe a woman in her twenties at least, chasing love or something like that? Romantic love gone bad? Wounds of the heart and all.”
I swallowed hard, wondered if it mattered that I’d never had a boyfriend, much less a love gone bad. My warm fuzzy feeling was fast fading. Speaking of getting told on by the moon, I hoped that old lunar ball wasn’t listening as I said, “Um, yeah, sure. Got lots of personal experience dealing with that kind of thing. With romantic love and all.”
“Well, remember, what you want to do is tell a story here. Lyrics that convey a certain emotional arc, you know. Show some tension, some conflict, the way you did with ‘Spooky Moon’ but from an older, brokenhearted female’s perspective.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” I said.
“Great. Just remember, give me some fresh imagery, some poignant stuff.” Mike Flint stretched his left arm so his cuff rode up and he could see his wristwatch. “Okay now. You go home and write it and get in touch with me and maybe I’ll take you on as a client.” He rustled around in some papers on the dash, found a business card, and handed it to me.
I smiled as I slid it in my pocket. I felt like I’d won the lottery. I couldn’t wait to get back to the Best Western and tell Roy and get going on my new song. I reached for my guitar and opened the truck’s door.
“Hold on.” Mike’s voice stopped me. “You a member of NSAI?”
I shook my head.
“I’ll cover your membership,” he said. “We’ve got to protect our rights, you know? Also, before we plow on, I have to tell you it’s my policy never to sign an artist unless I’m her manager, her agent, and the owner of her recording label. Kind of like a package deal. Understand?”
I didn’t care if I understood or not. My big break was breathing down my neck. “Fine by me,” I said. While he was in such a generous mood, I asked if he’d mind driving me back to the Best Western.
“My pleasure,” he said, shifting the truck into reverse. “I can assure you you’ll be glad to have a veteran like me taking care of you. Entertaining the crowd for one song at the Bluebird is one thing, but becoming what I think you have the potential to be is quite another. I don’t think many folks know how hard it is to get to the top and stay there.
“It’s a lot of work to reach the point I think you’re capable of, Jenny, and even more difficult to stay there. The Nashville scene can be confusing, cutthroat, and now you’ve got someone with experience to guide you and help you build your career.”
It felt odd to be called Jenny, but waves of pure delight rolled up and down me when he said that word career, and I managed to say, “Great.”
My heart was beating like a girl waiting for her first kiss as Mike pulled beneath the awning leading to the Best Western’s front door. I felt far, far away from life in Blue Ridge, Georgia, as I told myself: This is the moment you’ve been waiting for. You made it! Your dreams have become reality. I didn’t yet know that Mike Flint was also handing me a shovel, and that very soon, like it says in that Randy Travis song, I’d start digging up bones.