This clipboard seemed to be an extension of Nicky, because that’s where he kept his multi-page to-do list, which he made up every morning on his electronic typewriter.
I once got a gander at it and found out that it included everything, I mean absolutely everything, that Nicky planned to do that day, including stuff like “Call Mama” and “Ask Leon the name of that one reggae band” and “Look at the calendar to see what day July 4th falls on this year.” You think I’m kidding, but I’m not. The list was so extensive, I could only figure that Nicky must have gotten all kinds of joy and satisfaction from crossing things off it.
Though you’d never know that he actually enjoyed working on the list from the dead-eyed way he’d sit through my songs. It was like he was waiting for me to be done already. And the only thing he ever said after I was finished was “Sing ‘Fever.’ ”
“Fever” was the closing song, and he wanted to make sure I got it right.
After that, he’d give me about two minutes of notes on how to improve my stage presence, then he’d bark another homework assignment at me and walk off without saying good-bye.
It felt just like high school to me, but with more studying and higher stakes.
Still, I was determined to become a match for my newly found-out-about singing voice, so I worked hard on transforming myself into Stage Davie.
I listened to the Nina Simone in Concert album and wrote audience asides in the same vein, without any of the political stuff. Then I copied her husky tones as I practiced my performance in front of the bathroom mirror. I would have preferred a full-length mirror, but Mama Jane didn’t have one. She didn’t make a habit of looking at herself in the mirror, which was yet another thing that set her apart from every Southern woman I had ever known.
I had to hope my hips were swinging the right way as I walked away from the mirror for a few steps, then made a dramatic turn back around to sing “Big Spender.”
Two days before the big opening, I sang that and the other nine songs, including “Route 66” and “Fever,” for Nicky and his best friend, Leon, a dreadlocked brother with sleepy eyes, who looked even bigger and stronger than Nicky. Nicky had introduced him to me as the club bouncer and general situation guy.
Then off my confused look, he explained that if anybody got physical with me or anything like that, Leon would handle it. Nicky put special emphasis on the words “handle it,” which brought to mind images of back alley beatings. And I began to suspect that unlike Nicky, Leon might have acquired his muscles not in a gym, but in a prison.
Still, Leon was a very nice guy. At least he clapped after I was finished, unlike Nicky, who just said, “Better hope you do it that way on Friday. Because if you get up on that stage and you can’t sell them like you sold me, then it’s right on to the foster home. Remember that.”
He pointed at me to seal the threat, then he went back to his office and closed the door behind him. As usual, he didn’t bother with a good-bye.
“I think you did real good,” Leon said.
My eyes stayed on Nicky’s closed door. “Thanks.”
. . .
Mama Jane wasn’t able to be there on opening night. She was doing a big haul up to Seattle, but she called to wish me luck.
“Are you nervous?” she asked me.
“The nice thing is I’m so nervous, I’ve gone numb, which doesn’t feel like anything at all. So I guess I’ve got that to be thankful for—as long as I don’t pass out onstage or anything.”
“Don’t talk like that. You’re going to be fine.” Her tone was so motherly it was hard to believe this was the same woman who had come close to asking me to put out for her a few weeks ago.
I thanked her for her kind words, hung up, and went to work on myself.