Chapter 17 #2
“Sit down. Let’s talk through everything, Bobby,” Jeremy says as he moves to the head of the table.
It’s round, so there shouldn’t be a ‘head’ position, but there always is.
No room full of people is ever on completely even footing, this one included.
And pretending that everyone’s equal puts you at a disadvantage from the starting line.
Best to acknowledge and act accordingly.
Except talking through things doesn’t sound like something I’m going to be good at.
I don’t want to talk. I want to sing.
But I sit down like I’m told, willing to play along for this opportunity.
Jeremy clicks a few buttons on a remote, and the window shades roll down automatically, followed by a television on the wall turning on. Showoff, I think.
“To remind us all what we’re starting with, here’s why I’ve invited Bobby here.
” He clicks Play, and I come to life on the screen, singing my opener song at Hank’s.
It’s a cover, and I see a few looks of consideration.
The lady closest to me closes her eyes and tilts her head, listening.
But I can’t tell whether they like it or not.
Jeremy fast forwards. “And here’s an original. It is, right?” He’s asking me, and I nod silently.
My own song being judged stirs up fire in my belly.
It’s one thing if they like my voice. There are tons of artists who only sing songs written by other people.
It’s an entirely different thing for them to like my words, the ones I work so damn hard to find in my head and heart to express what I want to say.
“What’s the working title of that one?” a young guy in glasses asks.
“Her. It’s about my mom,” I reply. It’s the song I wrote when she was sick, and I dare him to say one bad word about it.
He frowns thoughtfully, tapping his chin.
“Good title, catchy but generic. Never tell anyone who it’s about.
” He splays his hands wide through the air in front of him.
“We’ll say it’s for every woman, a ballad to the fairer sex and all they do to rein us wild guys in.
” He smiles at me like that made a lick of sense.
It did not. Especially when I bet the wildest thing he’s done in his lifetime is put whole milk in his coffee instead of skim.
Jeremy nods. “I like it. Very of-the-moment with the whole feminist thing being hot.”
I blink. “Feminist thing?”
Glasses Guy laughs. “You know. I am woman, hear me roar. Anything you can do, I can do better. Hashtag whatever. That whole thing, you know?”
I feel like these people are talking a different language.
“I guess I don’t. I know my sister can outshoot and outride me on any horse.
I know I can lift twice as much as she can.
The best mechanic I know is a woman, and I can grow damn near anything you want in my garden or fields.
We just have different skills, that’s all. ”
Glasses Guy freezes. “Oh, my God, Jeremy. What rock did you pull him out from under again? He’s an absolute find!”
What did I say? Was it good or bad?
I have no idea.
But they’re all smiling, so I’m going with the hope and prayer that I haven’t screwed up yet.
Jeremy claps and moves to open his folder. Everyone at the table follows suit, except for me, since I didn’t get one.
“Let’s review things. We have a few questions, if you don’t mind, Bobby?”
I lean back in my chair, hoping it appears casual. “Open book.”
And thus begins the interrogation of my life. Chief Gibson should take lessons from these people because those little folders of theirs contain my entire life story, from birth to damn near what I had for breakfast this morning—an egg sandwich at the airport—and how often I shit—regularly.
I’m not even sure how they got all this information.
“Who are your musical influences?” Glasses Guy asks, pen at the ready to jot them down on a little yellow sticky note.
“Classics and current stuff, but I try to stay true to myself for my music. Hell, even when I sing Johnny Cash, it sounds a little more me than him.”
Glasses Guy hums and writes down Johnny Cash like that’s some ground-breaking, revealing detail of my inner musician. Everyone they’ve ever seen in country music probably says Johnny, Hank, and Waylon right off the top.
“Let’s do a rundown of your current situation,” a lady in a blue blouse says. It matches her eyes perfectly.
“Like my living situation?” I shrug, not having any clue why that’d matter to them.
“I live on the farm I grew up on, though we sold it to the neighbors a while back when times got tough. I’m a farmer, grow fruits and vegetables that we sell at market and that my sister uses to run her business.
I can tell you about growing heirloom tomatoes, watermelons, apples, peaches, pears, green beans, carrots, potatoes .
. . just about anything that grows, I’ve probably done it if it’s climate appropriate for Great Falls. ”
Blue Blouse smiles pityingly and I keep rambling to see if I can find the answer she’s looking for.
“My brother, Brody, still lives in our family house too. His woman, Rix—she’s the mechanic I was talking about—comes over a lot.
My brother, Brutal, married his high school sweetheart, Allyson, a while back.
They have a boy, Cooper, who’s smart as a whip.
My sister, Shayanne, married the guy next door and now she’s a Bennett.
But we all kinda got adopted by Mama Louise. ”
Blue Blouse leans forward, and the words stop pouring thoughtlessly when she taps the table with a pink fingernail. “I meant, what’s your situation? Married, dating, single?”
Oh, that I can answer easily.
“Willow. She’s mine.” I can feel the smile stretching my face. “We met recently and I was done for.” I almost say ‘she’s everything’, but a little angel on my shoulder tells me that’s probably not the proper thing to say to a room full of folks dangling your dream over your head.
Another guy pipes in, “It says here you have an arrest record?” He scowls in disdain. “Three times?” His brows climb so high that if he had a hairline, they’d be in it.
I shrug. “Misspent youth. Nothing serious, some trespassing for field parties and bar fights. Chief Gibson, Judge Myson, and I worked it out all right.”
He comes back with a harder jab, “When was the last time you punched someone?”
I grit my teeth, not liking where this is going. “A few weeks ago. Tourist got handsy with my woman when she was working at Hank’s. Broke his nose. Chief Gibson reminded him that it’s not polite, or legal, to lay hands on a woman without consent.”
See . . . I got your feminist thing right here, people. Only we call it being a fucking decent human being and not a douchebag shit stain.
Blue Blouse gasps before covering her mouth with her hand.
What the hell? That ain’t no big deal. Happens all the time at home. Well, maybe not broken noses, but a punch here and there is how we settle shit in the country.
But I can tell the tide has turned in the room. They think I’m some out of control hillbilly, and while that might be a little too close to the truth, it’s not like I’m a total asshole. I only fight when it’s the right thing to do. Or to let off steam. Or when one of the guys needs a target.
Jeremy clears his throat, and all attention shifts back to him.
He’s been watching this whole show silently, leaning back in his chair and taking it all in.
“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. I’ve got you a twenty-minute spot at a place we like to run new and prospective artists through.
Good crowds, but they’ll let you know loud and clear if you’re any good.
We’ll send a car for you at nine tonight, you’ll hit the stage at ten as an opener, and be back in your hotel room by eleven with no broken bones. Yours or anyone else’s, am I clear?”
He’s talking to me like a fucking toddler, but I pull back on the reins of my temper and simply nod.
“Good. If that goes well, we’ll send you to the studio tomorrow. Mission will be to record as many quality tracks as possible. Don’t let me down, son.”
I know a dismissal when I hear it, and I just bombed the hell out of this meeting. Maybe I can salvage it tonight, though. Chattering away ain’t never been my strong suit, but if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s singing.
Back at the hotel, I drink a whiskey then decide I should probably do something responsible like hot water with lemon if I’m singing for my life tonight. Room service sends that up quickly, and I swallow it like a shot.
I want to talk to Willow, tell her I fucked up, and let her reassure me that it’s going to be fine. She’d probably say ‘no matter what happens, it’s an experience that you’ll grow from. Be in it, feel every moment of it, and use it.’
She’s right, even when she’s not here. She’s a part of me, and I feel her even though she’s far away.
So I don’t call and worry her yet. She has faith in me and I’ll prove her right.
Instead, I pull out Betty and play a few chords. Writing a new song for a show in a few hours is a risky fucking move, but I’ve never been one to play it safe. And since I met Willow, inspiration fills me easily and words come to me more readily, demanding release.
Chasing down my dream so I can give you yours.
The proof of a man is in his woman’s eyes.
Storm for me, shine for me, show your soul for me.
And I’ll dig down deep to get mine so you can have yours.
After a while, I have that feeling. This is good. I know it is. I did what Willow would’ve told me to do—lived in this moment, mixing the opportunity, the fear, and the hope into these words. The melody is driving and urgent, giving it a sense of hunger.
I play it five more times through, tweaking and changing little things to perfect it. It’s my ode to Willow and our future. Whether I make it tonight or not.