Lost in NashVegas (19 page)

He hesitates. “James Chastain and I hit it off. He might take a listen to some of my songs.” His words are jammed together like county fair bumper cars.

“Just like that?” I grab a spatula from the drawer. Marc's story seems rather bizzare.
Hey, Marc, I like your cleaning
company. Let me hear a few of your songs.
It doesn't sound like the reputed hard-nosed James Chastain. He once made a songwriter work three years before signing him to a deal, because he thought the guy wasn't ready.

“It's NashVegas, Robin. Anything can happen.” Marc's tone has a woo-wee tingle. Like he'd just won a round of Texas Hold 'Em.

I half-decide Marc is dreaming, half-decide I want a sip of whatever he's drinking. “Don't worry, we'll do a good job. And keep a sharp eye out.” I can't help it, I had to repeat it.

Marc clears his throat and says, in a low, hurried voice, “Just do the good job you always do.”

“Ah, sweet. A left-handed compliment.” With a final goodbye, I flip my phone closed and head back to the kitchen.

I'm up to my eyeballs with insults: Susan telling me my songs aren't hits, Graham dumping me for someone he considers more important, and Ricky insinuating I'm crazy for leaving home. But by-gum, Marc, don't challenge my ability to clean a toilet and dump the trash.

I slap the counter with the spatula.

“Robin, you home?” Birdie calls through my door with a light knock.

I whirl around. “Yeah, it's open.”

A peaceful feeling washes over me when her pretty face peers around my yellow door. “Smells good in here.”

“Please, come in and eat a burger with me.”

“If your frying them, I'm eating.” She walks over to the counter. “I heard something about you today.”

“Me?” I glance up from where I'm pouring frozen fries onto a cookie sheet.

“Walt and I met with Eric Exley to talk about a project he's producing.” Birdie comes into the kitchen and starts hunting through the cupboards.

“I assume this is a good thing.” I open the freezer and toss the bag of fries back in. “Birdie, what are you looking for?”

“Plates.”

I point to the cupboard by the door.

“Well, every time Walt ran into Eric, he'd tease him, ‘Put my name on it.'” She laughs.

“I don't get it.”

“You know, darling, if Eric wrote a great song, credit Walt as the writer.”

“Ah, right.” I grin. “Put my name on it. Clever.”

“Well, it's just a saying, but Eric finally told Walt, ‘Let's put your name on something.'” Birdie finds the plates and pulls down two. “Walt invited me along, and there we are, eating and talking, when this A&R rep Eric knows stops by our table. Honey, if you want to run into someone important, go to the Green Hills Bread & Company.”

“I heard Keith Urban goes there.”

“The A&R rep has a songwriting son who sang at the Bluebird the same night as you a few weeks ago.”

I make a face as I slip the cookie sheet of fries into the oven. “No kidding. Do you remember his name?”

Birdie shook her head. “The dad is Pete Jewel, but can't remember the son's. Pete, of course, went to the 'Bird to hear his boy and found the songs by this vulnerable little redhead very captivating.”

I look up at her. “Me?”

“He said you were shaky and uncomfortable, but your songs were so pure, from the heart.” Birdie hands me the plates and picks up the spatula. “‘Genius' is the word he used.”

I gape at her, cradling the plates to my chest. “You're lying.”

“Why would I lie?”

While setting the table, I give Birdie the low-down on my week. “Skyler reads in ‘Brad About You' that Lee was engaged, or is engaged, to Janie Leeds. Then I go to my ASCAP pro appointment only to be told to come back when I have three to five
new
songs. And today, Graham walks out on me to have lunch with Frank Gruey and Danny Hayes, whoever they are—”

“Not sure about Frank, but Danny is a fabulous songwriter. Been down on his luck though until this recent cut with Kristin Waters.”

I pull forks and knives from a drawer. “Right, so there you go. Graham goes off with them, and while I pout in one of the writer's rooms, my boyfriend, or sorta-boyfriend, calls asking me to come home. I sat in the writing room and cried. Didn't write one
genius
word.”

Birdie turns from where she's tending the hamburgers. “Sweetie, it's an afternoon of tears that will yield you the best songs. Don't be afraid of the hard times. It's the only way you'll grow. You have to be thick-skinned. Determined.”

I fill two glasses with ice, then shut the freezer door and lean against the refrigerator. “I've been thinking of going home. But how could I hold my head up if I quit after six weeks?”

“Look, Robin Rae, an ASCAP pro didn't like your songs. But an A&R rep saw genius. What does that tell you?”

“One of them is crazy?”

Birdie laughs. “No, it tells me you have some learning to do, but underneath it all is a true gift.”

I set the glasses on the table, digesting Birdie's words. “Guess it doesn't make sense to give up so soon.”

“No, it doesn't. Give yourself time.”

“Say, Birdie, how did you know my middle name was Rae?” I squeeze around her to check the fries.

She lifts her head. “Didn't you tell me?”

“No, don't think so.”

Birdie's chuckle is high and weak. “Gee, I don't know. Must have been Jeeter. The burgers are done.” She slides the first one onto a bun.

“I reckon. Jeeter's always calling me Robin Rae.” Pulling an onion and tomato from the fridge, I confess, “It's hard not to get wrapped around the axel, wondering if I can really make it.”

“You'll find your niche as you polish your genius.”

“You're not going to let me forget he said ‘genius,' are you?”

“Nope.” She shakes her hips as she passes me with the plate of burgers. “But whatever you do, girl, be true to you. What you need to learn from this week is that this town doesn't need any more posers or wannabes. We need true-blue, hard-working songwriters.”

“True blue, right.” I carry out the mustard, onions, and tomatoes. “Enough about me. How are things between you and Walt?”

Birdie's cheeks redden. “Wonderful. We're going to dinner tomorrow night.”

I sing softly. “Walt and Birdie sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g.”

She sings along with a pretty high harmony.

17

I wake a few roosters on my way to Nashville Noise at four
forty-five in the morning. Marty meets me in the reception area with coffee and crullers from the Donut Den.

“You're not going to believe Mr. Chastain's office. He has his own personal hall of fame.”

“I bet.” I sip my coffee and munch on my cruller as I follow Marty to the icon's office. The walls are covered with photos, plaques, awards, and platinum albums. I turn in a slow circle. “Holy schamoly.”

Marty strolls along the far wall. “If you're the great James Chastain, I suppose everyone wants to know you.” She stops to examine one of the pictures. “Who'd you listen to growing up, Robin?”

“Everyone, everything. Granddaddy Lukeman loved all kinds of music. Gospel, contemporary Christian, country, bluegrass, even classical. He talked to me about singer-songwriters Bill Anderson, Jimmy Web, Dolly Parton, Loretta Lynn. Then I found Wayne Kirkpatrick, James Dean Hicks, Victoria Shaw, Diane Warren, and, believe it or not, Avril Lavigne.”

I follow Marty down the row of pictures. “Anyway, I read an interview with Anthony Smith, and he said, ‘I just pray for God to help me be creative,' and I thought, ‘Dang, he's right. Can't go wrong praying.'”

Marty glances back at me for a second, then moves on, looking at pictures. “I tried to make Delaney Brown something like Heart meets Trisha Yearwood with a dash of Pasty Cline.” Marty waves me over. “Look, a young James Chastain.”

I look over her shoulder. “He has a nice face.” I munch the last of my cruller and check the time. “We'd better get to work. Marc would have a heart attack if he caught us dillydallying in Mr. Chastain's office.” I head for the door. “Heart meets Trisha and Patsy, huh? I think it worked.”

“Yeah, guess so.” Marty's shoulders droop and she motions to the faces on the wall with her coffee cup. “Maybe it could've been me.”

I plop my arm on her shoulders. “It still can be you. Get back in the game. Start writing. Go with me to open-mike nights. I could use a buddy.”

She shakes her head with a feeble smile. “The passion is gone. I listen to you talk about workshops, spending nights running around town for songwriter nights, trying to meet people so you can set up cowrites, and it gives me one gargantuan headache. All I can think is, I'm glad it's not me.” She heads out of the office.

I follow her. “But you don't have to start at the bottom like me. You know folks in the business.”

“My stardom ship has sailed, and I fell off the face of the musical earth.”

The sad resolve in Marty's voice reminds me of Momma, even Birdie, a little. Women on the verge of achieving their dream only to have life wake them up right before the
really
good part. I want to succeed. For them.

Marty picks up her cleaning gear. “I'll start with the bathrooms, you take the offices.”

“Right behind you.” I pause to pull my notebook and pen from my hip pocket.

Sad understanding that dreams fade away,

And tomorrow never comes.

She caught a ride on the Ferris wheel,

For the thrill of going 'round.

But found herself still sitting there,

With her feet stuck on the ground.

Nashville Noise has a lot of offices, plus writing rooms and
several recording studios. I methodically clean the first floor, humming to myself, dumping trash, vacuuming dirt. Wheeling my little cleaning cart down the hall, I get to the first recording studio. On the other side of the door, I hear muffled voices, followed by footsteps. Then, the click of a door. The voices fade.

I glance to my right down the long hall. Then my left. No one's coming. I drop the vacuum pack and steal inside the studio.

The room is large and square, low lit and painted with warm colors. I close my eyes and breathe in the music.

To my right are two chairs on either side of a large mike. Plus two guitars. One acoustic, the other electric. And to my left is the glass-encased, unmanned control room. I tiptoe over to the chair by the acoustic.

I read somewhere, maybe from
Music Row
magazine, that Nashville Noise is doing more acoustic recordings. Going back to the style of legendary RCA Studio B where greats like Jim Reeves and Eddy Arnold recorded.

I pick up the guitar, a sleek Ovation, and drop the strap over my head. One day, an artist will come in here and lay down tracks to one of my songs. Oh, Lord, please. I don't have a backup plan. If I can't sell songs, I'll be cleaning toilets the rest of my life. Or maybe follow Skyler's lead and study law. I shudder at the sobering realization.

It's songwriting or bust.

I peek over my shoulder at the control room where the computer and console lights reflect in the glass. Still empty. Just to be safe, better make sure the coast is clear. Marc said to keep a sharp eye out. I tiptoe over to the door. Marty is coming down the hall.

“What are you doing?” she whispers as I jerk her inside the studio.

“Pretending.” I point to the Fender electric. “Strap it on. Let's play a song.”

To my surprise, burned-out, I've-lost-my-passion Marty does not hesitate. She slings the strap over her shoulder and fastens it to the guitar. “We are so fired.”

“Shhh, no we're not. We just can't get caught.” I pull a pick from my hip pocket and strum. A rich, beautiful G chord sends my heart right over the moon.

Marty snorts. “You carry a pick in your pocket?”

“You weren't at the Bluebird.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind. What should we sing?”

Marty smiles. “One of your songs, of course.”

I shrug. “I always wanted to hear “Your Country Princess” with an electric. Creep Graham added a sweet lick after the second verse.”

“Let's do it. What key?”

“D.” I play it through once, showing Marty her part, a tad nervous the recording studio police are going to bust us. But after a few seconds in this danger zone, I settle down. Fear does not define me. Really.

Marty is a skilled musician. She blows me away.

“Let's do this before we get caught.” She runs her thumbs over her fingertips. “I have absolutely no calluses.”

“Then just come in on the chorus.” I ahem a few times to clear my throat and step up to the mike. The coffee I had a few hours ago didn't prime my vocal pump, but I can muddle through. “This song is for . . .” I grin at Marty. “Marc Lewis.”

She muffles a chuckle with her pinched lips.

I sing the first verse of “Your Country Princess” with every ounce of my heart and soul, throwing in a few extra guitar riffs for good measure.

Marty cranks it up for the chorus with beautiful lead accents. When I sing the chorus a second time, she comes in with a strong Jennifer Nettles-like voice.

We end the song with a flourish. “Ooooooo . . . Let. Me. Be. Your. Countryyyyyyy. Prince-esss.” The electric whines out the last note.

Thump!

Marty and I freeze. “Did you hear something?” she whispers.

Squeak.

“Crap, we're dead.” Trembling, I return the Ovation to the guitar stand and scurry out the door with Marty on my heels, shoving me down the hall. We skid around the corner and bust into the ladies' room.

“Do you think Marc is checking up on us?” Marty pokes her head out the door to see if anyone followed us.