Twang (5 page)

I felt like I had to defend myself. “But I’m not some beginner! I’ve been writing songs and singing practically my whole life.”

It got quiet. Sam had an expression on his face I couldn’t read. I probably looked pathetic, my hands shaking on my knees, my shoulders drooped with exhaustion.

“Listen,” he said at last, a softness in his voice. “Never got me nowhere, but some folks claim open mic nights are the backbone of the country music industry. There’s a dozen or more places you ought to go try your wings at, play some of those original songs you’re talking about. You ought to go sing at The French Quarter or the Douglas Corner Café or the Bluebird’s open mic night. Get you some practice performing in front of a group.”

I didn’t need any more practice performing in front of a group, but he was so nice. “Thanks. Which of those is best, in your opinion?”

He stubbed his cigarette out in a black ashtray on the bar. “Well, I’d have to say it’s the Bluebird on Monday nights. Every Monday they got a show goes, oh, two or three hours, where a dozen hopefuls get to strut their stuff. Great place to try out new material, work on your performing skills, meet other writers and singers, and just become a part of the songwriting community. Now I think about it, the Bluebird’s where Kathy Mattea and Garth Brooks got their start.”

“Really?” My heart sped up.

“Yep,” he said, a grin on his leathery face. “If you’re good as you say, you might catch the eye of a mover and shaker in the
industry who’s sitting out in the audience. It could be your big break.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!” I knew I sounded like a ninny, but fireworks were going off in my brain. I got to my feet, dug down into my pocket and set a five dollar bill down on the bar. “Bye, Sam.” I wasn’t quite out the door when he called after me. I turned.

“I’m going to give you some more advice.”

“Yes?” I smiled.

“Lose the sweet-girl Sunday school outfit.”

A hot flush rushed up my chest, and again I felt myself revisiting that time and place I’d buried so far in the red Georgia clay. Sam Watkins sure didn’t seem to have the leering look in his eye. Hadn’t my instincts assured me he was safe? I ran down the hot sidewalk, and my thoughts moved to Mr. Anglin. I’d never felt so safe as when I was perched on a chair in his classroom after class was over, him at his desk, his legs crossed at the knee, the picture of elegance and manners. I loved that he dressed like a gentleman: turtlenecks in the fall and winter, his slender wrists sticking out of flawless starched shirts with French cuffs in the spring. I never suspected he had anything in mind besides the rich enjoyment of music. You cannot fall apart now, I told myself, walking toward a large gray brick building that said Bench Mark Sound Music Publishing; you’ve got to honor your promise to him.

I put myself in this sort of trance where I was hardly aware of anything—not the passage of time, not rude folks. When I finished the recording companies on Music Square East, I headed to Seventeenth Avenue, to tackle Music Square West. Close to five p.m., my feet aching terribly and my arm exhausted from lugging my Washburn, I gave out my last demo and decided it was time to go home.

I was shocked to find that someone had made up the beds in room 316. There was also a fresh stack of towels, more coffee, and clean cups. I looked inside my Tampax box, and when I saw my money was still there, I hung up my blouse and skirt, put the pumps on the closet floor, and sat on the closed toilet lid to hold a wet washrag to the blisters on the backs of my heels.

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.