Nashville 1 - Ready to Reach (4 page)

“Ain’t no problem,” Thomas says. “We’ll be there with warm-up time to spare.”

Thomas grabs his Starbucks bag from the dash where he’d flung it earlier. He pulls out a plain mini-donut and offers it to Hank Junior. “Believe I promised you that.”

The dog takes it as if he’s royalty sitting down to tea. He chews it delicately and licks his lips. “Good, ain’t it?” Thomas says, pleased. “Got you one, too, CeCe.”

“That’s okay,” she says.

“Go on, now. Hank Junior and I can’t eat alone.”

She takes the donut from him and bites into it with a sigh of pure pleasure. “Um, that’s good. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

CeCe sits straight as an arrow, Hank Junior curled on top of her again. She’s yet to look at me, and I can imagine her pride has taken a few more pokes in agreeing to get back in here with us.

“I’m real sorry about your guitar,” she says in a low voice. “I mean it about you taking mine. My uncle used to play with a group called The Rounders. He gave it to me before he died.”

“The Rounders?” I say, recognizing the name. “They wrote ‘Wish It Was True’ and ‘Long Time Comin’?”

“Yeah, those were their biggest songs,” she says, still not looking at me.

“That’s some good music,” Thomas says. “I’ve had both those tunes in my sets.”

“Me, too,” CeCe says.

I stay quiet for a moment. “Which one was your uncle?”

“Dobie. Dobie Crawford.”

“Good writer,” I say, not sure why it’s so hard for me to release the compliment since I really do mean it. “I didn’t realize he’d died.”

“Two years ago,” she says.

“What happened to him?” Thomas asks.

“Liver failure.”

“That’s a shame,” he says.

“Yeah,” I add. “It is. I’m sorry.”

“Thanks,” she says, looking at me now with surprise in her voice. “He was a good man. Aside from the drinking, I mean.”

“He teach you how to play?” Thomas asks.

“He did,” she says. “I was five when he started giving me lessons.”

“You any good?” I ask, unable to stop myself.

She shrugs. “He thought I was.”

We’re looking at each other now, and all of a sudden it’s like I’m seeing her for the first time. I realize how unfair I’ve been to her, that I deliberately set out not to see her as anything more than a noose around our necks.

“What do you think?”

“I think I’m pretty good. Not nearly as good as he was.”

“Not many people have a teacher with that kind of talent.”

“I was lucky,” she says. “Who taught you?”

“I mostly taught myself,” I say.

“Don’t let him fool you,” Thomas says. “He’s got the gift. Plays like God Himself is directing his fingers.”

“Wow.” She looks at me full on, as if she’s letting herself take me in for the first time, too, without the conclusions she’s already made about me getting in the way. I’m uncomfortable under her gaze, and I don’t know that I can say why. An hour ago, I didn’t care what she thought of me.

“Thomas just likes the fact that he doesn’t have to pay me to play for him,” I say, throwing off the compliment.

“That’s a plus for sure,” Thomas says, and then to CeCe, “but I still ain’t overselling him.”

“I’d like to hear you play,” she says, glancing at me again.

“Good,” Thomas says. “’Cause he’s gonna have to take you up on that guitar of yours. We’re onstage in less than an hour.”

“Okay then if I come watch?” she asks in a cautious voice.

“Sure, it is,” Thomas says.

CeCe looks at me, expecting me to disagree, I would guess. But I don’t. “I don’t want your guitar. To keep, I mean. I’ll borrow it just for tonight.”

“You can keep it,” she says. “I owe you.”

“I don’t want your guitar.”

“Okay.”

WE DRIVE THE REST of the way into Nashville without saying too much of anything. Thomas has gone quiet in the way he always does before a show, playing through lyrics in his head, gathering up whatever emotional steam he needs to get up in front of an audience and sing.

We’ve been together long enough that we respect each other’s process, and when it comes time to leave each other alone, we do.

I air guitar some chord patterns, walk through a new tune we’re doing at the end of the set tonight, wonder if I could improve the chorus lyric.

CeCe’s head drops against my shoulder, and it’s only then I realize she’s asleep. Hank Junior has been snoring the past ten miles. I look down at CeCe and will myself not to move. I don’t know if it’s because she’s clearly dead tired or because her hair is so soft on my arm. I can smell the shampoo she must have used that morning. It smells clean and fresh, like springtime and honeysuckle.

I feel Thomas look at me, but I refuse to look at him. I know what he’s thinking. That’s when I move closer to the door, and CeCe comes awake with a start.

“Oh,” she says, groggy, “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I dozed off.”

“It’s okay,” I say, wondering if I could be more of an ass.

CeCe sits upright as a poker the rest of the way into the city. Hank Junior goes on snoring, and she rubs his ears, first one, then the other.

Thomas drives straight to the Bluebird. We’ve been coming down every few weeks for the past year or so, working odd jobs back home, saving money, gathering proof each time we come that we need to give this a real shot. This time, we’re staying.

The strip mall that includes the Bluebird Café among its tenants isn’t much to look at from the outside.

The lot is full so we squeeze into a grassy area not too far from the main entrance. The place is small, the sign out front nothing that will knock your socks off.

“It’s not exactly what I imagined.” CeCe studies the front door. “I thought it would be bigger.”

“We thought the same thing first time here,” Thomas agrees.

The truth is we’d felt downright disappointed. Both of us had heard about the place for years, how many dreams had come to fruition behind those doors. The physical appearance had been something of a letdown. It’s not until you’re inside and witness what goes on there that you get the fact that the appearance doesn’t much matter.

“Hank Junior can wait here,” Thomas says. “That okay?”

“Yeah,” CeCe says. “Let me take him potty first.”

Hank Junior follows her out of the truck as if that’s exactly what he had on his to do list. They head for a grassy spot several yards away where Hank Junior makes use of a light pole.

Thomas reaches for CeCe’s guitar case. “Maybe you oughta tune her up.”

“Yeah,” I say, taking the case and setting it at my feet. I feel weird about it even though I know CeCe wants me to use it. I pull out the guitar, pleasantly surprised by the heft of it. It’s a Martin, like mine, and this too, catches me off guard. I guess I should have known if it belonged to Dobie Crawford, it was gonna be more than decent.

I sit on the curb, strum a few chords, and find there’s not much to improve on. CeCe knows how to tune a guitar.

She’s back then, Hank Junior panting like he’s thirsty. “Either of you have a bottle of water you could share with Hank?”

I stand up, reach under the truck seat and pull out one I’d opened earlier.

“Thanks,” she says, without looking me in the eye. She takes the cap off, squats in front of the dog and cups her hand, letting him drink from it. She refills her palm until he loses interest, and then she helps him up in the truck.

Thomas hits the remote. “Let’s get on in there.”

“Ah, would it be all right if I borrow some money for the cover charge? I. . .my wallet was in the car.”

“You have no money?” I ask before I think to soften or censor the question.

She shakes her head, glancing down at her sandals. She looks up then, pride flashing in her eyes. “I’ll pay you back.”

“No need to be worrying about that,” Thomas intervenes. “We’ll spot you what you need. You don’t have to pay here anyway. You’re with the band.”

I attempt to level Thomas with a look, but our friendship is way past the point of him giving in to me on anything he doesn’t want to. “You’re using her guitar, aren’t you?” he tosses at me in case I need an explanation.

I start to argue that I wouldn’t need her guitar if she hadn’t left the truck door open. That seems pointless right now, so I march on ahead of them without bothering to reply.

There’s a crowd, college kids, couples, older folks, pretty much the gamut. I step around the line, murmuring, “Excuse me, sorry.” I duck through the door, trying not to bump anyone with the guitar case, Thomas and CeCe behind me.

A dark-haired girl is working the front door. She’s wearing a short blue dress, scooped low, and cowboy boots that make her legs seem a mile long. She directs a high beam smile at me. “You in the round?”

“We are,” I say, waving a hand at Thomas and CeCe.

“What about her?” She looks at CeCe and forces a smile the way girls do when they sense competition.

“She’s with us,” Thomas says.

“Are you playing?” the girl asks, meeting CeCe’s gaze with a note of authority.

“I, no--” CeCe begins.

“Then you’ll need to pay the cover charge,” she says.

Thomas starts to pull out his wallet when she adds, “And go to the back of the line. All these other people were here before you.”

CeCe’s eyes go wide, and suddenly bright like she’s going to bust out crying at any second. I guess it has been that kind of day for her.

I lean in on the stand, close to the girl’s face and say, “Can you cut her a break just for tonight? I’m using her guitar because mine got stolen by two guys on a motorcycle.”

“Hey!” Someone yells from the end of the line. “We standin’ here all night or getting inside to hear some music?”

“All right, all right,” the girl says, not taking her eyes off mine while she writes something on a card and hands it to me. “I’m Ashley. Call me later. I’d like to hear the rest of your story.”

I slip it in my shirt pocket and start making my way through the tables to the center of the floor where other writers and singers are already set up.

“So that’s why you bring him along,” I hear CeCe say to Thomas.

“Gotta admit he comes in handy,” Thomas shoots back with a laugh.

Thomas and I take the two chairs remaining in the circle. We’ve met everyone else in the round on other trips to Nashville. Darryl Taylor to my left who I just heard is on the cusp of a record deal. He writes his own stuff, and he’s good. Really good. Shauna Owens sits next to Thomas. She’s been a semi-finalist on Idol, and I hear the only thing keeping her from the big leagues is her stage fright. Sometimes she keeps it under wraps, and sometimes she doesn’t.

Across from us is a fifteen-year old who’s been coming to town with her mom for the past two years, learning the ropes, writing at first with anyone she could find. Last time we were in town, writers were starting to seek her out, which means someone up the ladder is taking notice of her.

Within ten minutes, the place is totally packed. People are turned away at the door. I look around and spot CeCe leaning against a corner wall by the bar. She looks a little lost standing there by herself, and I feel a pang of compassion for her. I instantly blink it away, reminding myself that Thomas and I both will do well if we manage to navigate the waters of this town without either one of us drowning. We threw her a life raft today. That oughta be enough. I’m not about to take on swimming her to shore.

Mike Hanson is top dog in the round tonight. He’s got a publishing deal with one of the major houses in town and just recently got his first cut with a cool new band. Thomas and I met him when we started coming to town and playing at the Listening Room. He’d already been at it for a couple of years then, and starting to get some interest. I knew the first time I heard him that he had the talent to make it, but the way things work here, affirmation doesn’t come until you get a publishing deal. The next rung up is a cut.

Mike blows on the microphone, taps it once and makes it squawk. “Howdy, everybody. Welcome to the Bluebird Café. I’d like to thank y’all for coming out. I’m Mike Hanson. We got some fine music for you tonight.”

The crowd claps with enough enthusiasm that it’s clear they believe him. I’m hoping we live up to it.

Mike introduces each of us, calls me and Thomas a duo, singer-writer team, and I start to get a rush of nerves the way I always do just before we perform.

“Y’all don’t forget your waiters and waitresses tonight,” Mike reminds the crowd. People clap and whistle. Mike strums a few chords. “I hope y’all will be hearing this on the radio real soon.” He sets right in to the song then, and the applause grows louder. It’s clear word has gotten out about his recent success.

This is one thing I’ve come to love about Nashville. People here take pleasure in the accomplishment of others. Sure, everyone wants to make it, or they wouldn’t have come in the first place. It’s more than that though, a camaraderie of a sort I haven’t known anywhere else.

It’s almost like running some kind of marathon together, and instead of begrudging the fact that they’ve crossed the finish line before you, you’re somewhere behind them, throwing a fist in the air and cheering them on.