Then Again

by Rick Boling

  “A bonus?”

  “You know, kind of killing two birds with one—oh, sorry. Bad idiom. Anyway, I’ll bet if you auditioned and played Robin’s Song, she’d hire you on the spot.”

  “Do you really think I’ll need a gimmick like that?” I said. “If I’m going to have a problem getting hired, then maybe we should just buy the place and offer free liquor so people won’t leave when they hear how bad I am. It would only be another drop in the bucket, right?” I was getting a perverse kick out of watching her squirm. Not only was it unprecedented, but she was clearly trying—and failing—to convince me without sounding condescending.

  “I wasn’t saying you needed a gimmick, Rix, only that it would be a good spot to help you ease back into live performing. Plus, it’s the closest club of its kind in the area, so there wouldn’t be a lot of travel time involved. And, I don’t know, I just thought you might like to see how Robin is doing.”

  We went back-and-forth like that for a while, until I started to feel sorry for her and eased up on my cross-examination. In the end, I agreed, which is why I was sitting here at the Black Orchid, nursing an after-dinner beer and waiting for the main act to take the stage before moving to the lower level. I had yet to catch a glimpse of Robin, and I’d begun to wonder if Aurie had made up the story, when a small commotion arose a few tables away from me. Within seconds, Robin emerged from the back room and strolled to the problem table. She put her arm around the frazzled waitress’s shoulder and waited while the customer vented like a whining child, nodding and shaking her head in sympathy until he finally wound down. Then, all smiles and apologies, she took control of the conversation.

  She spoke softly, but the nearby crowd had quieted, and I was suddenly transported back in time as I heard that familiar, gentle voice calming the angry patrons and assuring them there would be no charge for their dinner. Problem solved, she turned to leave, but her progress was impeded by several diners who stopped her to shake hands and exchange pleasantries. She was clearly well-liked, and as I watched her interact with the crowd, I realized how little she had changed from the kind, patient woman I’d once known.

  She had almost extricated herself from the last group of admirers, when someone behind me yelled, “Hey, Robin. Come over here for a second, will you?” She turned and looked in my direction, then, without showing a trace of frustration, walked back into the fray, dodging a couple of busboys on her way toward the table next to mine. Trying not to be too obvious, I swiveled in my chair and did a quick visual inventory as she passed by.

  She wore loose, tan slacks and a cream-colored, masculine-style blouse; and she didn’t look a day older than the last time I’d seen her. I remembered, then, how she’d always dressed in fairly nondescript clothes in order to downplay her sexuality, and how that made her all the more alluring to me. The only difference I could see was the way she did her hair. Though still a radiant shade of auburn, instead of being cropped short, it was parted down the middle and styled in a casual sort of bob that curled below her ears.

  She stopped at the table next to mine and began talking quietly with the young man who had called her over. The ambient restaurant noise had returned to full volume, making it hard to hear them distinctly, but I got the impression he’d made up some excuse to draw her over so he could hit on her. I watched as she bantered amiably with him and his two companions, thinking that an animator would probably have depicted them as dogs with their tongues hanging out.

  When she turned to leave, I caught her eye and she smiled at me. It was the noncommittal smile of a manager being attentive to a new customer, and as she approached my table, she touched me lightly on the shoulder. “Everything alright here?” she said, nodding at my near-empty beer glass.

  “I guess I could use another beer,” I said. “And I was wondering if I could talk to you for a few moments. Not right now. I can see that you’re busy.”

  “I’m never too busy for a new patron,” she said. “You are new, aren’t you? I’d hate to find out you’ve been here before and I didn’t notice.” Though still somewhat formal, I could sense a vague stirring of non-professional curiosity in her demeanor.

  “I’m new,” I said. “Not only to the Orchid, but to Georgia.”

  “Well, then,” she said, sliding into the chair opposite me, “welcome to the Peach State. What can I do for you? I’m Robin, by the way. And you are …?”

  I started to answer truthfully, but caught myself, realizing my name might be recognized by someone whose business involved working with musicians. “Rix,” I said, after what I hoped was an unnoticed hesitation. “Rix Vaughn.”

  “Nice to meet you, Rix,” she said, holding out a hand. I shook it stiffly, expecting a jolt of libidinous electricity that didn’t materialize. “You know, now that I think about it, you do look familiar. Have we met?”

  “Not likely,” I said, “unless you’ve spent some time in the west-central Florida area. I used to work at Blue Note Studios in St. Petersburg as a session guitarist.”

  “Can’t say that I have. What brings you to Georgia?”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” I said. “I’ve been doing the standard, frustrated studio-musician thing. You know, trying to write some songs and put together my own act? I’ve played a few small gigs around central Florida where I’m fairly well known, and I’ve got a commitment from Blue Note to produce my first album. But first I need to test some of my songs in front of an audience of strangers.”

  “I see,” she said. A wayward curl of hair fell across her eyes and she brushed it away, whereupon it immediately fell back and was joined by another. She continued to repeat this futile exercise, as if she had long ago stopped giving it conscious thought. Finally, she said, “Look, Rix, I hate to throw cold water on your aspirations, but I should tell you that I see at least a dozen wannabes a month, maybe one out of a hundred with the talent necessary to make it as a single. And even those few will probably never get past playing at flea markets or local talent shows.”

  “Believe me,” I said, “I know the odds. You should see how many kids camp out in the waiting room down at Blue Note. I have no illusions, Robin, only a hatful of naïve ambition, a little talent, and a decade or so of studio experience. I hear you used to have an open-mike thing on Sunday afternoons.”

  “We did, but it got overrun by rowdy, talentless drunks. We were losing customers, so we canceled it about a year ago.”

  Tell her you’ll write her a song. It was Aurie, invading my brain again.

  “Cheap shot,” I said, without thinking.

  “What?” Robin said.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean … what I mean was that I would be cheap. I’m not asking for a paying gig or anything. Just a shot.” I was determined not to take advantage of my former position, but I had to come up with something that would be hard to refuse. “Tell you what,” I said, “pick the slowest time. Say, Tuesday before the main act goes on. Give me thirty minutes, and if the audience doesn’t like me, I promise I’ll leave without a word and never bother you again.”

  She continued to fiddle with her uncooperative hair, reminding me of those CNN field reporters who stood in the wind doing the same thing over and over. After a while she signaled to a waitress and pointed at my glass. Then, with an audible sigh, she looked me in the eye and said, “Okay. It’s against my better judgment, but you seem like a nice enough fellow. Be here at 8:30 on Tuesday, and I’ll give you your shot. Don’t get your hopes up, though. We may not be a big-city club, but our clientele can be pretty tough on newcomers.”

  After she left, I hung around to catch a few minutes of the featured act, and was surprised to find myself listening to a young John Berry, who I knew would go on to chart many country hits. Even this early in his career, he was damned good, with a soulful tenor voice and a unique guitar style. So good, in fact, that I left after his first set—not because I wasn’t enjoying the music, but because hearing it and seeing the audience’s enthusiastic re
sponse was messing with my already shaky confidence.

  I had only three days to prepare for my big debut, and suddenly Aurélie seemed to be with me every waking hour. We argued about what songs I should sing, what clothes I should wear, and even whether I should use my Ramirez or my Martin. By Monday evening, I’d had enough, and for the first time ever I actually asked her to leave me alone.

  “It isn’t that I don’t want to be with you,” I said. “I do. It’s just that I need some private time to get my head together and practice without anyone looking over my shoulder.”

  “Do you not want me there on Tuesday either?” she pouted.

  “Of course I want you there,” I said, though I wasn’t sure about that either. “But you have to promise me you won’t climb into my head while I’m on stage. I’m thinking about playing your song, by the way.”

  The Lady Left Me With a Song was the last thing I’d written in my former life, and I’d never even considered letting one of Blue Note’s artists record it. In fact, I’d never played it for anyone other than Aurie. There were good reasons for this, one being that the song was so personal I couldn’t objectively evaluate its potential. But probably the most important reason was something I’d only recently admitted to myself—as self-indulgent as it seemed, I really didn’t want anyone else singing it.

  “I promise,” she said, “but I still think you should do Robin’s Song. You know they’ll love it.”

  “You mean Robin will love it. Look, no matter what you think, I’m not doing this to impress Robin, I’m doing it to see if I can command the attention of an audience. Using a song we already know was a hit won’t prove much of anything. I need to find out if I can still hold my own as an entertainer, and playing proven hits, especially one written specifically for the person who might hire me, would give me an advantage I don’t want and shouldn’t need. Now please do me a favor and give me the next twenty-four hours alone to see if I can work up enough courage not to be a no-show.”

  That shut her up. And even though I knew she was upset, she did a pretty good job of hiding it, smiling and wishing me luck, before vanishing into the dark like a windblown wisp of smoke.

  As adamant as I’d been about being alone, I wasn’t prepared for the rush of anxiety that came over me once she was gone. Sitting in the sallow glow of the porch light, it felt like the trees were closing in on me, and my hands were sweating so badly I could barely hold onto my guitar.

  I’d managed to keep my drinking to a minimum since I’d been in Georgia, but those last couple of binges in St. Pete had reignited the old cravings, making even semi-abstinence difficult. And at that moment, all I could think about was how much I wanted a drink. I was on my way to the kitchen, when it occurred to me that I couldn’t remember ever performing as single without being drunk, or at least well on my way. That thought lingered in my mind as I drank from a carton of orange juice, wishing it was a quart of Jack.

  Debut

  There is an art to garnering the attention of a tiny, disinterested audience. And, as a matter of necessity, I’d spent the later years of my first life perfecting that art. Using humor was one method—a scary one, though not quite as scary as standup comedy. A guy with a guitar wasn’t expected to be George Carlin, so laughs were easier to elicit, much like they would be for a politician or a well-known athlete. Another trick was to shock the audience into paying attention. This could be accomplished with a pratfall or maybe an odd opening statement—anything unexpected that would jerk them out of their conversations and alcoholic indifference.

  Finally, there was a subtle, less offbeat approach I sometimes used if a room had the proper seating configuration and acoustics. This involved starting out with an instrumental rendition of a recognizable tune, then steadily increasing the volume and tempo in coordination with a gradual expansion and brightening of the spotlight. Under the right circumstances, the mounting drama would slowly draw the audience’s attention toward the stage. Keeping it there, however, was another matter altogether.

  If you were a nobody—or, as in the case of my later career, a little-known has-been—it often took more to hold an audience than playing a few songs they’d never heard, no matter how good the songs might be. One thing I had going for me in that regard came from the many years I’d spent adjusting my presentation to compensate for my deteriorating skills.

  As my vocal quality faded and the arthritis in my hands grew worse, I began to pad my performances with short monologues and expanded introductions, repeating the ones that drew chuckles and nods while eliminating or refining those that met with yawns. This process of elimination soon taught me that what people enjoyed almost as much as the music was learning the meaning behind the songs. So, unlike James Taylor and a few other artists who preferred not to reveal what their songs were about, I started introducing mine with emotional or humorous background stories. The advantage in doing this was twofold: first, it reduced the time I was required to sing and play; and second, if an audience knew the intimate circumstances that led to each song’s creation, they tended to be less critical of my musical performances.

  With all this journeyman expertise under my belt, I should have been confident in my ability to capture and hold the attention of even the smallest audience. However, not only had it been nearly a quarter century since I’d last performed as a single, tonight I would be playing stone cold sober to a handful of strangers anxiously awaiting the appearance of local favorite, John Berry.

  After taking stock of the Black Orchid’s design and acoustics, I’d decided to open with drama rather than shock or humor. I had met with the kid handling the lights—a busboy in his other life—hoping he was competent enough to follow my instructions, which were to train the spotlight on my empty stool, lock it in place, turn it off, and wait until he heard the first soft notes of my guitar solo. Then, he should try to synchronize a gradual increase in the beam’s size and intensity with the rising volume and tempo of my performance.

  I wanted to open with something familiar rather than something original, and had settled on a complex arrangement of the Flamenco favorite, Malagueña, from which I would transition into an acoustic version of the Eagles’ megahit, Hotel California. In a way, this was cheating, because the group had recently split up, and I would essentially be copying a rendition introduced on their 1994 reunion album. But I was sure no one would remember my interpretation of it thirteen years down the road.

  As I took my place on the darkened stage and surveyed the near-empty lower level, I saw that only one couple had chosen to sit at a table near the front, while the others were scattered among the perimeter booths. The restaurant level, however, looked to be about half full, so if I played my cards right, I might be able to entice a few of the diners down, or at least grab their attention before they finished their meals. On the other hand, as nervous as I was, I might drive them all away. With this thought looming in my head, I decided to concentrate on the couple in front, as if they were the only customers in the place.

  I played the first notes so softly I was afraid the spotlight operator wouldn’t hear me. But as I slowly increased the volume and tempo, I saw a dim circle of light begin to glow in the distance and sighed with relief. Unfortunately, this somewhat loud exhalation was picked up by the voice mike and broadcast for all to hear, reminding me how much I’d forgotten about the nuances of performing live. To make matters worse, my two-person audience appeared to find my gaffe amusing, smiling and nodding at each other as if I’d confirmed their suspicion that I was a rank amateur.

  Fighting a wave of anxiety, I closed my eyes and tried to lose myself in the music, interspersing machine-gun falsetas with powerful rasgueado as I moved toward a crescendo of loud, brash strumming. I stretched the high-spirited finale out, then slowed to a soft finger roll and squinted into the now-bright spotlight. Fortunately the beam was elevated enough to allow a misty view of the room, and I saw that the couple now seemed, if not mesmerized, at least courteously attentive. Enc
ouraged by this minor victory, I eased into the intro for Hotel California, and when I next looked up I saw two other couples abandon their booths and head toward the front tables.

  The small surge of confidence this provided allowed me to relax, and I finished the intro with a flourish. From there it was like I’d become possessed by a much younger version of myself (that cocky frontman for The Madisons, whose claim to fame was an ability to precisely imitate the voices of popular rock and blues singers) and I dove into the vocals, performing a near perfect impersonation of Don Henley.

  I tried to keep an eye on the room to see if any of the other patrons were moving to the front, but the ending—a difficult duplication of the synchronized guitar solos played by Don Felder and Joe Walsh—required all my concentration, and I didn’t raise my head until the last notes were fading away. When I finally did look up, I saw that the number of occupied tables had more than doubled, and after a nervy moment of silence, a flutter of applause started at the back and flowed through the small crowd. The applause wasn’t loud—there were, after all, only a couple of dozen hands clapping—but at least they weren’t booing.

  It was then that I noticed Robin. She had descended one of the stairways that led down from the restaurant and was standing at the bottom with a hand resting casually on one hip. I couldn’t read her expression in the dim light, but her body language seemed to say, “Not bad. What’s next?” I saw Aurie, too, smiling at me from where she’d materialized near one of the exits, and it wasn’t long before all the scrutiny brought on another surge of anxiety. I had managed to make it through my opening without any major screw-ups, but the response had been less than enthusiastic. And now I had to do something that would keep everyone in their seats.

  When the applause died down, I looked out at the sparse crowd. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you,” I said, as if I’d just brought down the house. “I have to say that of all the ovations I’ve ever received, that was by far the most … recent.” This was met with a communal groan. “But seriously,” I continued, “it's nice to be here at the Black Orchid on a Tuesday. I don’t usually perform on Tuesdays. I usually go to my AA meeting.”—nervous chuckles—“No, really, as of tonight I’ve been sober for 100 days. Not in a row or anything. Since I was twelve.”—a smattering of genuine laughter— “I’m Rix Vaughn, by the way. And Robin has asked me to entertain you for the next half hour or so. I should warn you, though, that I’ve never done this without having a few drinks under my belt, so what you’re about to hear might make you want to throw some at me. That’s fine, so long as you give me time to open my mouth.” This time, the laughter was louder, and suddenly I knew I had them.