Then Again

by Rick Boling

  The only sticking point was that I had inadvertently altered the mood, which meant that starting off with something serious was not going to hack it. Fortunately, being sober allowed me to quickly switch gears and come up with a new plan. After assessing the makeup of my small audience—mostly redneck, informally dressed, many cowboy hats and pitchers of beer—I put the Ramirez back on its stand and picked up my Martin.

  “Here’s a little thing I wrote one chilly Georgia morning,” I said while I D-tuned the guitar. “I was sittin’ on my front porch, dead broke and suffering from a colossal hangover, when one of them fine fellers from Georgia Power & Light showed up to turn off my electricity. I thought about sicc’n my old hound dog, Betsy, on him, but she was already down for her daily twelve-hour nap, so I just sat there and watched him do his thing. And when he left, I got this brilliant idea for a hit song. It took me the rest of the morning to write the thing, and I knew right away it was a good’n. Only problem is, the ‘hit’ part hasn’t happened yet, so I was thinkin’ maybe you could help me out. Anyway, best I can recall, it goes exactly like this.” I improvised a twangy, country intro, then slipped into my best Garth Brooks voice …

  They just turned off the power and fuel is runnin’ low

  There’s two eggs in the icebox and they say it’s gonna snow

  I’m told to grin and bear it, that my faith will keep me warm

  That there’s a silver linin’ on the back side of the storm

  Politicians say tomorrow will be better than today

  But they ain’t told me how to pay the bills I cannot pay

  I’ve heard it all called rhetoric, that it’s just a game they play

  So I think I’ll make an omelet and get on my knees and pray

  And ask the Lord to find me room and board

  And take the preacher all my bills and have him fix my Ford

  And when the congregation says there’s no more they can do

  I’ll find a place to sell this song and leave it up to you

  For the instrumental break I did a little showing off, flat picking a variation of Roy Clark’s Rocky Top guitar solo. And I was happy to hear a flutter of applause as I swung into the last verse …

  The few things that I’ve mentioned here can’t begin to tell it all

  I’ve never felt so helpless, no I’ve never felt so small

  I think I’ll take a shower, catch a cold and maybe die

  But that would be too easy so I’ll give it one more try

  Well, I asked the Lord to help me, yes I got down on my knees

  I told him I was hungry and that I was gonna freeze

  He hasn’t called me back as yet, so there’s nothing left to do

  But find a place to sell this song and leave it up to you

  I asked the Lord to find me room and board

  And I took the preacher all my bills and helped him fix my Ford

  And when the congregation said there’s no more we can do

  I found a place to sell this song, and now it’s up to you!

  This time, the applause was generous; even some of the diners were clapping as they came down to take seats at the remaining tables and vacated booths. I fiddled around on the guitar while everyone got settled, and once they’d quieted down, I said, “Thanks again, folks. I really appreciate it. In fact, after that ovation, I can't wait to hear what I'm going to play next. Unfortunately I won’t be singing too many songs tonight because of my throat. The last time I sang too many, someone threatened to cut it.”

  The friendly laughter, punctuated by a loud whoop here and there, was reassuring, and I figured I could now move on to something a little more serious.

  “I hate to admit it,” I said, “but I’m not a native Georgian. I’m from Florida.”—subdued grumbling—“Now wait a minute, I didn’t say I was in love with the state—all that flat land and sunshine and them nasty gators. Of course, I’m referring to the University of Florida Gators.”—cheers and hoots—“Actually, I moved to the woods up north of here to get away from all that and try to write some decent country songs.”

  “Smart move,” someone yelled over a general murmur of agreement.

  “Yes it was,” I said, “And man, let me tell you, the women up here are something else. In fact, it was one of those women who inspired this next song.” I began an extended intro to They Just Ain’t Made The Words, playing softly and speaking over the music.

  “She and I met in a supper club a lot like this one, and she sort of took me under her wing. You see, I was on the verge of killing myself with alcohol and drugs, and this lovely lady—let’s call her Rusty—sacrificed everything to save me from my own stupidity.”

  The laughter gradually faded into a curious, shuffling silence. Even Robin—who had moved closer to the stage—now seemed more interested than judgmental. Of course, she couldn’t know the story was about her, but, since ‘Rusty’ was being depicted as the savior of a drug-addicted alcoholic, it was probably hitting a little close to home.

  “Anyway, as might be expected, I fell head over heels for Rusty, and the one thing I wanted to do more than anything was write a song for her. But she was so incredible, and I was so in love with her, nothing I wrote even came close to describing how I felt. I was complaining about this one evening, apologizing to her for my failure, when she came to my rescue a second time.”

  I stopped talking but continued to play, milking the suspense as long as I could before lightening up on the guitar and continuing.

  “Rusty was not only a beautiful person, she was smart as a whip, and she saw something I couldn’t, even though it was right in front of my nose. I was floundering around, trying to come up with excuses for my inability to find the right words, when I made the silly claim that it wasn’t my fault—that the words simply did not exist. She laughed at that, then said, ‘Okay, if the words really don’t exist, why don’t you write about that?’ It took me a while to figure out what she meant, and when I did, I wrote this song . . .”

  Judging by the crowd’s wide-eyed anticipation, my setup appeared to have worked perfectly, and I proceeded to pull off one of the most emotional interpretations of They Just Ain’t Made The Words I’d ever performed. In some respects it was an act, because I used every skill I’d learned over two lifetimes to make it sound spontaneous and from the heart. But it was also a long-overdue tribute to Robin—a ‘thank you’ of sorts—and the emotion was not totally fabricated. The audience’s response was enthusiastic, though it almost seemed like a footnote, because all I really cared about was the quick thumbs up I got from Robin.

  As I scanned the rest of the room, trying to convey a measure of humble appreciation, I began to wonder if this was what Jackson was talking about when he said I could do something pure with my music—something not for monetary gain or recognition, but for the simple joy of using my talent to pay some dues and maybe fulfill the mandate of having been given that talent by whatever entity or force of nature had provided it.

  The only other time I’d performed with such unfabricated sincerity was that last evening at the villa, when I played Aurélie the song I’d written for her. That performance had nothing to do with ego or money; it was simply an attempt to convey my feelings. Which, at the time, were regret and heartbreak and anger at having to leave her. Now I was about to play that song again, and I suddenly realized how easily it could be misinterpreted—not by the audience, but by Aurie. She’d already been subtly pushing me toward Robin, no doubt because she didn’t want me to live my life without some kind of physical love. And much as I hated to admit it, I was sorely tempted.

  The irony of these conflicting emotions seemed like some sort of karmic justice, but that didn’t stop it from being emotionally confusing. Considering my feelings for Aurie, the fact that I would entertain the idea of a liaison with Robin was unsettling. Not to mention that I had already begun to speculate on my chances. Even though I was nowhere near the basket case she had rescued in my first life, I had se
nsed some primal chemistry between us during our first meeting, which was probably why I was experiencing this unwelcome craving.

  It was the old, oversexed Rix Vaughn rearing his ugly head again. And, as if I needed more grief, I had stupidly painted myself into a corner. I thought I was being clever by telling the story of They Just Ain’t Made The Words, then following up with a fictionalized, tear-jerking break-up tale as a prelude to The Lady Left Me With A Song. It seemed like a perfect plan, until I realized it would sound to Aurélie like I’d been thinking of Robin when I wrote the song. But the crowd was already getting restless, and I couldn’t think of any other way to handle things, so I decided I would just have to explain it all to Aurie later.

  A hush fell over the room as I cleared my throat and leaned into the mike. “Sadly,” I said with a frown, “Rusty and I broke up a year later.” A rumble of sympathetic moans swept through the crowd. “It was my fault, of course. I just don’t seem to have a lot of luck with the ladies, especially when I keep falling off the wagon. But even though she broke my heart, she left me with one last gift. It goes like this …”

  That was pretty impressive,” Robin said, peering suspiciously at me over a small desk cluttered with schedules and bills and trade magazines. “To be honest, I’m surprised. It sounded to me like you’ve been performing professionally for years. And, as I said before, you do look familiar.”

  She was absentmindedly thumbing the corner of an issue of Variety, and I suddenly remembered the magazine had covered the sale of Blue Note Enterprises. Over the years I’d managed to remain out of the limelight, refusing most interviews and photo ops, but I knew a few shots of me had appeared in business journals and trades. I couldn’t recall if Variety was among them; if so, that was probably where she’d seen my face.

  “The folks over at Blue Note used to say I was a dead ringer for their boss,” I said. “You know, Rich Voni … I never could pronounce his last name.”

  “Voniossi,” she said, still sounding skeptical. “So, Mr. Vaughn, do you have an agent? And are you an AMF member. We’re a union shop you know.”

  “Please call me Rix. I haven’t checked in with the local AMF office yet, but I’ll take care of that right away. As for an agent, you’re looking at him.”

  “Okay, Rix,” she said. “Let’s talk turkey. I can move some things around and get you in here in about a month. What are you expecting in terms of money?”

  “To tell you the truth, Robin, I’m not much interested in money, nor do I want a full-time gig. For the next few months, I’m going to be spending most of my time writing songs and working on arrangements for my album. What I’m thinking about is that Sunday afternoon slot, since you don’t have anything going on there now. I need a place to try out some of my material, and I’ll be happy to work for tips, if that’s alright with you.”

  “Mmnnn,” she said, “I don’t know. If things go anything like they did tonight—I mean, if that wasn’t some weird stroke of luck—my customers are going to want to see you more than once a week. How long before you’ll be ready to work a six-night gig?”

  Hopefully, it would be decades before I was relegated to playing in supper clubs. Though when I thought about it, if she went along with my proposal, I should probably return the favor. “Tell you what,” I said, “give me a couple of months to put this album together, and if you still want to book me for a week or two, I’ll take you up on that offer.”

  She stared at me without speaking, and I could almost hear the gears turning in her mind. Finally, she shrugged. “Well, if that’s the way it has to be. But I’m going to at least pay you union scale. Tell me something, was all that stuff about drugs and alcohol part of the act, or is it true?”

  And here was my opportunity. I couldn’t have planned it better if I’d wanted to. All I had to do was play the remorseful, recidivist addict and I would tap into her most vulnerable personality trait. But not only would that be using my prior knowledge to take unfair advantage, it was an idea I knew was being generated by shallow, animal desire rather than a latent resurrection of the love I’d once felt for her. And for the first time I could remember, my conscience won out.

  “I’ll have to ask that you keep this between just you and me,” I said, as if I were letting her in on an important secret. “It’s something I’ve been working on that I think might become a permanent part of my act. Playing a not-so-stable recovering alcoholic opens up all kinds of possibilities for humor and heart-rending storytelling. And if tonight was any example, I think it’s going to work pretty well as an underlying premise for my on-stage persona. I’ve done my share of drugs and booze, so I know whereof I speak, but that was in what I like to refer to as my prior life. Although I do indulge in an occasional beer or glass of wine, nowadays about the only things I’m addicted to are chocolate and peanut butter.”

  This brought a smile and a nod, though I could still detect a shadow of suspicion lurking behind her eyes. Whether she was suspicious of my sobriety declaration, or my claim of being an inexperienced stage performer, I couldn’t tell. Whatever it was, I wanted to wind things up and get out of there before she had time to probe any deeper. Unfortunately, she wasn’t through.

  “What about Rusty?” she asked. “Was she real or just a part of the act?”

  I thought for a second, then said, “A little of both. She was a part of the former life I mentioned, and our breakup did inspire that last song. We’re still friends, and I see her from time to time, although circumstances have made it impossible for us to ever be a couple again.”

  “Circumstances?”

  “It’s complicated,” I said, hoping my reluctance to elaborate would end the conversation.

  “Sorry,” she said. “Didn’t mean to pry. But I find those stories you tell intriguing.”

  Her interest in my love life seemed uncharacteristically aggressive, and I had the feeling she might be trying to determine if I was available. I could have been imagining this, but true or not, she’d once again awakened those erotic urges I thought I’d put to rest. I was about to turn down that forbidden path, when I caught myself. “No problem,” I said. “What I meant was there’s someone else in the picture now.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Well, that’s good. I was afraid you were alone and still dealing with a lot of heartbreak. Anyway, I guess we’ll see you Sunday. It’s 3:00 to 8:00, so you should be here around 2:30 to set up.”

  Our handshake was warm, though not suggestive in any way, and I left with mixed feelings, the strongest of which was satisfaction in knowing I’d made the right decision.

  Aurélie was waiting for me when I got back to the cabin.

  “You twit,” she said the moment I opened the door. “You’re a flesh-and-blood human being with a future. I’m a ghost whose future is limited at best. You need to start facing reality here, Rix.”

  “So, you did climb into my mind,” I said. “I thought I asked you not to.”

  “You asked me to stay out while you were on stage, and I did. But I couldn’t resist seeing how you made out with Robin.”

  “I didn’t make out with Robin, Aurie. I told you, I have no intention of getting emotionally involved with anyone other than you. Ever!” She seemed somewhat taken aback at this, though I also thought I saw a glimmer of relief in her eyes. When she didn’t respond, I sat down at the folding table I used as a desk and leaned on the closed lid of my typewriter. “Anyway, I’ve done about all I can to get back in shape musically, so please, let’s drop the subject and get on with this project of yours. Isn’t it time we started my training?”

  “I wish you wouldn’t call it my project,” she said. “And I don’t like the suggestion that we are going to be training you. It’s not as if I could teach you anything about performing or writing. All I want is to give you a detailed explanation of what we’re trying to accomplish. But first you need to understand some sociological cause-and-effect realities you might have misconceptions about. After that, you’ll be on your own
, unless you ask for my help or criticisms.”

  “Okay,” I said, “so no training, just a course in sociology. Sounds like fun.”

  “It may not be fun, but hopefully you’ll find it interesting, if not enlightening. And I’m not putting you down by insinuating that you don’t know everything you should about the origin and evolution of some of the major problems your world will face in the near future. Very few people do.”

  “Oh? And why is that, do you suppose?”

  “Because, like you, they prefer simple sound-bite explanations to facing the complexities of reality. Of course, most people don’t have the time or resources or intellectual capacity to do the kind of analysis necessary to reveal those underlying complexities. And even those few who care enough to think beyond their own immediate wants and needs are far too fixated on short-term solutions—metaphorically speaking, Band-Aids instead of vaccines or cures—which often do little more than push the problems further into the future and expand their eventual impact.”

  “Uh, right,” I said, scratching my bald spot. “I hope you have some innovative way of injecting these things directly into my brain, because I can barely grasp what you just said.”