Tiger Moths

by Sandra Grice

  “Yeeeees, let’s get rockin’, Johnny,” a regular responded.

  Julio had been right; this was going to be a great crowd and a great night.

  “All right then, here we go. How ‘bout we start out with a little Jimmy Buffet and go down to a little place known as Margarita-ville? Looks like some of you are already part of the way there.”

  Johnny played until well past one in the morning. He felt good, and the audience was all he thought they would be. But nothing could have topped off the night any better than what happened when he finished.

  Johnny shook hands with a few folks and laughed with several of the patrons. It was a terrific night, but nothing was out of the ordinary. Until a particularly good-looking guy walked up and extended his hand. “Johnny Clark?”

  “Yes, sir, that’s me. How are you doing tonight? I hope you had a good time. Did you like the set tonight?”

  “No. No, Johnny, I didn’t.” The stranger’s eyes fixed on Johnny.

  A little disoriented, Johnny lost his perpetual smile for the first time. “Well, uh, why not? Would you have liked to have heard something else? You know you can request anything, ’cause I can pretty much play whatever you want.”

  “Yes, I believe you can. I didn’t like the set tonight; I loved it!” The man smiled for the first time. It was a huge smile that lit his entire face. “And Johnny, there are a lot more people who need to be hearing you play and sing.”

  Thrown for yet another loop, Johnny regained his usual grin. He was almost giddy. “Really? Do you really think so, man? I hope you’re not yanking my chain, ‘cause I really want that one day.”

  “No kidding. I think you are good, and I think you can be a lot better. I think you definitely have potential to be something special. It’s your original stuff I am most impressed with; it shows you are a real songwriter. My name is Buddy James. I’m not an agent or anything like that. Some of those guys are idiots and just out for themselves. You gotta watch them. Not me, I’m just another musician who knows talent when I see it. I’ve been in this town over twenty years playing in studio bands for some pretty big names. Look man, like I said, I’m no agent but I know people. You need to go see Mark Scott. Here’s his address.”

  Buddy took out a pocket notepad and scribbled on it. Handing the address to Johnny he continued, “Tell him I sent you. That will not necessarily carry a lot of clout; but it will get you in the door, and that’s a start that’s hard to come by in this town. The rest is going to be up to you. You’ll need to take a demo tape, and don’t press him. Just meet him and talk to him enough to stick in his mind. Then give him the tape and be gone. Put your name and contact info on the tape; he’ll lose it if you give him a card. Like I said, don’t press in that first meeting. No matter how much you want to, it will turn him off in a heartbeat. Let the demo sell you to him. Then, when and if he gives you a call, you can be a little more excited. He wants professionalism and poise in that first meeting. Don’t do some dopey dance like you just scored your first touchdown as a professional player. You can be yourself later; for now you are all business. Got it?”

  Johnny’s head was swimming. He had tried to take in everything Buddy had told him, but he hardly heard anything after “You have the potential to be special.” Trying to regain his composure, he thrust his hand out to shake Buddy’s.

  “I got it, and I can’t thank you enough. It means so much to hear such a compliment from a fellow musician. I’ve got a demo tape I’ve been trying to get to somebody in Nashville to listen to for a long, long time. But like you said, it’s really tough to get in the door. Thanks for opening it up for me. I’ll never forget this. I’ll go see Mr. Scott first thing in the morning. Man, I can’t believe this is happening.” His voice quivered with excitement.

  Buddy took his hand and shook it firmly. “Good luck, Johnny. I really hope we can do some work together in studio. Me and the boys love working with the good ones. You take care, man; maybe when you are a star one day you can help out some other young buck.”

  “Yea, maybe so. Hey, man, you take care too, and thanks, Buddy.”

  As the door closed behind Buddy, Johnny stood alone and processed what had just occurred. He whistled and yelled, “Wow! I’ve got to call Kayla.”

  Having never worn a watch, Johnny looked at the wall clock. Two thirty in the morning was not the time to be calling. I’ll have to call tomorrow. Can’t believe I forgot to call between jobs again. But once she hears this news, she will forgive me. Wow!

  He picked up his guitar and returned it to the supply closet. Tomorrow he would meet with a real agent. He knew he would not sleep a wink tonight.

  Johnny pulled his trusty truck into the parking space. He got lucky and slid into the last spot on the street. Maybe a good omen? He kissed his hand and laid it on the picture of Kayla on his dashboard. He felt a little guilty that he had not called her yet, but there would be time for that. Hopefully, if all went well, he would have even better news soon. Kayla would be so proud of him.

  Reaching into his coat pocket he felt the demo tape and smiled before slamming the door. The passenger side window slid halfway down again. One day there would be enough money to get it fixed, but not quite yet. He looked both ways and dashed across the street. It was early, but traffic was already picking up. Even so, it would not have mattered if there had not been another soul around, he still would have run. His heart was pounding even though he kept telling himself to stay cool. His body was winning that battle. It was just that he wanted this more than anything, and it was so close.

  A small bell rang when he opened the wooden door. It was an older building that had been tastefully remodeled to preserve some of the original beauty. The lobby was much smaller than he anticipated, but it held a welcoming environment. Cream and maroon tile was covered with a thick floral area rug, on which sat a high back leather loveseat and two matching chairs. Between the chairs sat a cherry wood table that held assorted industry magazines. At the opposite end of the room was a beautiful cherry desk with an aged elegance that held one’s gaze. Behind the desk sat a gorgeous blonde, with piercing dark eyes and a deep olive tan. Johnny stopped in his tracks when he first saw her. Much to his displeasure, he was certain that his mouth had fallen wide open. He knew he must look like a complete idiot to this goddess, but he could not help himself.

  “Good morning, ma’am. My name is Johnny, uh, Johnny Clark.” His mouth was dry, his hands were wet, and his mind out of control. “I, uh, I mean, I’m here to see Mr. Scott, Mark Scott. I think he is expecting me. I have a demo,” he stammered.

  The blonde flashed a smile that was just about the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. “Yes, Mr. Clark, Mr. Scott has you on his calendar. Unfortunately he had a change in plans and will not be in today. He had to fly to New York on business.”

  Johnny felt his heart in the soles of his feet. Not again, not another run-around or rejection. Whichever it was did not really matter, he was no closer to realizing his dream than he had ever been. Depression wanted to sweep into his mind, but he refused to allow it to take over. Stay positive, stay positive, he told himself yet again, but it was getting harder and harder every day.

  “Oh, I see, well can I, uh…”

  The bell on the door behind Johnny rang again, signaling a new arrival. Johnny followed the blonde’s gaze to the man behind him. He was tall, well built, and carried himself as if he were right at home.

  “As I was getting ready to say,” the blonde cleared her throat - “Mr. Crownfield here is going to meet with you instead.”

  “Ah yes, Mr. Clark. I hear you are going to be the next big star. I’m Jason Crownfield, Mark’s associate. Why don’t we step into my office and see what you’ve got. Would you like anything to drink?”

  Johnny regained his composure quickly, but was unsure how to handle the situation. Buddy had coached him about how to deal with Mark Scott, but this was a new variable. This Jason guy was completely different from how Mark had been descri
bed. He seemed confident and ready to get down to business. Johnny quickly decided to just be himself, and hoped he was not over the top. “No thank you, but I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you for meeting with me.”

  They walked down a small hall to the office, the executive talking along the way. “Oh, no problem. Buddy called last night after he talked to you. He is pretty big on you and he has been around for a long time, so we figured you must have something. Right now we are really looking for some fresh talent and, according to Buddy, you fit the bill.”

  Johnny sat down in a firm chair next to Mr. Crownfield’s desk. He took out the demo tape, his shaking hands belying the gravity of the moment. Much to his amazement, Mr. Crownfield took it and immediately put it in the cassette player. Without hesitation, he pushed play and turned to face Johnny.

  Johnny sat on the edge of the cushion, tapping his right leg nervously. He heard his own voice fill the room and studied the face of his audience of one. Normally quite astute at reading his listeners, the one that counted most eluded him. What is he thinking? Does he like it, hate it? Come on, man, throw me a clue.

  After ten agonizing minutes, Johnny was ready to crawl out of his skin. Then he saw it: the slightest curvature of the mouth, the lifting of the right eyebrow. I’ve got him. He likes it, he likes it!

  Crownfield cleared his throat and looked directly at Johnny. “Johnny, I’m a straight shooter. There’s no time to be delicate. Your stuff is raw and lacks maturity, but luckily those are the two things that we can develop. You do have a certain quality that country music is missing right now, and from what I’m hearing …”

  What? From what you are hearing, what? Come on, man, say it. Say you love it.

  Crownfield cleared his throat. “Well it makes me want to hear more. Here’s how this works. You sign with us initially as a songwriter. We gradually give you some shots by being the opening act for some of the bigger stars. Then we see where that takes us. You won’t make enough money to live on, so I suggest you hold on to whatever job you have. Johnny, it’s not easy to make it big, and to be honest, you probably never will. But, if you are willing to work your butt off and get paid peanuts, I’m willing to sign you right now.”

  Johnny leaped out of his chair and halfway over the desk-“Yes!” He made two fists and raised them upward. “I’ll sign right now; I cut my teeth on hard work and peanuts! Sign me up!”

  “All right then, Johnny.” Jason Crownfield laughed despite himself. “Why don’t you just go on down to the conference room, and I’ll have Darlene pull the paperwork together. It’s a standard contract, but you take your time and read through it. I’ll answer any questions you might have. Go on down and I’ll be with you in a few minutes.”

  He watched Johnny go into the conference room and closed his office door. Walking over to his desk, he picked up the phone and quickly punched the numbers. “Mark, hey, yea, I just heard the Clark kid’s demo, and I got to tell you, Buddy wasn’t joking. This guy is terrific. Yep, I’m signing him today before anyone else discovers him. I believe he is the best find we have had in years. Okay, talk to you when you get back. You are really going to like this one. Later, man.”

  MISSION IMPOSSIBLE

  1991 GUAM, USA

  Guam was truly the best kept secret in the Air Force as far as she was concerned. Dale had arrived there three months ago and fell in love with it as soon as she got off the plane, despite the incapacitating humidity. Her love for the island had only grown from the day of her arrival. Guam may have been described as being in the middle of nowhere, but for Dale the journey was well worth it.

  As part of the Marianas Islands, Guam was unassuming, yet rich in archeological interest. It was small to be sure - thirty miles long and at its narrowest location only four miles across. Lush tropical jungles still held hidden World War II unexploded ordnances, which would occasionally claim the life, or limbs, of any unsuspecting jungle adventurer. Steep waterfalls and rugged cliffs made the rocky island diverse and intriguing on a multitude of levels. The jungles gave way at their outer edges to white sandy beaches that ran into crystal clear water, so clear that Guam’s waters provided some of the best diving in the world. The majority of the beaches were calm and, for the most part, devoid of waves due to the prevalent coral reef that surrounded the island.

  Guam, Dale would soon discover, only had two seasons, unlike the four distinct seasons of her native East Tennessee. In Guam it was the wet season for six months. This season consisted of steady to hard rain every day, but not all day. Then there was the dry season, consisting of mostly cloudless and perfect days. But no matter the season, the temperatures were invariable. The mercury rarely dipped below seventy-five degrees at night, nor did it rise above eighty-five degrees in the heat of the day. While the sun was intense and the humidity always high, the ocean breeze was always a constant, welcomed companion. Unlike the infamous snakes that pretty much overran the island.

  Guam’s snakes were only mildly poisonous, but a real nuisance. They frequently wrapped their slithering bodies around electrical lines, shorting out the electric grid for days. Controlled bush burns were often performed in what proved to be a futile effort to reduce their population. So plentiful were the snakes that the eco-system had been knocked out of balance. As major predators, they had virtually rid the island of its bird population. This Dale hated, for the songs of birds was one of her favorite ways to start her days. Even more, she dreaded the late night encounters with the nocturnal snakes. It was common practice for these snakes to coil up in the top cinder blocks at the beach bathhouses and slide down on unsuspecting facility users.

  Yet despite these pesky reptiles, Guam was a paradise in every sense of the word. This was especially true for Dale and those inclined to warm weather enjoyment.

  Even so, what most thrilled Dale about Guam were the native islanders. Known as Chamorros, these folks had a rich heritage, heavily influenced by 16th century Spanish settlers. The common greeting was Hafa Adai (pronounced roughly like half a day a), which meant “have a good day,” and they meant it. Theirs was a culture of family, friends, and food. Every event had some element of all three, along with a lot of laughter and exaggerated story telling. They were friendly, accepting people, who for the most part attended the Catholic churches on Sunday and had their picnics on the grounds afterward. As lovers of life, few things ever interfered with their evening fiesta and the mid-afternoon siesta. It was a simple life, with simple entertainments and extravagant celebrations – be it birthday, wedding or funeral, life was always celebrated. The only thing that could match the plentiful food was the rich music. It was music that stirred the blood and ensured that no one sat when the celebration began.

  The large naval and air force presence on the island did not change the islanders. If anything, the Chamorros helped the military personnel appreciate life and the things that really mattered.

  As an Air Force officer, Dale lived off base. She selected a small apartment in the capital city of Agana. Situated at the very center of the island, her apartment made everything easily accessible to her. If she could not walk there, she could be there by car in ten minutes.

  The intimacy of the island seemed to be reflected in the close knit feeling of brotherhood shared by everyone. No matter where she went, she was welcomed by genuine warmth. To her, Guam was like a big campground community from her youth.

  Her assignment was Andersen Air Force Base (AFB), located in the community of Yigo, about eight miles from her apartment. She enjoyed the ride to work every day in her recently purchased “Guam Bomb.” It was a 1976 Toyota Corolla with more than 250,000 miles on it and a see-through floor board. Laura would have died if she could see her best friend now.

  It was the tradition of military personnel to come to the island without a vehicle. The newcomer would then purchase one from out-bound personnel and continue the recycling process by selling it again upon departure. The salty air literally rusted away the floor boards, leaving mos
t of the island cars looking somewhat like Fred Flintstone mobiles. One of the strongest attractions to these cars was their seemingly perpetual stamina. They just kept running and running for hundreds of thousands of miles. Equally attractive was the assurance that the owner could leave the keys in them, because no one was going to steal a Guam Bomb. Given these qualities, the Guam Bomb was said to be the best automotive bargain in the world.

  It had been a wonderful time on the beautiful island. But not all was perfect. Dale pulled her trusty Guam Bomb into her apartment complex parking lot; it had been a very long and fruitless day. Just a few months into her eighteen-month tour, she found herself facing the most difficult case of her career, and in many ways it broke her heart. The facts were straightforward enough to her, but proving them was going to be close to impossible. She opened the door and set out immediately to review the file, again.

  Fourteen-year-old Steven Pierce was rather large and mature in appearance for his age. He stood six feet tall and weighed close to two hundred pounds. He possessed a premature, but very healthy growth of facial hair, and a baritone voice that enabled him to pass for twenty-four. It was a virtue for a minor wanting to buy beer; a disadvantage for one such as he, abused by an adult.

  Yet Steven was still very much a little boy. A shy young man on the cusp of adolescence, he could be moody and a little smart of the mouth, but for the most part he was a good kid living in a difficult family situation.

  Steven’s father was an airman at Andersen AFB and his mom was a civilian employee at the base bowling alley. When things were good between them, life was sweet for Steven, but those times became rarer with each passing day. As his father started drinking more, his mother came home later and later each night. Rumors had her in the arms of another man one day, another woman the next – neither of which was true. But that did not matter to Steven’s father. Finally the fight between the two grew so loud one night that the neighbors called the police. That was the last night Steven had spent at his parents’ home.