by Steve Brewer
They all hooted and still acted as shocked as they’d been when it happened. They were younger then, by about forty years, and innocent in the ways of a wider world. They had all traveled together while Otis was having his moment in the sun. Estella and Doreen were backup singers. Maurice played tenor sax. He was smoooove back then too.
“Whatever happened to the man what opened that show?” Doreen asked. “Great big, fat mother.”
“Old Chubby Dykes?”
“Yeah, what become of him?”
“He moved back to Georgia long time ago,” Maurice said. “Sure could sing.”
“Sure could,” Estella agreed. “I be surprised if he’s still alive though, big as he was. Probably had a heart attack by now. I know he had the high blood.”
“You one to talk,” Doreen said. “And you ain’t done half a what that doctor told you. You ever quit them cigarettes?”
Estella waved a hand in front of her face. “Lawd, yes, child, I quit. Takes me a mumf to smoke a pack now.”
“Well that’s good,” Doreen said. She nudged Otis. “You know who I was thinking about the other day? That white man you used to run with.”
“Who you talkin’ about?” Otis took off his beret and wiped his glistening head.
“You know, played guitar on Ray Charles’ country records, you know, ‘I Can’t Stop Loving You,’ and them. He had a couple sides of his own got pretty big.”
Otis nodded. His face creased, all serious. “You talkin’ ‘bout Chester Grubbs,” he said.
Doreen pointed at Otis. “That’s him. Where’s he at now?”
Maurice shook his head. “I heard all sorts of things ‘bout that man. Either drunk hisself to death out in Texas or maybe it was heroin, I forget, but I heard he’d passed.”
“That’s a shame,” Doreen said. “He sure had it going on for a while. Yes he did.”
Otis looked off into space, thinking about his unlikely friend, Chester Grubbs. The two of them had hit it big at the same time. Both based in Nashville, they played on some of the same bills when Otis’s records were crossing over to a white audience and Chester was playing with Ray Charles. They shared a taste for livin’ high on the hog and they rode their respective waves to the top before things went bad for both of them. Their friendship was like a struck match, flaring up hot and fast and going out before the whole stick was consumed.
For Otis, it was the confluence of jealousy, liquor, and knowing he’d lost most of his money. He’d had his early hits but they’d stopped coming just as quick as they’d started. But Otis thought the money would never stop coming in, so it had never stopped going out. Before he knew it, he had to trade his Cadillac for a Chevrolet. When Bill Herron dropped him and took most of his royalties, Otis was forced onto the chitlin’ circuit where he started drinking too much. Otis could see the writing on the wall and it left him in a foul mood. One night, out back of a club in Memphis, drunk and angry, Otis pulled a knife when he caught a man trying to force himself on one of Otis’s backup singers. The man said he wasn’t taking ‘no’ for an answer from the woman, so Otis did what he had to. He killed the man. Stabbed him to death. “Don’t nobody mess with my woman,” Otis said as the man bled out at his feet. The woman was Estella. She and Otis had been married less than a month.
The Memphis police might’ve written it up as justifiable, except the dead man was white. Otis was looking at a one-way ticket to Fort Pillow State Penal Farm, so he called the only lawyer he knew, one Franklin Peavy, Esq. Franklin was a young, white attorney who hadn’t partnered up with Big Bill yet. Franklin had negotiated the contracts of several R&B artists Otis knew from the concert circuit. The two had met in Birmingham, backstage at a show headlined by Percy Sledge. Franklin told Otis that his song, ‘Lookin’ for Ruby,’ was one of his all-time favorites. He gave Otis a business card and told him to call if he ever needed a lawyer for anything. Of course, Franklin was thinking more along the lines of contract work but, when Otis called from jail about fifty dollars from being broke, Franklin agreed to handle the case pro bono and he did a good job.
Otis was sentenced to eight years for manslaughter, an unimaginable sentence for a black man convicted of killing a white man in Tennessee in the 1960s. And Otis knew it. Just before they took him from the courtroom after sentencing, Otis turned to Franklin and said, “I owe you, Mr. Peavy. If there’s ever anything I can do for you—” Then they took him away.
Estella was faithful to Otis while he was gone. She visited him and she went to church. And she went to night school to learn bookkeeping. She’d saved all her money and, without Otis knowing, she’d saved some of his too. She bought a little piece of property in Nashville and put a mobile home on it. She lived in the back and ran Estella’s Shrimp Joint right out of the kitchen.
Otis got out in five years for good behavior. He went back to Nashville, joined Estella, and had been fryin’ swimps ever since. But Estella would tell you, Otis was never the same after prison. He’d been plenty crazy when he was younger, but now he was quiet, maybe even a little philosophical. Standing over that deep fryer night after night, Otis reflected on all the things that had happened to him and all the things he’d let get away. One of those things was his friendship with Chester Grubbs. He wondered whatever happened.
22.
Franklin was in his office reviewing royalty statements. God, this is depressing, he thought. The money wasn’t coming in the way it used to and that had Franklin worried. He hadn’t made as many investments as he might have when the firm was on top, and the one’s he’d made turned out to be bad. Like many day-traders Franklin had managed to screw the securities pooch during the biggest bull market in America’s history. On top of that he took expensive vacations and put four kids through private colleges. And now, with retirement looming it was becoming clear Franklin wouldn’t be able to maintain the lifestyle to which he’d become accustomed, unless something changed.
He slipped on his brand new Q375 Technologitronic wireless phone headset and turned to look at his reflection in the window. It didn’t change his financial situation, but he liked the way it made him look — on top of it, technologically hip, superior in a cutting edge sort of way. If nothing else, he had that.
As he returned his attention to the royalty statements, Big Bill started the tape for the umpteenth time. Despite being able to hear only muffled noise through the wall separating their offices, Franklin could tell his partner had been listening to the same thing all afternoon, and it was driving him nuts. He yanked the headset off. “Bill, turn that shit down!” he yelled.
Big Bill ignored the request. He was leaning forward, his head positioned perfectly between the two speakers mounted on the far corners of his desk. Lids closed over his bulging eyes, he moved to the music and mouthed the words. He looked like a bullfrog doing karaoke. When the song ended, he reached over and hit ‘rewind’ again. He turned and yelled at the wall, “Hey, Franklin, come in here! You gotta hear this!”
“In a minute!” Franklin yelled back. “I’m trying to run our business!”
Bill turned to the wall and made some sort of angry Italian gesture he’d picked up from a movie. “The hell you think I’m doin’ in here, lap dancin’? I’m working on the part that actually brings in money! Now come listen to this!” He lowered his voice slightly, “You prick.”
“What was that?” Franklin thought he heard the word, ‘prick’ seep through the wall. Who the hell did that toad think he was? Franklin had put up with a lot of shit from Bill over the years but he wasn’t about to put up with name calling.
“I said come here quick! You’re going to want to hear this!”
Franklin flipped the bird at the wall and mocked his partner under his breath. “You’re going to want to hear this . . .” He snatched the royalty statements off his desk and went over to Bill’s office, waving the papers as he walked in. “Hey, you’re the broke dick with the cash flow problem. The sooner I go over these things and review the allocations,
the sooner you’ll get your dough. God knows you need it.” Franklin enjoyed pushing Bill’s money button.
Big Bill sat there, glaring at Franklin, his finger poised on the ‘play’ button. “Shut the fuck up and listen,” he said finally. He pushed the button and the song played. Franklin stood there, impatient at first, but halfway through the chorus he sat down and started to pay attention. After another verse he looked at his partner. Big Bill smiled, nodding. “What did I tell you?” He slapped his desk top. “God, I love this business!”
“Shhhh!” Franklin looked toward the ceiling and listened. It was the sound of money.
Big Bill jerked a finger into the air, waiting for something. Then, cued by a chord change, he pointed at one of the speakers. “Mandolin solo right there,” he said, already mixing the final version in his head. “Pedal steel comes in here, way in the back.” He tilted his head slightly. “And right here, a low fiddle part, no, maybe a cello, just underneath the whole thing. You’ll hardly notice it, but it’ll make you cry.” The song ended and all they could hear was tape hiss.
Franklin looked at Big Bill. “Who the hell is that?”
Bill held up a glossy eight by ten photo. “Name’s Eddie Long. Good looking kid, just moved here. According to his letter he’s looking for management.” He arched his eyebrows.
Franklin took the photo and studied it. “That’s quite a smile.”
Bill snatched the photo away from Franklin. “Yeah, the only problem is, we ain’t got it under contract yet.”
Franklin knew Bill was right. That was a hit country song with serious pop radio crossover possibilities. “Any other songs on the tape?”
“Mostly filler, but not bad.”
“Publishing?”
“Doesn’t say, but I betcha dolla he’s still looking.”
“You call him yet?”
Bill held up Eddie’s letter. “Didn’t give a number. Just invited us to come hear him Monday night at the Bluebird.”
“Can’t go, Monday,” Franklin said. “That’s the Country Music Confederation Awards. We got somebody nominated for Best New Countrypolitan Act Appealing to Women.”
Bill pushed the ‘rewind’ button. “That’s very touching. Send a proxy. We gotta get this kid, or at least that song.” Bill looked at Eddie’s cover letter. “He says if he doesn’t get picked to play on stage, he’ll play for us in the parking lot.” Bill grinned. “You gotta like that.”
“Whatever.” Franklin shrugged. He pulled out his digital micro recorder and held it to his mouth. “Reminder. Print out standard contracts for artist Eddie Long.”
23.
Whitney had been driving around for quite a while when he saw the ‘Room 4 Rent’ sign in the front yard of the simple brick house on 16th Avenue. Ten minutes after knocking on the door he was signing papers on the place. He couldn’t believe his luck. First off, the room came at a fair price. But the price didn’t tickle him half as much as the location at the south end of Music Row. Literally on the Row. He could just sit on the front porch in the shade of the big magnolia tree and play his songs, looking up occasionally to see if any of the big shots were driving by. “Man,” he said to the landlord, “this is some town.”
The next day Whitney went looking for work that would allow him to pay his bills while pursuing his music. The ‘help wanted’ ads led him to a job waiting tables at the South Side Smoke House. Situated halfway between Music Row and Vanderbilt University, the place was always filled with important looking music industry people and good looking college girls. It wouldn’t make Whitney rich, but it was enough and it was close to home.
Whitney was driving back from the interview, humming the melody of his favorite song, when something started to grind under the hood of his old truck. “Hang on,” he said as he patted the dash board. “We’ll get you fixed up.” Whitney loved his truck. It was one of the few things that never let him down. He turned and headed to Broadway where he’d seen some auto repair places. The mechanic said he’d get to it as soon as he could. Whitney sat in the greasy waiting area wondering how he was going to pay for the repair. If worse came to worse, he’d leave the truck until he got a few paychecks under his belt. He could walk to work. It wasn’t that far.
Whitney looked through the magazines on the table: Guns and Ammo, Field and Stream, and Road and Track held no appeal for him. Over by the door was a tall stack of Nashville Scene, a free local alternative newspaper. The front cover screamed at Whitney: ‘Nashville’s Power 100 — The 100 Most Influential People In The Music Business!’ It was exactly what Whitney was looking for, and he didn’t even know he was looking for it.
Flipping forward from the back of the paper, Whitney immediately came across the name of Big Bill Herron at number 99. Whitney read the names of the performers and songwriters that Herron & Peavey managed and/or produced over the years. There were some true legends on the list. Big Bill Herron was quoted as saying, “We’re in the talent business. We’re always looking for new songwriters and performers. There’s nothing more gratifying than taking a raw talent and guiding them, helping them find their sound or their voice. It’s the best job in the world.” These fellas seem like the sort I should talk to, Whitney thought. Might help me with the ropes. He’d make an appointment to see them soon as he had the truck back.
“Gonna need a new water pump,” the mechanic said as he wiped his greasy hands on a blue shop rag. “Gonna run about three hundred dollars.”
Whitney tried not to look poor, but three hundred was a lot more than he’d ever had. He twisted at the ragged bandana tied around his wrist. “Be all right if I just left the truck until I get the money to pay for it?”
The mechanic shrugged. “All right, but this ain’t no damn storage facility. You don’t come back by next month, I’ll part it out.”
“Yes, sir, I understand,” Whitney said. “I’ll be back soon.” He turned to leave, then stopped and turned around, holding up the copy of Nashville Scene. “Okay if I keep this?”
“It says ‘free’ on it, Jethro.”
On the walk back to his place, Whitney read the list of the industry’s power brokers. He was surprised at how many he’d never heard of. Whitney didn’t notice but the most telling aspect of the list was the ratio of lawyers and executives to songwriters. He focused more on the names of people he recognized and anyone from his home state. He figured any of those folks might be glad to help him, but still he was going to start with Big Bill Herron and Franklin Peavy.
Thirty minutes later, Whitney was almost home. As he stood at the corner of 16th and Horton waiting for traffic to pass he got to thinking. With the exception of the busted water pump, the news was all good. Nashville was all right. It was green and there were hills and it smelled more like the country than the city. It’d do for now. Five minutes later, when he got back to his place, Whitney sat under the big tree in the front yard with his writing pad. He wished he had someone to write a letter to, but he didn’t, so he wrote a song instead.
24.
Megan held the razor between finger and thumb, unsure if this was what she really wanted to do. Her indecision was compounded by feelings of guilt for thinking about leaving Jimmy this way. Would he understand? Did she owe it to him to talk it over? It wasn’t as if they were engaged or anything. Sure, they’d dated for a couple of months and, yes, she had feelings for him but, big deal. They obviously weren’t strong enough to stop her from doing this. She looked at the clock and saw it was four-thirty. If she was going to do it, she had to do it now.
This week’s Radio & Records, the radio industry’s Wall Street Journal, was on the table next to the old Ampex reel-to-reel where Megan was editing her air check tape. The R&R was open to ‘Opportunities.’ One ad was circled, for a radio station in Nashville. They were looking for a female air personality with strong production and promotion experience. This had Megan’s name all over it. She had to do it, right? She was chasing her dream, right? This was about her career. This wasn’t abou
t chasing Eddie Long. Whoever said it was? She looked again: four thirty-five. She had to get the tape edited, dubbed, and to the Post Office before five, so she made the first cut. She rolled the tape ahead until she found the other mark she’d made with her stubby grease pencil. Megan carefully laid the tape in the editing block. The door to the production room squeaked open just as she was about to cut the tape. She didn’t look up to see who it was.
“Surprise. . .” When Megan heard Jimmy’s voice she almost sliced through a knuckle. She looked up and saw him pull some flowers from behind his back. “Pistils and stamens for my radio sweetheart,” he said, smiling like a child who’d done a magic trick. He hoped the flowers would make romance appear out of thin air.
Oh God, she thought, not flowers. Megan already felt bad enough, and now she had to proceed in light of a bouquet. But as long as he’s bringing flowers, she thought, why bring such cheap ones. Don’t I deserve a dozen yellow roses? “Jimmy. . .” Her inflection implied he wasn’t supposed to do that sort of thing on account of the fact she wasn’t really serious about their relationship. “That’s very sweet, thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” He looked around for an impromptu vase. Megan hoped he wouldn’t notice the ad she’d circled for the Nashville job. Of course, if he brought it up, she could say someone else was considering the job. Just because she was in the same room with a circled want ad didn’t mean she was leaving town, right? Megan didn’t want to lie, but she also didn’t want to get into a big heart-rending discussion about why she was applying for a job in Nashville and what does that mean about her feelings for Jimmy and blahblahblah. She only had twenty-two minutes to finish what she was doing and get to the post office on time. “What’re you doing here?”
Jimmy leaned over the mixing console and looked at the notes Megan had made about her tape. “I was at the library doing some research for the book, was in the neighborhood, decided to drop by.” He turned the notes slightly so he could read them better. “What’re you working on?”