ONE NIGHT ONLY!
CHRISTMAS EVE!
AMERICA’S NEWEST SWEETHEART
MISS BAMBI LOVE
LEONARDS DEPARTMENT STORE
SECOND FLOOR
By the time I arrived at the home of Cynthia and Ryan Smith, I had all my arguments lined up.
“He still doesn’t want to see you,” said Cynthia.
“Has he seen this?” I asked, showing her the poster.
She read it quickly and said, “I don’t think so.”
“They’ve also been advertising it on the radio,” I said.
“Vernon doesn’t listen to the radio.”
“I think he needs to listen to me. I really do.”
“I don’t see how hearing about this is gonna make him feel any better.”
“I do,” I said.
“How?”
“I want him there,” I said with so much conviction I even surprised myself.
“He’ll never do it. He doesn’t want to see her. What’s the point?”
“I think I can make him see the point. I just need to talk to him.”
Cynthia hesitated for several seconds. She still wasn’t convinced.
“You know me well enough to see that I mean the guy no harm,” I said. “I’ve been on a long mission to help him.”
“And you want the mission to end with him being hurt?”
“That’s not want I want.”
“Well, what do you want, Willie?” she asked me. “I know this is some pet project of yours. But as far as I can see, all you’re doing is opening old wounds, wounds causing him terrible pain.”
“He’s had enough pain, I agree.”
“Then why cause him more?”
“I’m not.”
“I don’t understand what you’re really up to. I don’t see your plan.”
“I can’t explain it now, but if you let me go back and talk to him, I can make him understand.”
More silence, more hesitation on Cynthia’s part. She closed her eyes. She sighed. She opened her eyes and said, “Look, he’s an adult. He can make up his own mind. Go back there, knock on the door, but I can’t guarantee he’ll let you in, or if he does, if he’ll even listen to you.”
I went back.
I knocked on the door.
He answered.
I usually don’t like confrontations. I avoid them whenever I can. Don’t like folks getting in my face, and I don’t like getting in theirs. Most confrontations don’t accomplish a damn thing. All they do is promote more bad feelings.
I knew better than to confront Vernon.
“I’ve been thinking about you, buddy,” was all I said.
“You been thinking about me too much.”
“You’re probably right.”
“Then stop.”
“I will.”
“I don’t wanna be anybody’s cause,” he said. “Don’t wanna be anybody’s charity case.”
“I understand.”
“Do you really?”
“Yes indeed,” I assured him.
“Then what the hell are you doing here?” he asked.
“I’m here to discuss something else entirely.”
“What?”
“Chili rice.”
FORT WORTH STAR-TELEGRAM
RECORD PRODUCER ACCUSED OF THEFT
On the morning before this evening’s much-anticipated concert at Leonards department store, singer Bambi Love and her manager, Jack “Slick” Walters, were slapped with a copyright violation lawsuit alleging that eight songs released by Love and purportedly written by Love and Walters are, in fact, near carbon copies of compositions penned by Love’s former band leader, Vernon Clay.
Attorney Norby B. Green, who successfully defended Nathan “Nutsy” Perkins against charges of grand larceny in a celebrated case earlier this year, filed the papers on behalf of Mr. Clay.
“This is an instance where the thievery is as audacious as it obvious,” said Green. “What makes the illegality especially grievous is that it occurred not simply once, but eight separate times. I see this as an open-and-shut case. If it goes to trial, which I rather doubt, I expect justice to be rendered quickly. The guilty parties will pay, and pay dearly.”
The lawsuit cites damages and asks that the copyrights be reassigned to Clay and asks for damages of $100,000.
After being served papers, the singer and producer had no comment before leaving Fort Worth and canceling Love’s appearance at Leonards tonight.
A spokesman for Leonards, however, did say that the Christmas Eve concert would go on as scheduled, with several surprise guests.
CHRISTMAS EVE
I’m writing this with green ink on bright red paper. I’m writing it so that, no matter what happens to me, I’ll have this memory. I’m writing it so I can come back and relive it whenever I want to. I’m writing down every detail I can remember so that evening, the best of my life, will live forever.
I’d always seen the Christmas season as the worst time of the year. It was a time that I dreaded, a time when I lost my parents, my grandmother, Jill and Vicky. I never thought I’d live to see Christmas as anything but a dark season of death.
So how could my attitude ever change? How could I ever come to love a season I had so long hated?
Let me explain. Let me start out by remembering the super-strong aroma of chili rice.
When I was told that Chester and Essie had been hired to make big vats of Grandma’s recipe, enough to feed an army of Christmas shoppers, I knew it was time to drop my resistance and go with the flow of the good things coming my way.
Strange as it may seem, I’d never been inside Leonards. All those months of hawking my pretty paper outside the store, and yet not once did I venture in. Maybe it’s ’cause I didn’t feel I belonged, or maybe ’cause I was scared I’d be kicked out or stepped over. The reasons don’t matter now, ’cause it felt extra special to roll myself through those front doors in a wheelchair that had my name in glitter letters written across the back. Still nervous, still unsure of what would happen, I expected to face strangers, but instead I was greeted by Chester and Essie—who gave me big smiles and big hugs—and right off thanked me for getting them the biggest catering gig of their life. I tried to explain that it wasn’t me, it was my friends, but Essie wasn’t having it, all Essie could say was “It’s all you. Look at all the good you done!”
The first floor of Leonards was decked out with hundreds of white streamers that shimmered like icicles. Huge lacy cutouts in the shape of snowflakes dangled down from the ceiling. Excited customers shared the aisles with four separate roving groups of Christmas carolers singing “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen,” “Silent Night,” “Deck the Halls” and “O Come, All Ye Faithful.”
The elevator, decorated with candy canes and mistletoe, opened to the second floor, where a thirty-foot giant Christmas tree was aglow with a thousand silver fairies and princesses and a glistening golden star on top.
I followed my friends.
They were all there—Cynthia and Ryan and even Cynthia’s parents, Virginia and Reggie. Willie was there, and so was Brother Paul and the rest of the band, along with the lawyer I’d just met yesterday, Norby Green. Nutsy Perkins and Ranger Roy Finkelstein, the guys who introduced me to Norby, were there to cheer me on and join the swelling crowd of well-wishers accompanying me to the stage built in the middle of the toy department, right next to Santa’s workshop with its dozens of elf and reindeer dolls.
There came Santa himself, riding in on a special monorail Leonards had set up for the Christmas season. Underneath the red suit and beard, I saw it was Big Bill from Big Bill’s bar. So it was shiny-nosed Santa Bill who pushed me onstage and set me in front of the microphone. In his booming voice, Santa Bill said, “Ladies and gentlemen, you didn’t know it, but thi
s is the gift you’ve been waiting for. This is the best gift you’re gonna get this Christmas—or any Christmas to come. This is a very special, very talented, very great singer and songwriter. So say ‘Merry Christmas’ to Mr. Vernon Clay!”
The crowd shouted out “Merry Christmas, Vernon!” and bells started ringing and chimes started chiming and Willie, wearing a silly Santa cap and smiling that sly smile of his, kicked off “Faith” and I sang it, with tears streaming down my cheeks, wishing only that my grandmother were there to see everything I was seeing and feel everything I was feeling. Because as I kept singing the songs that were born out of my soul—“Wild Country Night” and “Dreamin’ in Blue” and “Something You Got” and “Leaving Ain’t the Last Thing on My Mind” and all the others—I knew I wouldn’t be there except for that woman’s devotion. The music I’ve made, the tunes I’ve written, the trips I’ve taken, the story I’ve written out on this pretty paper, even the two women I’ve loved—none of it would be possible if I hadn’t been loved by a grandmother who, just by being herself, taught me love.
It’s love that I was feeling on that Christmas Eve, love that I was singing ’bout in all my songs, love that was flying up there in my direction and smacking me in the face, love from all the folks stomping and shouting and calling out my name—“Vernon! Vernon! Vernon!”
Yet even in the midst of so much beautiful excitement and beautiful music, even being surrounded by the holiday joy and heartfelt prayers for peace on earth and goodwill toward men, underneath it all I could still sense the soul of the littlest angel who wasn’t there that night except in spirit. And I heard her spirit, I heard her voice, I heard her singing as she will always sing, sweetly and softly . . .
Rain rain go away
Come back another day
Little Vicky wants to play
So please make everything okay
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
David Ritz would like to thank Willie, for all the faith and trust; Mark Rothbaum, for coming up with the idea; David Rosenthal, for believing; Brant Rumble, for superb guidance; and David Vigliano, for steely strong support.
Love to all my family and friends. And special thanks to Roberta, for her insightful editorial suggestions.
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