Follow the Sun

by Sophia Rhodes

  Mrs. Lowenstein blanched. “Certainly, Mr. Cocker. I do apologize, I thought she was one of the candidates sent from the temp agency. It never dawned on me…”

  “Well, see to it that it does not happen again,” he snapped. “Miss Morris,” he said expectantly, indicating with his eyes the way toward the door.

  I stood there shaking, with those two people staring down their noses at me, and knew I’d failed Rosario. The thought of it tore me up inside and I couldn’t hold back any further. In front of their horrified gazes, I burst into tears.

  “Now, now, Miss Morris, control yourself,” said Mrs. Lowenstein severely, taking a step toward me. “This is no way for a young lady to behave.”

  She reached to grip my arm and tried to pull me away. In a fit of desperation, I wrenched myself away from her and threw myself over Joe Cocker’s desk to grasp his fleshy, hairy hand. I squeezed it with all my might and tearfully pleaded:

  “I beg you, Mr. Cocker, you won’t regret this. Just take five minutes to listen to it – it’ll be worth your time, I swear. Please!”

  His face imperceptibly softened. He still looked angry with me, but there was a trace impression of humanity there, a modicum of recognition, and I saw it and hung on to it. I squeezed his hand again and whispered Please! under my breath, watching him emphatically until he finally relented.

  He let out a shuddering breath and shook his head. “Oh, what the hell.” He glanced over to Mrs. Lowenstein and gave her a little wave. “I’ll take care of this, Jean. Give us a minute.”

  Glowering at me, the receptionist slipped out and left me and Joe Cocker facing one another. He reached in his breast pocket and fished out a pack of Marlboros, plucked out a cigarette, reached into his pencil drawer to pull out a lighter, and lit it. He sat on the edge of his desk and gave me a onceover.

  “So what can you sing? Jazz? Doo-wop?”

  I blinked. “Oh, it’s not for me. I’m not the singer.”

  He looked amused again. “You’re telling me you jumped through all these hoops and it’s not even your record? Who put you up to this? Your boyfriend?”

  I bit my lip. “It’s my friend’s. She tried to get in here to see you, but they wouldn’t let her in.”

  His face took on an expression of recognition. No doubt he’d heard of the downstairs doormen keeping anyone colored away from the building. “A Negro musician?”

  “Chicano, actually.”

  “From the valley?”

  I nodded yes. He blew big rings of smoke in the air between us.

  “She any good? And don’t lie to me now.”

  My eyes watered again. “Oh yes. The best I’ve ever heard.”

  He laughed patronizingly. “As if you wouldn’t be biased.”

  I remained silent as he tilted his head to the side as if in thought and smoked his cigarette down to the filter. Finally he ground it into the ashtray next to his desk lamp and picked up Rosario’s record.

  “ Leave this with me. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Will you really listen to it?” I asked. “And not just say you will?”

  Amusement reflected in his face. “Now what kind of question is that? A bit cheeky of you, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I know this is just another record to you, Mr. Cocker, but this means everything to us. Everything.” Tears glistened in my eyes. “Our whole life rides on this, so please excuse me if I may be so forward as to make sure that you will indeed give us this chance. Just listen to one song. Just one measly song, and I promise that if you hate it you’ll never have to hear from us ever again.”

  He gave me a long, piercing look, and relented. “Fine, Miss Morris. I give you my word that I will listen to one song. Even though I’m not taking any additional clients, even if you burst into my office and made a complete fool of yourself. If you’ll please leave me your contact information, I’ll have Mrs. Lowenstein get in touch with you afterwards.”

  I nodded, wiped my nose with the back of my hand, and borrowed a pen out of Cocker’s pencil holder to write Rosario’s telephone number on the edge of the demo record’s brown paper sleeve.

  It took him less than two days to call us back. Every time the telephone rang all of us, Leonora included, jumped up and raced over to the phone stand, hearts pounding in our mouths. Indeed, it was Leonora who’d answered when Joe Cocker finally called to ask for Rosario. We were out in the garden at that time, Ro and I, tending to a new patch of tomato plants, and when we saw poor Leonora standing there by the back patio door, white-haired and shaking in her nightgown, holding her hand against her ear to signal what her lips were too nervous to say aloud, we knew. We just knew.

  We looked at each other and let out a big scream. We jumped to our feet, earth flying off our blue jean overalls, and she squeezed me so hard she lifted me off the ground. “We did it, Di, we really did it!”

  Cocker wanted to see Rosario immediately. That evening, if at all possible. He had cleared his last appointment of the day and had something to discuss with us if it would please us to join him. And as per his instructions, the thoroughly-chastised doorman didn’t bat an eye as he motioned for us to step through the revolving doors and into that magnificent lobby.

  Though she didn’t say a word, I could feel Rosario’s heart racing. As we stood in the elevator cab and rode up to the fifth floor, I reached over and grasped her hand in mine, entwining my fingers with hers. “Good luck,” I whispered, knowing that she didn’t need it. Not anymore.

  “Ah, Rosario, so good to meet you,” Joe Cocker gushed, shaking her hand. “Please have a seat. And nice to see you again, Miss Morris. Diana, is it?”

  I nodded, still somewhat embarrassed after our last encounter. I folded my skirt underneath me as I sat down next to Rosario and watched the two of them exchange pleasantries.

  “I had a chance to listen to your demo record, and just like I told you on the telephone, I liked what I heard and wanted to meet you face-to-face. See if you’ve got what it takes. What I’m looking for.”

  Rosario waited silently for him to continue. Her face gave no sign to the waves of emotion I knew she had to be experiencing inside. She gave a quick nod that she understood, and Cocker, satisfied, sat back in his chair.

  “Look, Rosario, I’m not going to beat around the bush here. I can turn you into a star. I’ve had kids come into my office and sit right here where you’re sitting today, complete and utter nobodies. I signed them on, packaged them a certain way, picked up the phone to call my producer contacts at the major labels and told them, Boy, have I got a goldmine for you.”

  Joe chuckled to himself. “They trust my instincts. I’ve got a spotless record for sniffing out fresh new talent. I haven’t been wrong yet, not once. I can sure spot them and run all the way to the bank. When someone’s gonna be a somebody, you can feel it – they take on this special glow, an aura that sets them apart from the wannabes. I can work with that – I mine that raw talent out, polish them up a bit, and we’re in business. It’s not just about the voice. To be a star, you’ve gotta have something special in you, that x factor everybody talks about.”

  I looked sideways at Rosario, saw her take a deep breath, lean forward and ask, “What about me, Mr. Cocker? Have I got what it takes?”

  Cocker tilted his head to the side and narrowed his eyes to slits. Looked her up and down in contemplation. Silent a long time, he turned things over in his mind, then abruptly gave a short nod and stared directly into the eyes.

  “You – you’re different, girl. Yeah, you’ve got the talent and the stubborn streak to get somewhere. But you need a lot of fine-tuning. Your talent is rough around the edges, unharnessed. You’ll need coaching, a new wardrobe, a new name…”

  “Say what?”

  Cocker sat back in his chair and let out a sardonic little laugh. “Oh yes, my girl. Did you think Little Richard was born with that name? Or Fats Domino? Every artist has to be greater than the individual. We give them a new persona, an entire new identity.
Let’s face it, people aren’t ready to buy records from Chicanas from the barrio. No, we’ll have to transform you into something exotic, something marketable, before we’re even out of the starting gates.”

  He crossed his legs and thrashed his foot about absentmindedly. His eyes scanned the space between the wall and the ceiling and back again, as though in expectation of some sort of a divine answer. Then the movement ceased abruptly. “Rosie Valentine,” he declared loudly, as if proclaiming judgment. “A sultry nightclub singer from the back hills of Hollywood.”

  His eyes fell back on Rosario. “Well, how’s that suit you?” he asked expectantly as he reached over to pull open his pencil drawer and fished out an 11x14 stapled document. He pushed it across his desk toward her and fished out a fountain pen from his shirt pocket. “We can sign you today. You have a great future ahead of you, Rosie.”

  I couldn’t believe what he was saying. Before I could open my mouth to protest his flippant attitude, Rosario had cut me off. “That’s not my name. You’re trying to turn me into something I’m not.”

  He shook his head. “To the contrary, my dear. I’m trying to turn you into the best that you could be.”

  She continued, undeterred. “No, you’re trying to make me white. You don’t think I can sell records on my own? If the Negro artists can do it, I can too. Why should I pretend I’m not Chicano and betray everyone who believes in me? If I make it, I want to do it for them too.”

  Cocker’s lips twisted into an ironic smirk. “When you come from the street the street-dwellers see you as one of their own, they embrace you for it – but should you do anything that makes you stand apart from them, they will hate you more than they hate a stranger. When you are successful, they can either identify with you and your successes or they can see you as rubbing their own failures in their face. And far too often, you’ll encounter the latter.”

  “I grew up in migrant camps all over Southern California,” Rosario replied. “Everywhere I’ve been, in the camps and the barrios, I’ve seen my people stick together more than rich, privileged white people. Oppression brought us together.”

  Cocker laughed. “Oh, but it’s all good until one of you makes it. Then they’ll hate you and deny it. Trust me, I’ve seen it over and over with the cool Negro kids we turned into rock stars. The bigger a success they became, the more jealousy it stirred up back in the projects. So believe me when I tell you that they will call you uppity and too big for your own breeches, when in fact it’s them who can’t stand to look at you, at anybody who actually did something with their life, without secretly resenting it. So can you handle it, Rosario? Can you handle playing in the big leagues?”

  She stared back at him defiantly. “All my life I’ve struggled against people who didn’t believe in me. Yeah, I can handle it. I’ve never said that I could do something and not done it right. But I don’t have to accept what you say about my people. Because I think you’re plain old wrong.”

  Joe smirked again. “Fair enough, Rosario. Fair enough. But let me tell you something – if you want me to help your career, you’ve gotta work with me. You’re the artist, and I’m the agent. I know the ins and outs of this business and the people who run it from behind the scenes. If we’re gonna work together, you’ll have to make concessions, swallow your pride, do what you gotta do. If that means wearing a dress when you’re on stage or having us market you as Rosie, then that’s just what it takes.”

  He paused, allowing us to digest the information. Then he lowered his voice. “Look, I like you, kid. So I’ll do you a favor here and let you in on a little secret. Between you and me, you’ve got heaps of talent. But so do all the other schmucks lining up around the block trying to get me to listen to their demo tapes. Talent is not enough in this business. It’s never about the talent. It’s about marketability – youth, looks, being transformed into a commodity, a package that we can spin to make some serious cash. That’s really what it’s all about, sweetheart. You can walk away from here with your pride intact and I won’t hold it against you, but you should know that there will be a hundred kids in your place tomorrow, ready to sign the agency contract. So what’s it going to be?”

  For the first time since I’d met her, Rosario looked uncertain. She glanced at me momentarily before turning her attention back to Cocker. “Can we have a minute to discuss this, my friend and I?”

  Cocker’s face broke into a wide grin. He pointed toward the doorway. “By all means, darlin’. Take all the time you need.”

  We walked quietly past Cocker and pushed through his office door to the little entranceway right outside. Thankfully Mrs. Lowenstein, his secretary, had slipped out and we had the space to ourselves. But how can you make a decision as monumental as this on a dime? It’s what we had been waiting for all this time, and now it felt curiously anticlimactic.

  Rosario turned to me silently, her dark, wide eyes studying my expression. Before she could say a word, I blurted out, “I think you should go for it.”

  She hesitated. “Do you? Do you think it’ll be worth it, giving up my name, my heritage, having to wear a dress on stage? Being a sellout?”

  I knew why she was so brokenhearted about it. I couldn’t imagine what she had to be going through, being forced to choose between remaining her own person and commercial success. A part of me wished that I could give her what I knew she wanted to hear – tell her the hell with Cocker, the hell with all the smarmy, self-righteous jerks like him who were gatekeepers to this world that had always been inaccessible to people like us. I wanted to tell her that she was brilliant and talented enough to succeed on her own terms.

  I wanted to tell her all these things, and then an image of Rosario flashed through my mind; I saw her as she was on that first day, as she unloaded heavy boxes from the back of her truck. I saw the contemptuous look on the face of the agricultural department functionary who signed for the delivery. The condescending look on the rancheros’ faces as she labored in their fields for less than minimum wage.

  I put my hands on her shoulders and looked her in the eyes. “If it’ll give you the money you need to buy your independence, yes.”

  No more needed to be said, for in those words I could tell that she knew exactly what I meant. But I still added, “Do it for yourself. For your family. For everybody who’s ever had a dream and never got to see it happen.”

  She exhaled a long, shuddering breath. “What about you, Diana? What do you want to do? For real?”

  I made a funny face. “What kind of question is that supposed to be? This is what I want. To be with you, to have a life together.”

  Rosario frowned. “What about your own dreams and ambitions? Didn’t you used to want to go to college back east? To do more than work on farms with me?”

  “You won’t always be doing farm work, Ro. You’re going somewhere and anyone who’s ever heard you sing knows it. You have a talent manager ready to sign you, it’s only a matter of time. Why can’t I be there by your side?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t want you to resent me later on. Years down the road, to feel like you gave up your dreams for me like my mother did for my father. I want you to go to college, Diana. To have everything you always wanted.”

  I wrapped my arms around her waist. “You are what I want. We have the rest of our lives ahead of us – I can go to college later, after you sell tons of records and make loads of money. We’ll travel, go to school, do everything we’ve ever wanted to do.”

  “You promise? You really think that will happen?”

  I nodded. “Without a doubt.”

  Her lips brushed upon mine in a soft kiss. “All right,” she whispered. “Let’s get on with this thing.”

  I squeezed her hand tightly as we stepped through that door again and back into Joe Cocker’s office. Rosario sat across from Cocker’s desk and accepted the pen he handed to her with a self-assured grin.

  “We’ll get right onto recording a professional demo record for you that I can send to al
l my New York contacts. We should be able to get you on some tours as soon as we have a couple of good tracks ready to air.”

  Rosario scanned the document from cover to cover, and when she was done she slowly wrote her name at the top of the agency contract, then once again below, in the signature line. I remained standing behind her, looking over her shoulders, bursting with an odd mix of nervousness and excitement, sensing with absolute certainty that her new life was about to begin.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Between her recording sessions with Joe Cocker, Rosario continued to perform her weekend gigs at Brothers on Friday and Saturday nights. While she sang and played her guitar, I hung out with Angie at the bar and watched the crowd sway on the dance floor: butches in crisp dark suits, femmes resting their heads on their butches’ shoulders, the clicks of their high heels like a song against the ancient parquet flooring. The atmosphere, the passion here made me think that I’d seen the true people, that their day jobs and other lives were a façade, a smokescreen for this pure emotion that they let loose these nights in the only place where they could, for just this one moment in time, be free to love whoever they desired.

  After some weeks the bar proprietor agreed to let me clear the tables and wash the glasses afterwards in the back kitchen, easy tasks that brought in a bit of extra change of which I was exceedingly proud of. It was the first money I ever earned with my own hands, and it brought with it a sense of liberation I never thought possible.

  Most of our weekdays were still spent driving up to the farms of the San Fernando Valley to the city, belting out tunes at the top of our lungs, keeping the windows rolled all the way down. We had finished our work for the particular day, and we were sweaty and laughing as we made our way back to the Studebaker, the sunset throwing red streaks against the horizon.

  The air was sharp and breezy, rich with the scent of fruit trees and hay bales, and now that we were the last ones left in the field, it was magical and just for us. I had flirted with her shamelessly the entire afternoon, and while she showed no overt signs of either arousal or annoyance, I should have known better.