Book Excerpt:
Those first days in Nashville were happy. Happier than any I could
recall. It was no accident I had Mac’s cousin pull his sputtering Vega
to the curb on the corner of Music Circle East and Division Street. The
Best Western was in walking distance of Music Row.
All my belongings were stuffed into two huggable paper sacks, and
when I marched down that strip of red carpeting into a marble-floored
lobby with a chandelier, I knew it was a palace compared to that drafty
cabin in Blue Ridge with peeling wallpaper and warped floorboards. Room
316 had pretty gold and maroon carpet; gold curtains at a window with an
air conditioning unit beneath it; two queen beds; two glossy wood
tables—one in the corner with a lamp, an ice bucket and a coffee maker,
and the other between the beds with a phone, a clock, and a remote for
the television. There was even a little bitty refrigerator, a microwave,
an ironing board and an iron. What else could a person need?
More curious about having my own indoor bathroom than a television, I
tiptoed in there first. Nothing had prepared me for what met my eyes.
Clean white tiles on the floor, a marbled sink, a blow-dryer, a stack of
sweet-smelling towels and fancy soap. The washrags were folded like
fans and there were free miniature bottles of shampoo and conditioner.
To say this felt like paradise would not be an exaggeration. Turning
around and around until I got drunk with my good fortune, I collapsed
and fell flat onto the closest bed, laughing like a maniac, some
pathetic yokel finding out she’d won the lottery.
Though bone-tired on account of being so journey-proud that I hadn’t
been able to sleep a wink in forty-eight hours, I couldn’t fathom
closing my eyes. I hadn’t eaten in as long either, except for some pork
rinds and a Pepsi on the ride. But I was like someone possessed; hungry
only for the feel of Nashville, thirsty only for the way she looked. I
promised myself for the hundredth time I would not think about my
mother and the fact I’d left no note. I told myself I’d eat some real
food and get sleep later, after I’d explored my new mother. I took the elevator downstairs to find some maps.
At the front desk, a sign said the Best Western had free breakfast;
sausage, biscuits and gravy, waffles, eggs, oatmeal, muffins, toast,
bagels, yogurt and fruit. The elation I felt at this was not small and I
couldn’t help a happy little laugh.
A short, overweight man in a blue seersucker suit and bright orange
tie bustled out of the room behind the front desk and said, “What can I
do for you this evenin’, missy?” He had a tall pink forehead like you’d
expect on a bald man, but his hair, and I could tell it wasn’t a toupee,
was this lavish white cloud that put me in mind of an albino Elvis. I
could see amusement in his startlingly blue eyes.
I didn’t bother to mention I was twenty-two, hardly a missy, because
he’d said it so kindly and I was used to being mistaken for a much
younger girl. “I wanted to see if y’all had any maps and stuff about
Nashville, please.” I smiled back at him, noting the name engraved on
his gold lapel bar: Roy Durden.
“We got maps coming out our ears! What other information you looking for?”
“Everything.”
He nodded, turned and stepped to a bookshelf along the back wall,
squatting slowly, carefully, as I watched in utter fascination to see if
he’d manage to get his enormous belly to fit down between his thighs.
He unfastened the button on his suit coat and the hem brushed the sides
of gigantic white buck shoes. Eventually, he rose with a loud grunt,
carrying an armload of papers. “Alrighty,” he said, spreading them on
the counter like a card dealer in Vegas. “Let’s see what we can do for
you.”
“Thanks.” I reached for a glossy brochure that said Tour the Ryman, Former Home of the Grand Ole Opry. It
was lavishly illustrated with pictures of artifacts from early Opry
years and old-time country music stars like Minnie Pearl and Hank
Williams. There was a headline that said you could cut your own CD at
the Ryman’s recording studio. Thanks to Mr. Anglin, I already had that
task accomplished.
“Snazzy, huh?” Roy was nodding. “Now, that there is one hallowed
institution. Tennessee’s sweet-sounding gift to the world. Place the
tourists flock to.” He was talking with his eyes closed and this
rapturous expression on his face. “Up until ’74, fans packed the pews of
the Ryman every Friday and Saturday night. Folks loved that place so
much that when the Opry moved to its current digs right near the
Opryland Hotel, they cut out a six-foot circle from the stage and put it
front and center at the new place. So the stars of the future can
stand where the legends stood.” Roy had this faraway, misty-eyed
expression. He grew quiet for a worshipful moment.
“There’s this one, too,” he said at last, pushing a slick brochure that read The Country Music Hall of Fame & Museum toward me.
My boss at McNair Orchards used to say he could see my face in a
display hanging in the Hall of Fame, right between Barbara Mandrell
and Tammy Wynette. Mac got my head so full of stars, I could hardly
think of much else except to get to Nashville to show the world my
stuff. I stared at the photograph of a building that looked to be an
architectural wonder in itself. One side was an RKO-style radio tower,
while the main part had windows resembling a piano keyboard, and an end
like a Cadillac tailfin. “That’s nice,” I offered.
“Yep, real nice,” Roy said, his fingertips grazing more brochures
reading Belle Meade Plantation, Margaritaville, General Jackson
Showboat, Wildhorse Saloon, and The Parthenon. He lifted a map of
Nashville. “Be helpful for you to know Second Avenue runs North, and
Fourth Avenue runs South.”
“I didn’t bring a car.”
“That a fact?” He looked hard at me. “Well, downtown and the Hall of
Fame are in walking distance, but it’s a ways to the Grand Ole Opry.”
Roy’s index finger touched a spot on the map. “There’s also a place
called Riverfront Park you could walk to, but I got to warn you, missy,
Nashville sits down in a bowl, between a couple lakes and rivers, so it
feels like you’re walking through hot soup in the summertime. Can be
right intolerable.” He swiped his florid face at the memory of heat as I
flipped through the pages of a brochure, pausing every now and again to
stare at a picture of a star singing on a stage, the crowd going wild.
There was an energy in those photographs; a palpable current of voice
and instrument and the sweet thunder of applause. For a long time I
looked at a picture of Dolly Parton and Porter Wagoner, their faces
suffused with a bright, joyous light.
“You like this one?” Roy asked, making me jump. “Uhm, yeah.”
“That was in ’75, night Dolly and Porter sang their last duet
together. I was close enough to see Dolly’s makeup.” There were tears
in Roy’s eyes.
“Wow,” I said. “Wow is right.”
“Can I have it? Can I have all these, please?” I tried not to look
too eager, but every cell in my body wanted to scoop up the brochures,
rush to my room to study them, to dream of climbing right into the
beautiful photographs.
“Go ahead, little missy. You must be a first-time tourist.”
I didn’t think of myself as a tourist. I was there because of a promise I’d made, and the voices I’d heard over 103.9
FM back in Blue Ridge. Mountain Country Radio assured me that
Nashville was the place for a person bitten by the singer/ songwriter
bug. “Uhm . . . I just like music.”
“Wellllll, you come to the right place then. We got live music right
here at the Best Western.” Roy swept one arm out in a magnanimous
gesture toward the other side of the lobby where I saw a doorway to what
I’d figured was the dining area. A sign in the shape of a giant guitar
pick said Pick’s, and next to that was another reading Great Drinks!
“Y’all need anybody to sing at Pick’s?”
“Naw. We got our bands booked a good ways in advance.” “Wonder where musicians who’re looking for work hang out,” I said in a casual voice, gathering the brochures. “Nashville draws musicians like honey draws flies, and a body can’t go ten yards without bumping into one of them looking for
work. Tons of wannabes in here constantly, trying to make their way.
Dreaming the dream.”
From the tone of Roy’s voice, I couldn’t tell if he were trying to
give me a warning or just stating facts. “Well, thank you,” I said,
turning to go.
“Wait. How long you plannin’ to stay?”
Barring any unforeseen expenses, I knew about how far my
much-fingered roll of $20 bills would go. The Manager’s Special of $65
per night came out to two weeks for $910, leaving $90 for food and
incidentals, and surely in that time I’d have some paid work singing. A
recording contract if Mr. Anglin’s prediction came true. Seeing his dear
face in my mind’s eye made a little guilty tremor race up my spine. I
needed to get back to my room. “I paid for three nights up front,” I
said, turning to go again.
“Hey!” he called, spinning me on my heel to see those intense blue eyes looking at me. “You sing?”
I hesitated, then answered, “Yessir. Play and sing. Write all my own material.”
“Well, well. What’s your name, missy?” “Jennifer Anne Clodfelter.”
“Mighty big name for such a slip of a girl. Anybody ever tell you you’re a dead ringer for Cher?”
I nodded. By twelve I was constantly compared to the dark, exotic
celebrity when she was young, starring in the 1970’s Sonny & Cher
Comedy Hour. Tall and willowy, my straight blue-black hair fell to my
waist. But, where Cher wasn’t exactly well-endowed, I was ample in the
bosom department. The other difference between me and Cher was that my
eyes were green.
“So . . . what style of music do you do, Jennifer Anne Clodfelter?”
I borrowed some confidence from Mac’s words when he handed me my last paycheck. “I’m the next Patsy Cline.”
“Alrighty.” Roy chuckled. “Then let me guess. You do traditional? Or maybe early country?”
“Huh?”
“You said you’re Patsy Cline. But, there’s tons of styles. Got your
Nashville sound and your country rock. Then there’s rockabilly,
bluegrass, honky-tonk, outlaw, and Bakersfield sound. Cowboy western and
western swing. Oh!” he clucked his tongue. “About forgot Texas country
style, and the new traditionalist, and can’t leave out the contemporary
sound, and of course, alternative. Though I don’t cotton to
alternative.”
My heart started racing for fear my ignorance would show. “I’m the old kind of country.”
“I see. So, you want to be a star?”
I saw mischief in those blue eyes and I didn’t know how to answer this question either. At last, I nodded.
That’s when he began regarding me with amused pity. “If that’s the
case, you’ll really want to be here a little longer. Actually,” he
paused and drew a long breath, “you’ll want to be here nine years.”
“Huh?”
Roy cleared his throat, and it seemed he stood on tiptoes because he
rose up at least two inches. “Nashville may be the creative center of
the universe if you’re a songwriter, all kinds of resources here for
learning the industry, lots of places you can sing, but folks don’t call
her the nine-year town for nothing. They say it takes nine years to
break into the scene, to become an overnight success. I’ve lived here
all my life and I love her, but if you’re looking to break into the
music business, she can chew you up and spit you out like nobody’s
business.” I must’ve looked sad, or confused, because Roy’s face
softened, his voice grew smooth as silk, “You got people here?” “I’m
on my own.” Four simple words—the truth of it stunned me.
“I got an extra room at my house.”
“Uhm . . . thanks. No offense, but I’m fine on my own.” “Ain’t trying to rain on your parade, but I’ve seen plenty have to wait tables or worse. Randy Travis was a cook and a
dishwasher at the Nashville Palace before he could make it on his music.
Seen a good number turn around and head home, too, tail tucked between
their legs. You might need a place if—”
“I said, I’m fine.”
Roy rolled his lips inward, considering. “Independent type, hm? Well,
good luck. But don’t worry if you change your mind.” He drew in a long
breath. “If you change your mind, you just come right on back and see
Roy. I’m here most evenings after seven p.m. I just figured if you’re
new around town, trying to make your way in the country music scene,
it’d be good if you had somebody to fall back on.”
