Jimmy had approached her immediately. “Hi, I’m Jimmy Rogers,” he said. “I love your radio show. Especially your character voices.” He smiled.
She smiled back. “Thanks,” she said. “Which one’s your favorite?”
He pretended to think for a moment. “That would have to be the Sweet Potato Queen. Very authentic. You really capture the spud-ness of the character.”
Megan fingered the white glass necklace circling her throat. “Yeah, she’s one of my favorites.” She glanced across the room and waved at someone before returning her attention to Jimmy. “So, you were saying?”
Jimmy gestured at her apparel. “Love your outfit too.”
“Thanks. It’s Michael Kors, except the shoes, of course.” She kicked a foot out to show off one of the pumps. “Manolo Blahnik.”
“Of course.” Jimmy kicked out a foot, mimicking her. He was wearing cheap, scuffed penny loafers. “Men’s Warehouse,” he said. “Fifty percent off.”
Megan looked. “No. Those? And they look so… J. C. Penny.”
“You just have to know how to shop,” Jimmy said. “But I compensate for my lack of fashion sense by being cute.”
Megan stepped back and gave Jimmy the once over. He was a boyish twenty-eight with an aversion to suits. He dressed to accommodate his image and his income as a writer — tan Dockers, white button down shirt, occasional sports coat. He had thick dark hair and a thin nose surrounded by a constant look of bemusement or confusion — it was hard to tell which. His eyes were trustworthy, lending him an aspect of decency. “Still,” she said, “cute as you are, you might want to consider shopping somewhere that doesn’t have the word ‘warehouse’ in the name.”
They flirted for an hour or so before slipping away from the conference and going for drinks at Nick’s where Jimmy tried to talk her into becoming his fashion consultant in exchange for his being her sex slave.
Now, three months later, while Jimmy was still marveling at her beauty, Megan lost her bucket of quarters in the slots. “Oh well.” She glanced at her watch. “Show starts in ten minutes. Let’s go on up.” They went upstairs and were seated at a table in the middle of the room. Jimmy pulled a small spiral notebook from his inside coat pocket and laid it on the table next to his camera.
When the waitress came over, she pointed at the camera as if it were a snake. “Sir, you can’t have a camera in here. It’s casino rules.” Jimmy reached into his jacket and pulled out a stack of laminated press credentials. He had one from Harrison County Civil Defense, one from the Associated Press, one from The Sun-Herald, one of his former employers, and one from the casino’s PR department. Jimmy handed her the last one. “Okay,” she said. “I just have to check.” She handed the card back and took their order.
Jimmy had seen Eddie perform almost thirty times in the past several years, and he had written reviews of every show. In fact, Jimmy had written the first published account of Eddie Long in concert. It was a positive review that Jimmy sold to the paper in Natchez. Since then, Jimmy had sold several more reviews in addition to a short interview with Eddie. Eddie showed his gratitude for all the good exposure by buying a great many rounds of drinks. Between the liquor and the mutual admiration, they’d developed a friendship.
As a writer Jimmy aspired to more than doing concert reviews and lurking in the shadows hoping for disgraceful photo ops. He wanted to write something more substantial, something big, though he didn’t know exactly what — a book, a play, something, as long as it was about music or musicians. Jimmy hadn’t hit on it yet but he was looking.
The waitress arrived with two draft beers and a deep fried Cajun onion bloom just as the lights went down. An announcer’s voice came over the loudspeaker system. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Gold Coast Extravaganza Casino is proud to present a rising star in country music. Please put your hands together for Mr. Eddie Long!”
The crowd gave an enthusiastic round of applause as the curtains parted in the darkness. All they could see was the silhouette of a tall, Stetson-topped figure stepping up to the mic stand. Eddie let the room settle until all they could hear was the faint ping-ping-ping of the downstairs slot machines. Then, through the hush, came the sound of Eddie tapping the soundboard of his guitar as he counted down to the start of the first song. “One. . . two… uh one, two, three.” The spotlight lit him up like a rocket launch. And when Eddie let the big flattop Gibson sing, it was like he’d closed an electrical circuit. A stray current surged through the room, charging the crowd. Hair stood on end as Eddie held the guitar tight up under his right arm while leaning left so the head of the guitar tilted just a bit downward. He cocked his head the way he’d seen in a picture of Hank Williams and smiled his way through an up tempo honky-tonker that brought the audience to its feet. Megan was the first to stand. She’d seen him a few times with Jimmy and she liked what she saw.
Eddie sounded better than he ever had. His playing was assured, his voice was strong and clear, and his stage presence was undeniable.
The power of music never ceased to amaze Jimmy. He picked up his camera and squared Eddie in the viewfinder. When Eddie turned and looked to the middle of the room, the light jumped under the brim of his hat and caught his face at the perfect angle. That’s when Jimmy noticed Eddie’s smile for the first time. It was a perfect and winning. Jimmy adjusted the focus and took a series of photos. Click, whirr. Click, whirr. Click, whirr. Jimmy’s mind suddenly began spinning like the motor drive of his camera and, after about five shots, an idea formed. The last shot in particular — Eddie seeming to look straight into the lens — stuck in Jimmy’s mind like a thumb tack. He laid the camera on the table and looked around, measuring the faces in the crowd. They were mesmerized. Eddie owned them. At that moment Jimmy realized what he wanted to write. He grabbed his pen and started scribbling furiously on his note pad.
Megan barely noticed. She was riveted by Eddie’s smile and his performance as he worked through his usual set, a perfectly paced roller coaster of ballads, mid-tempo traditional country, and upbeat Texas swingers. He ended his set with an up tempo country rocker that brought everybody back to their feet and elicited a dozen rebel yells. The stage was thirty feet wide and Eddie used every inch of it, pouring tremendous energy into his show.
He was at one end of the stage as he neared the end of the last song. With one hand holding his hat and the other holding his guitar, Eddie started running. He fell to his knees and slid to a stop in the center of the stage where he leaned back and hit the closing licks. Anyone not already standing shot to their feet. Bathed in the spotlight, Eddie held his arms out to the side and shut his eyes, smiling all the while. He was something to look at, all right, and he got a standing ovation. After a minute, he got to his feet, tipped his hat, and took a bow. “I wanna thank you folks for coming out and having some fun with us here at the Gold Coast Extravaganza.”
A woman in the crowd screamed, “I love you, Eddie!”
Eddie smiled. “Why, I love you too, ma’am,” he said, tipping his hat again. “I also love everybody in the upstairs office for having me here this week. I really do appreciate it.” He winked knowingly at the crowd. “And so does my wife.” He got a good laugh with that. “Ya’ll have a good night,” he said, wrapping things up. “And remember, friends don’t let friends gamble at the other casinos.” With that, Eddie spun on his boot heel and disappeared behind the curtains. A moment later, the house lights came up and the canned music came over the house speakers.
As the standing ovation trickled out, Megan sat down and popped some fried onion into her mouth. “Wow. I can’t believe he doesn’t have a record deal.” Megan felt she was a fair judge of musical talent. She was, after all, the assistant music director at the radio station in Jackson in addition to being on the air. “That’s the best show we’ve seen him do, don’t you think?” After several years in radio, Megan had purged much of her southern accent. She could call it back in a flash, and she did so regularly in service of some of her radi
o character voices, but on an everyday basis she spoke with a geographically nonspecific broadcast intonation.
Jimmy nodded, but didn’t speak. He was preoccupied, scribbling furiously in his note pad. He was hunched over the table, his dark hair hanging down, obscuring his face. Megan was about to say something when she felt a warm hand on her shoulder. “Hey, good lookin’.”
Megan turned and looked up. “Eddie!” She turned her head and offered her cheek which Eddie kissed in a gentlemanly fashion. “What a great show!”
“Thanks.” Eddie spun a chair around and sat in it with his arms resting on the back. “I tell you what, it sure felt good.”
Megan put her hand on Eddie’s arm. “I just told Jimmy I can’t believe you don’t have a record deal yet. But I just know it’s gonna happen for you. I really believe that.”
“I appreciate that, I really do.” Eddie scanned the room. “I heard some A&R guy from Nashville’s supposed to be down here doing some scouting, but,” he shrugged, “nothing yet.”
Jimmy, still lost in his writing, hadn’t acknowledged Eddie’s arrival. Eddie looked at Megan. “Man, you’d think he might at least look up when a guy kisses his girlfriend and sits down at his table. Hell, I’da already punched somebody.” He winked.
Megan smiled and lapsed into the exaggerated Southern Belle character she used on her radio show. “Why Mr. Long, you’d defend my honah with violence?” She fanned her face then put the back of her hand against her forehead. “I believe I might swoon. ”
Eddie shook his head in mock disdain. “Miss Megan, I declare, you deserve better than this shabby treatment. Why don’t you come live with me?”
“You mean, aside from the fact that you’re married?”
“Yeah, aside from that.” He nodded toward Jimmy. “What’s he doing?”
Megan shrugged. “Don’t know. He’s been working on it since your first song.”
Jimmy suddenly looked up. “And you’re not going to be disappointed either.” He extended a hand to Eddie. “Great show.”
“Thanks, man.”
“And stop hitting on my girlfriend.”
“My bad,” Eddie said as he tried to get a look at what Jimmy had written. “You’re not writing another review, are you? I don’t think there’s a newspaper left for you to sell it to.”
“I think you’re right.” Jimmy pulled his hair back and smiled devilishly.
Megan reached for the notebook, but Jimmy wouldn’t let her have it. “Ah, ah, ah. Not yet.” Jimmy folded his hands over the pad and looked at Megan, then at Eddie. “Not five minutes ago I had what I believe you’d call a revelation. Actually I had two.”
Eddie held his hands up to testify. “Well then, amen brother! Twice.”
“C’mon,” Megan said, “just tell us.”
“I finally figured out what I’m going to write,” Jimmy said. “My master project.”
“Well don’t tell me it’s songs,” Eddie said. “Song writin’ ain’t as easy as you think. I just make it look that way.”
Jimmy got serious. “All right, now you have to see this as a long-term project, okay? No telling how long it’s going to take.” He turned and pointed to Eddie. “That depends on you.”
Eddie tipped his hat backwards on his head and threw up his hands. “I give up.”
Jimmy opened the spiral notebook and put it on the table for Eddie and Megan to read. There, in large block letters were the words: THE LONG AND SHORT OF IT — THE EDDIE LONG STORY. “I’m going to write your biography.” Jimmy sat back with his hands behind his head. He was beaming.
Eddie broke into a huge, flattered smile. “Damn, son. You serious?” He looked at Megan, then at Jimmy. “I think it’s a great idea.” He turned to Megan. “What do you think?”
Megan couldn’t help but smile. She knew Jimmy was miserable reviewing Little River Band concerts, and she could see how enamored he was of this idea. “I think it’s perfect.”
“I do see one small problem,” Eddie said. “Seein’ how nobody knows who the heck I am, why would anybody want to publish my life story?”
Jimmy pointed at Eddie. “Because my second revelation was that you are going to be famous.”
“That was your other revelation?”
“Yessir. And who’s been following your career from the beginning? Who better to chronicle your development from struggling singer-songwriter to Nashville superstar?”
“I think he’s right,” Megan said, reaching over to touch Eddie’s arm again. “You’re too talented not to succeed.” She let her hand linger.
Jimmy nodded. “I’ve seen you, what, thirty, forty times? Something made me keep coming back to see you, right?”
“I thought it was ‘cause I kept buying you drinks.”
“Didn’t hurt, but that’s not it,” Jimmy said. “I watched the crowd react to you tonight and it struck me plain as all get out that you have what it takes to make it in the business. Your performance gets better every time I see you. You’re good looking, you’re talented, and you’re a pro. Look, it’s no skin off your nose, right? I’m the one taking the chance. Whaddya say?”
Eddie shrugged. “What the hell.”
“I think it’s a great idea,” Megan repeated, her hand still on Eddie’s arm.
“Me too,” said Eddie. “Seems like a helluva lot of work, though.”
“Hey, if anyone can do it,” Megan said, “it’s you.”
“Thanks.” Jimmy appreciated the comment, but he noticed Megan was looking at Eddie when she said it.
6.
Tammy had inherited the old four poster bed from her grandmother. It was a queen with five wooden slats underneath to support the box spring and mattress. It had six slats originally, but one got lost in a move about twenty years ago. And now, in a moment Tammy had been looking forward to since Eddie announced his road trip, those old slats were being sorely tested.
Tammy dug her heels into Carl’s back and urged him on. “Oh, baby, yes! Find the spot! Find the spot!” She tended to direct the action as much as participate in it. “Right there, baby! Now give it to me!” Carl didn’t mind. It was better than trying to guess what she wanted, the way he had to do with his wife. “Rock me, baby! Yes!” Carl was screwing to beat bobtail and thrusting so furiously that he soon worked the slats out of place causing one side of the box spring and mattress to crash to the ground, leaving the lovers at a precarious angle.
“Whoa!” Carl grabbed the headboard.
“Don’t stop!” Tammy hollered. “I’m almost there. Go! Go!” Carl hung on and, after another minute of turbulence, finally delivered the goods. Tammy trembled and jerked and made a noise that sounded like a yodel. “Oh, baby,” she cooed afterwards. She let out a long sigh and closed her eyes.
For Carl, the guilt always came right after he did. It never showed up in time to keep him from doing wrong, so he always did it, and he always felt bad right after. Carl was lying there at a sideways forty-five degree angle, fretting about the potential consequences of sleeping with another man’s wife when Tammy nudged him. “Carl, honey, be a sweetheart and fix the bed, would you? I’m gonna get something to eat.”
“Bring something back,” he said. As long as he was breaking rules, he thought, he might as well go all the way. His own wife didn’t allow eating in bed. Carl climbed out of the bed, put on his briefs, and put the slats back in place. A minute later, Tammy came in carrying three cardboard food containers. “Whacha got there?” Carl asked.
Tammy held the boxes up one at a time. “Orange beef, mu shu pork, and shrimp in garlic sauce.” She handed the shrimp to Carl.
“The hell’d you get Chinese food?”
“Me and Eddie went to Feng Shang’s in Memphis coupla days ago. I always order way too much so I can have leftovers.” Tammy climbed in bed and started in on the orange beef.
Carl sat there looking dumbstruck. “You didn’t bring no beer?” Tammy didn’t respond; the answer seemed too obvious. Carl grunted as he got out of bed
. He headed for the kitchen.
“Hey, puddin’?” Tammy called from the bedroom. “Bring me one too, okay?”
Carl gritted his teeth, grabbed two beers and went back to the bedroom. He climbed back in and started nibbling around the broccoli stems in the shrimp dish. “You know who’s working the register today?”
“I think it’s Mary Jo, why?”
“No reason, just curious.” Carl and Tammy worked together at the Dollar Store. He was in sporting goods. She was in the young women’s department. Carl finished off the shrimp then tilted the box to drink the last of the garlickly juice.
Tammy looked at him, then tapped her chin with a finger. “You got some sauce on you.”
Carl wiped his mouth with the sheet, burped, then started in on the mu shu pork. “Hey, lemme have a bite of that orange beef,” he said.
Tammy shook her head and jerked the box away. “You didn’t share none of yours,” she said. “So don’t you come sniffin’ around mine.” Tammy made quick work of the remaining beef then put the container on the bedside table. While Carl chewed up the bits of pork and egg and green onion, Tammy shut her eyes and started rubbing her temples.
“This is good stuff,” Carl said, finishing the mu shu. He glanced at the clock on the dresser and saw that they had about two hours before they had to be at work. Carl drained the rest of his Bud and dropped the can on the floor. He reached over to Tammy. “Hey, you know what? I’m thinking I might want me some seconds, puddin’. Whaddya say?”
“I got a damn headache,” Tammy said, pushing his hand away.
Carl gritted his teeth again. If he wanted a woman with a damn headache he could’ve stayed at home. Tammy got up and padded into the bathroom. “I need an aspirin,” she said. Carl laid in bed wondering if he ought to make a quick exit or if he should wait and see if Tammy was willing to give it another go after she medicated herself. After a moment he decided to get out of there. He was looking around for his pants when he heard a crash in the bathroom. It sounded like Tammy had just raked everything off the shelves in the medicine cabinet. “You okay?” He waited a second but Tammy didn’t answer. Then he heard an odd gurgling noise. With one leg in his pants, he hopped toward the bathroom to see what had happened.
Bill Fitzhugh - Fender Benders Page 3
