Bill Fitzhugh - Fender Benders

by Bill Fitzhugh

  “Well, first of all,” Big Bill said, “it’s customary to—”

  “Bullshit,” Megan said, stamping her foot. “Screw what’s customary. Look, they say an artist’s first single shouldn’t be a ballad, right? Well Eddie’s was, and guess what? 968,000 units later I think we can put that rule to rest. Then they say, well you shouldn’t follow one ballad with another, right? Well, ask Vince Gill what he thinks about that. He did all right. I say we change the damn rules. Go with our other ballad as the second single and, what’s more,” Megan turned to Eddie, “I think we ought to put it out while the first one’s still number one.”

  Big Bill snorted derisively. “Well that’s just foolishness,” he said. “You’d never do that. You’re just being contrary. I don’t care how far you get being unconventional, there are some things that you just don’t…” Big Bill was getting so frustrated he couldn’t finish his thought. “Eddie,” he said, “I been in this business long enough—”

  “Long enough to work your way down to number ninety-nine on the hot one hundred,” Megan said. “That says all you need to know about conventional wisdom, don’t you think?”

  Big Bill wanted to slap Megan in the worst way and, if she’d been within reach, he’d have done it instinctively and probably lost his biggest client. His carotid artery looked like a blue garden hose running up the side of his neck. Bad enough the bitch had interrupted him twice, now she was insulting him. “All due respect,” he hissed, “but I don’t recall ever seeing your name anywhere on that list, Megan, so I wouldn’t be talking so loud.” He stepped closer to her as he spoke, hoping his size would help intimidate. “Now, as to your iconoclastic release strategy, keep in mind that the most likely result of releasing a second single while your first one is still at the top is that you bring the first one down before it’s done.” He stepped closer. “Now as far as I know, Lonestar still holds the record for consecutive weeks at number one. I think we’ve got a shot at breaking that,” he said, putting his face in Megan’s, “if we don’t do anything to screw it up.” The last words came out a louder than the others.

  Eddie stood and casually walked between the combatants. “Nothing like the free exchange of contrasting ideas,” he said. “But you know what?” He turned to Big Bill. “I like taking chances and as long as we got a contract that lets us to do things that ain’t been tried in a while, I think we ought to look at setting a new kind of record.” Eddie looked out the bus window and saw thousands of fans streaming out to the parking lot. “You know, you see a lot of artists with two songs in the top forty at the same time, but I think we oughta see if we can’t get two in the top five at the same time. Maybe even get the top two slots!”

  This was really starting to chap Big Bill’s ass. “Please! That hasn’t happened since. . . hell, I don’t know, since Dill Scallion, for cryin’ out loud.”

  “Well I think it’s time we changed that,” Eddie said. He sat down and took a pull on his beer. “Okay, I think that seals it. ‘Pothole In My Heart’ is our second single and it ships next week.” He pointed at Big Bill. “Make it happen.”

  65.

  Whitney sat on the edge of his bed, eyes fixed on the ragged bandana tied around his wrist. He was consumed by discouragement and a sense of betrayal that had started just after Long Shot was released. Whitney had waited for the ‘comp’ disc Big Bill promised but it never came, so he went out and bought a copy. As he stood in the aisle of the record store, his excitement dissolved into surprise, then confusion and disappointed. ‘Night’s Devotion’ wasn’t on the disc. He didn’t understand. He took the disc home and listened. When it got to a song called ‘Pothole In My Heart,’ Whitney suddenly felt ill. He grabbed the liner notes and frantically searched the writing credits. When he saw it he got sick enough to throw up his socks. It said ‘B. Herron/E. Long/W. Rankin’. He’d been trying to get Big Bill on the phone ever since.

  That was nearly three weeks ago. Since then, Whitney had been sinking deeper and deeper into despair. When the phone rang Whitney barely moved. He just continued staring at the bandana. After five or six rings he slowly reached over and picked up.

  “Hey now!” Big Bill said. “I understand you’ve been tryin’ to reach me.”

  The voice jarred Whitney’s mind and stirred some anger. “Yes sir, that’s right.” His voice was strained.

  “Sorry it took so long for me to get back to ya. I been on the road with Eddie Long. Man, this guy’s hotter’n concrete in July in Houston.” Big Bill figured Whitney was pissed about what happened to his song, so he tried to create a diversion. “Oh, and by the way, I got you some good news,” he said. “Your song’s gonna be the second single off Eddie’s record. Whaddya think about that?”

  “That ain’t my song,” Whitney said bitterly. “What the hell happened?”

  “Whaddya mean what happened?” Big Bill tried his best to sound wounded by Whitney’s accusatory tone.

  “I never wrote a song called ‘Pothole In My Heart’ and I didn’t co-write anything with you and Eddie Long.” Whitney paused. “You lied to me right outta your mouth, Mr. Herron.”

  “Now hang on a second there Whitney,” Big Bill’s tone was firm but fatherly. “You were there when we made a lot of those changes. I remember asking if you understood why we did what we did and you looked right at me and said ‘yeah.’ You’re not denying that, are you?”

  “I never wrote anything about potholes in my heart and I sure didn’t hear him sing it that way when I was there.”

  “No, I’ll grant you that,” Big Bill said. “After you left we had a couple more notions on the song so we went back and did another version. Nothing unusual about that and there’s damn sure nothing underhanded about it, if that’s what you’re gettin’ at. I’m surprised at you, Whitney. I thought you’d appreciate what I did for you, ‘specially now that it’s gonna be the second single. You have any idea how much money you’re gonna make on this?”

  “That ain’t the point,” Whitney said.

  “Well it damn sure is, son. If that song goes to number one, like I think it will, you’re looking at twenty to twenty-five thousand dollars just from radio play. Your mechanicals are probably worth another five, maybe ten thousand.” All told, the truth was closer to two hundred thousand dollars for a record that was selling and getting radio play like Eddie’s, but Big Bill knew Whitney was clueless about the value of his work. He had counted on it. Herron & Peavy stood to make an extra hundred-seventy-thousand dollars or so thanks to Whitney’s willful ignorance. “Now, honestly, did you ever expect you’d make thirty thousand dollars on a single one of your songs?”

  Whitney tasted acid creeping in his throat. “That ain’t my song and you didn’t have the right to do what you did.” His discouragement and depression were suddenly displaced by pure anger. His voice was thick with hostility and rage.

  “Whoa now,” Big Bill said. “Better read your contract again, son. Now, I can tell you’re upset, but you just wait. You’ll feel better about it when you cash that first check. Trust me.”

  “I’m through trusting you and everybody else in Music Fucking City, you son of a bitch!” Whitney slammed the phone down. He was shaking. He’d put up with all the Nashville bullshit he could. Big Bill had been lying to him from the start, taking him for a ride. And now Whitney imagined the fat bastard laughing at his expense. Big Bill might as well have stolen a piece of Whitney’s soul. Lies were bad enough, stealing was worse, but this was beyond the pale. This was humiliating and Whitney wouldn’t stand for it. It was enough to make Whitney want to kill.

  66.

  The answer hit Jimmy just north of Jackson. He was heading back up to Quitman County when he saw the sign marking the turnoff for the 220. It was the shortcut to Interstate 20 which took you to Vicksburg, then west to Louisiana and Texas. But Jimmy’s answer was on this side of the Mississippi River and that highway sign reminded him why he felt the way he did about Megan.

  It was one of their first dates.
They drove over to picnic in the Vicksburg National Military Park. It was an inspiring spring day, breezy and uncrowded. Halfway through the hilly sixteen mile tour of the Civil War battleground they found a spot on a knoll with a view of the big river in the distance. They spread their blanket in the shade of an oak tree and ate fried chicken, sweet cornbread, and ripe peaches. Jimmy also brought a thermos full of pink lemonade enhanced with bourbon and triple sec. Megan took one sip and broke into a wide smile. “What is this?” She held the glass up to the sunlight to examine the colors swirling around the chunks of ice.

  “Secret recipe,” Jimmy said. “I call it ‘patio lemonade.’”

  Megan took a gulp. “Oh, I like this.” She held her glass out for a refill. Jimmy obliged.

  They ate and drank and talked and laughed until they were both sweetly drunk. Megan curled up in Jimmy’s arms and let herself be held. Her self-consciousness dissolved in the sugary bourbon and lemonade and she opened up about her dreams and fears and sorrows and things she rarely shared. As he looked down at her, touching her perfect skin, Jimmy knew this was the person he could love forever.

  Megan sighed, all contented. “I hope you plan to kiss me pretty soon.”

  Jimmy smiled. Then he leaned down. It was the sweetest kiss he’d ever tasted, her lips soft as the shade. They laid back and felt the dapples of sun dance through the tree’s leaves and they fell asleep. It was the sort of day most people look back on and recognize only from a distance as one of the best in their lives. But part of the wonder of this day was how they both embraced the magic as it happened. The difference between them, Jimmy now realized, was that he still cherished the moment whereas Megan seemed to have let it go without regard.

  The turnoff for Vicksburg vanished behind him just like she did and Jimmy suddenly realized he was worried about something. But what? That he wouldn’t get Megan back? No, he had almost come to accept that as a given. It was something else. As he continued north toward Hinchcliff, it occurred to Jimmy that he was worried about Megan’s safety. If his theory was right — if Eddie had killed Tammy — Jimmy wouldn’t want her around the guy, no matter how badly she’d treated him. Jimmy figured there were only two results to the research he was doing, and he didn’t know which one he preferred. If he disproved the theory, the publisher wouldn’t be so hot on the book, but at least he’d know Megan wasn’t sleeping with a murderer. On the other hand if he proved the theory, at least he could warn her about him.

  Jimmy arrived at Eddie and Tammy’s old house around eleven. It was hot out. The sun was coming down at the same angle from which one is bludgeoned to death. He parked around back, in the shade, so no one would see his car and so it wouldn’t be an oven when he got back in it. The air was sticky as chewed gum and Jimmy could smell the banks of the Talahatchie as it filtered through a hundred yards of pine trees. He grabbed his camera and took some exterior shots of the small brick house plagued as it was by the accusing yellow crime scene tape.

  Because he was about to mess with an official crime scene, Jimmy slipped on a pair of gloves before trying to get in. Everything was locked up, so he broke a kitchen window. Jimmy lowered his camera bag in first, then shimmied in after it. The place was hot, stagnant, and dead quiet. Dust particles hung in the air, almost motionless. Suddenly there was a noise, a tiny buzzing sound coming from behind him. He turned and saw a fat house fly caught in a spider’s web struggling to escape. He hadn’t been inside sixty seconds and he was sweating.

  Jimmy got the creeps. It was one thing knowing what had happened within these walls, it was another to actually be there. He pulled out his camera and looked around. He took photos of the faded ‘God Bless This House’ needlepoint near the front door and the unframed watercolor of the cow in the cotton field that hung above the sofa. He took photos of the taped outline of Tammy’s body and the small blood stain on the floor. He stepped into the bathroom to get a look at the medicine cabinet. The glass shelves were stocked with the typical array of over-the-counter medications, but the box of Dr. Porter’s Headache Powder was gone, no doubt spirited away to the police lab for testing.

  There wasn’t much else to see at this end of the house, so Jimmy returned to the kitchen. It was cramped with an avocado green refrigerator and a rust brown stove, a dishwasher on wheels still hooked up to the sink faucet, dripped slowly like the sweat creeping down Jimmy’s scalp. He recalled Eddie saying he used to sit on the kitchen table while composing his songs. It was large and heavy, like something from a butcher’s shop. You had to scoot sideways to get to the chair at the far end. He sat on the edge of the table wondering how much of what Carl had said was true. Jimmy couldn’t remember Eddie ever saying anything bad about Tammy, nothing about her holding him back or anything. He frequently made jokes about being married while he was on stage, but they were innocuous and aimed at getting simple laughs.

  Jimmy sat on the table for a few moments taking in the view as Eddie would have seen it. It was less than inspiring — mismatched appliances and a bank of grease-covered kitchen cabinets. Looking down he saw something wedged in the corner where the wall met the floor. It looked like a shard from a shattered plate or perhaps a serving dish. Across the room was a washer-dryer combo that looked like it got hit by the back door every time it opened. Jimmy sat there for a moment before his attention returned to the cabinets. He slid off the table and went to the pantry. Inside were some dried red beans, canned tomatoes, and a box of beignet mix. There were two cast iron skillets and a non-stick sauce pan in the lower cabinet next to the stove. Next he looked in the small cupboard above the range. It held a loaded Lazy Susan. Jimmy gave it a spin — red pepper, chili powder, and a box of shrimp boil circled past like spicy red carousel horses. Old garlic salt, solidified onion powder, and a goose neck jar of Zatarain’s Gumbo Filé chased a five year old tin of ground thyme, a jar of chicken bouillon cubes and, bringing up the rear, a fat, round container of Uncle Randy’s Meat Tenderizer. Then the thing stopped.

  Jimmy stared at the cylindrical container. It was cardboard with a red plastic top. He picked it up and shook it like a tiny maraca. It was nearly empty. He read the list of ingredients — salt, dextrose, calcium silicate, and bromelain were second, third, fourth, and fifth on the list, but they didn’t really matter. It was the primary ingredient that made him shiver in the heat. Big as all get out it said: monosodium glutamate.

  67.

  The spring on the screen door screeched like an alley cat when Chester Grubbs walked into the bar. It was lunchtime and he was bad thirsty. He hadn’t had a drink in two days and, as he told the bartender, he needed a beer. The bartender wrinkled his nose and went to get a cold one. Soaked in sweat, Chester’s clothes were ripe enough to sprout legs and walk. The sweat mixed with dirt and formed muddy troughs in the lines of his face. As he waited for his beer Chester spotted half a cigarette crumpled in an ashtray. He picked it up, reshaped it as best he could, and lit the thing.

  He’d moved from Broken Bow, Oklahoma to Lake Village, Arkansas to get some work. A friend told him about a guy who needed some day labor for a big landscaping project. The pay was decent and the job was supposed to last three weeks. Chester had hoped to get hired on driving a Bobcat or a skip loader, something where he’d be sitting down in some shade, but he ended up swinging a pick at the hardest, rockiest acre of dirt he’d ever set foot on. It was nearly ninety-six degrees at noon and Chester was forty years older than the other guys on the job site. One of the kids on the crew summed it up best when he looked at Chester’s ashen face after the first hour and said, “You’re way too old for work this damn young.”

  The bartender gave Chester his beer. “You wanna order lunch?”

  Chester hoisted the bottle. “Just did.” He turned it upside down into his face, mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

  The screen door screeched again when another man entered the bar. He waved at the bartender. “Hey man, how you doin’?”

  “Real good,” the bartender said. “Whadja b
ring me this week?”

  The man walked over to the jukebox, pulled out a key, and opened it. “Got the new single from Eddie Long,” he said. “Real nice song. I’ll put it on for you.”

  Chester waved his empty bottle at the bartender. “Give me a’nuther one of these?”

  The bartender shuffled over to the cooler. Chester looked at the big jar of pickled pig’s feet on the bar wondering if he ought to get a little something to eat or if he should just drink his lunch. A moment later the song came on the jukebox and Chester forgot whether he was hungry, thirsty, or out of his mind. The hair on his neck stood up and he felt something twist in his bones. He slowly turned around on his stool and stared at the jukebox, listening, humming along in his head like he already knew the song. Halfway through, he stood and walked over to the jukebox where the man was changing out some of the tunes. “Lemme see that record,” Chester said.

  “Which one?”

  “The one’s playin’.”

  “Sure,” the guy shrugged, “soon as it’s done, I guess.”

  Something wild flashed in Chester’s eyes and he screamed at the man. “Now, goddammit!”

  The bartender reached for his baseball bat while the jukebox man did as he was told. Chester calmly took the forty-five and looked at it. It was called ‘Pothole In My Heart’ and in the parenthesis under the title, where he’d once seen his own name, Chester saw something he could hardly believe. He handed the record back to the jukebox guy, all calm and purposeful. “Pardon me,” Chester said. “I’ve got someone to kill.”