Lost in NashVegas

by Rachel Hauck

  “Ever sing karaoke before?”

  “Nope,” I choke.

  She nods. “Okay, then. When you’re up, I’ll walk around, calling your name. Take the mike and sing. The lyrics display on the monitors.” She waves the cordless microphone at a couple of dozen monitors around the room.

  “All righty.” I spin on my heel and go back to the table. “Water,” I croak to Skyler.

  She buys me a bottle and pats my shoulder as I gulp it down. “Are you going to be okay?”

  I slam the water bottle on the tabletop. “Do I have a choice?”

  “Not really. This is good for you. Another step toward your dream.”

  I turn to Blaire. “Do they boo if you’re bad?”

  She shakes her head. “I’ve never seen anyone booed.”

  “What if the person is good?”

  “They bring down the house.”

  Skyler presses her fingers into my arm. “Bring the house down, Robin.”

  “Sky, I just want to make it to the stage and sing the entire song.”

  Blaire winces at me. “I don’t mean to second-guess you, but is a LeAnn Rimes song going to work for you? She’s all diva, big voice, you know.”

  I slide up onto my stool. “It works in my truck.”

  “There you go,” Skyler says, fist to the table.

  So we wait. I’m infused with confidence when a good singer takes the stage, struck with fear over the bad one. I try to concentrate on the table conversation. Blaire’s telling a story about a photo shoot she had in the afternoon, but I keep getting lost in a jungle of anxiety.

  “Think you can cowgirl up?” Skyler asks after awhile, nudging me with her shoulder.

  I manage a smile and whip my hand in a circle like I’m roping a calf. “Yee-haw.”

  Blaire winces as the current singer falls flat on why Ruby took her love to town. “Can’t say as I blame her for leaving,” she says with a snicker.

  I don’t laugh. “The man is doing the best he can.”

  Blaire’s smile fades. “Sure he is. Sorry.”

  “How do, ladies?” asks a voice under a Stetson hat.

  Skyler gives him the once over before answering “Fine.”

  “Waiting to sing?” he asks.

  Blaire points to me. “She is.”

  I give him a nod. He’s about to introduce himself when DJ Mandy gears up with the mike, walking the room, stirring the crowd, calling, “Tom Jenkins, you’re up next at On the Rocks karaoke.”

  The Stetson bows. “That’d be me.” He swaggers to the stage like he’s been on a long cattle drive.

  “You think he’ll be any good?” I ask the girls.

  Skyler studies him for a second. “Maybe, but I bet he’s a suit by day and a frustrated singer by night.”

  “Definitely,” Blaire agrees.

  Onstage, Tom stiffly moves the mike to his lips as the music starts. I wince and suck air through my teeth, hunching my shoulders and clasping my hands between my knees. “Keep the day job, Tom,” I whisper.

  The crowd indulges him as he butchers a George Straight tune. They applaud politely when he’s done. Tom strides offstage grinning like a kid who’s hit his first home run. Then it dawns on me: Tom conquered his fear.

  “Next up, we have a new singer. Robin McAfee.” I freeze as Mandy strolls my way, playing to the crowd.

  Skyler gently shoves me off my stool. “Go get ’em.”

  “Don’t rush me.” Somehow I move forward without seeing, without thinking, without breathing. Mandy hands me the mike, and I face the crowd like a ’60s robot.

  I’m on Granddaddy’s porch. No problem.

  My right leg quivers, and my stomach argues with the remains of my dinner. The music starts, but I don’t.

  Mandy stops the song. “Time to sing, darlin’.” She gives me the eye like, “Wake up, girl, you’re on.” Her finger is poised over the start button. “Ready?”

  I nod slightly, maybe wince, but whichever, she starts the music. Closing my eyes, I concentrate on the rhythm and melody. Please Lord . . .

  As I start to sing, I open my eyes to catch the lyrics as they scroll up the monitor. “Stop.” I glance at Mandy. “Please. I’m sorry.” The mike trembles in my hand.

  “What now?” She cocks her head to one side.

  “The song’s too low. Can you take it up one key, please?” I shoot the crowd an apologetic look, but I can’t gaze at them too long.

  “All righty.” Mandy makes the adjustment and the music starts. I hum along with the intro to make sure I’m in the right key. When the lyrics roll again, I sing as if I’m strolling through a rose garden on a spring afternoon with the sun warming my shoulders. My voice has extra vibrato from my quivering leg. Not my favorite vocal accent, but it’s working. I love the soul of this song, and let words speak from my heart.

  Then, it’s there. The sensation of God’s pleasure. I smile, lift my free arm, and belt the chorus, letting love emote out of me instead of terror.

  I need you like water, like breath, like rain.

  The crowd stirs. I peek to see a few people rising to their feet, joining in as I sing the second verse. By the time I round back to the chorus, On The Rocks is rocking. Just like the night in the Hall.

  When the song ends, the crowd’s applause and whistles explode over me. I hand the mike back to Mandy and shove against the noise back to my table.

  “Cousin, you rock.” Skyler grabs me in a country-girl hug.

  Blaire squeezes my arm. “How can such a little body have such a big voice?”

  I wring my hands. “Did I really do all right? I missed a few words on the last chorus.”

  “Oh my gosh, you had them on their feet. How can you doubt?” Skyler grips my face with her hands.

  Blaire holds up her pill bottle and twists off the lid. “Tonight, I’m throwing out a whole pill since you were such a gutsy smash.”

  “Blaire, you’re the bravest person I know.”

  “I’m in good company,” she says in a low, sincere tone.

  Mandy is standing in front of me, her face pinched into a question mark. “What’s with the scared-girl thing? You’re a tough act to follow.” She jerks her thumb toward the singer bumbling her way through “Breathe.”

  “I’m new in town, not really comfortable singing—”

  She laughs low with an easy shake of her head. “There are folks who’ve been coming here for years trying to do what you just did.”

  “I like to sing that song.” I don’t know what else to say.

  She turns to leave, but pauses. “Well, whatever you’re doing, keep doing it. By the way, nice hair.”

  10

  “Morning, Birdie,” I say, standing in the doorway of her kitchen. She’s humming and buttering toast.

  “Robin. Come in, come in. Sleep well?” She hands me the piece of toast.

  “I did, thank you.” I bite the corner. My first breakfast in my new place, in my new town, in my new life. Best piece of toasted bread I ever had.

  “Sometimes it’s hard to adjust in a new town, new place. When I first came to Nashville, I couldn’t sleep for a month.” Birdie drops two more pieces of bread into the toaster. “Hard to believe it’s been thirty-five years. I came in nineteen seventy-one. Just turned twenty.”

  I perch on the kitchen stool. “Jeeter says you had a pretty good decade from the mid-seventies to the mid-eighties.”

  She keeps her eyes on the toaster. “I had a few moments in the spotlight.”

  I swallow my toast. Birdie’s tone is not defensive, but I feel as if I touched a tender issue. “Sorry, Birdie. It’s none of my business.”

  “It’s not like the matter is private. Read any country music history book, and you’ll find a line or two dedicated to my short career.” Birdie taps the butter knife against the kitchen island. “You want some good advice?” The soft lines of her smooth cheeks deepen.

  “Sure.”

  “Work hard, don’t give up, keep your nose clea
n, and hold on to your self respect.”

  “You speaking from experience?”

  She laughs. “I can’t deny it. Nashville, for all its charm and beauty, is a hard town. Some call it a nine-year town. Takes about that long to break in. There’ll be a lot of disappointments between now and then.”

  Her words suck all the spit out of my mouth. “Nine years?” I choke. “I’ll be thirty-four.” Toast crumbs stick to my lips.

  “You all right?” Birdie asks as her toast pops up.

  It takes all my effort to swallow. “Water? Please.”

  Birdie grabs a glass from the cupboard and offers me orange juice instead, to which I nod vigorously. Quick. Anything. Crumbs are collecting in my windpipe.

  “The girl who lived in the apartment before you took a hard hit about three years ago. She had a song on hold with Clint Black—”

  “Really?”

  “But a hold doesn’t guarantee anything. An artist may have a hundred songs on hold when they’re getting ready to go in the studio. Anyway, one day she ran in here, squealing and carrying on. Clint had recorded her song. She’d made it.”

  Birdie pauses to read my face. I gaze back at her without so much as a blink. She’s gonna drop a bomb here, I know it.

  “A month later, she found out her song didn’t even make the album.”

  “Why?” My heart starts pounding.

  “Lots of reasons. It happens to songwriters every day. Clint and his producers probably found a song they liked better. Or, they may have recorded twenty or so songs, but only ten or twelve made it on the CD. Like I said, this business ain’t for the weakhearted.”

  I gulp my juice. Nine years . . . weakhearted . . .

  “And you need to build relationships, network, get to know folks. Don’t sit around upstairs daydreaming and wishing. Get out there. You need to sing your first open-mike night by next week, no later.”

  With the crumbs washed away, I mutter, “Open-mike night.”

  She grins. “You’re eyes are bugging out. Too much info?”

  “No, no,” I say, shaking my head.

  Birdie pours another cup of coffee. “So, you got the fright?”

  I brush crumbs from my lap. “Yeah.”

  “All the more reason you need to get out there and sing at open-mike nights.”

  “You’re not going to kick me out, are you?”

  Birdie’s round brown eyes narrow with humor. “No, not yet, anyway.” She chuckles. “Listen, some friends of mine are singing in the round at the Bluebird tonight. Be ready to go with me at eight-thirty.”

  “A-all right.”

  “Might as well start meeting people. My friend, Walt Henry, is singing. He just got a cut with Trisha Yearwood.”

  I stuff the last of my toast in my mouth and help myself to more OJ. “I love Trisha. Is his song making it to the album?”

  Birdie chuckles. “You’re getting it. Yes, his song made it. The CD will be in stores next month.” She looks at the stove clock. “Mercy, I need to get going.” She grabs her purse, pausing at the back door. “Are you a member of the songwriter’s associations? NSAI or ASCAP.”

  I nod. “Yes to NSAI. No to ASCAP.”

  She points at me. “ASCAP has a great pro staff to help with your songwriting. They’re the big building at the end of Music Row West.”

  “Couldn’t miss it when I drove in yesterday.”

  She smiles. “Guess not. See you later, shug.”

  I ring Marc Lewis and accept a job for which I do not interview. I don’t know if that’s good for me and bad for him, or bad for me and good for him, but I’m gainfully employed. Hopefully, neither one of us is a creep.

  “I’m hiring you on Birdie’s recommendation,” Marc says.

  “I accept on Birdie’s recommendation,” I counter.

  He chuckles. “Birdie said you were feisty. You’ll start tomorrow at five in the morning. Eight bucks an hour. Twenty-five, thirty hours a week, depending.

  Okay on the money and the hours, but five a.m.? So, I’m back in the land of the roosters. Marc rattles off directions to Lewis Cleaning Co. and asks me to meet him at his downtown office at four this afternoon.

  Hanging up with him, I take stock of my bare fridge and call Skyler.

  “Where can I buy groceries?”

  “Harris Teeter.”

  I jot down her directions and hop in my truck, making a mental list of what I need (everything) and calculating how much money I’ll have when I’m done (none). Granddaddy’s hundred is as good as gone. And half my savings went to Birdie for rent.

  Still calculating, I stride toward the entrance and run smack dab into . . . great guns, Billy Currington.

  “Ssssorry.” I freeze on the spot, mesmerized by his blue eyes.

  “No problem.” He pauses for a second. “Can I help you with something?”

  I can’t take my eyes off him. “N-no.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “N-no.”

  He steps away, flashing me an electrifying smile. “Well, have a nice day.”

  “N-no, um, yes. Thank you. Hey,” I holler. “Must be doing something right.”

  He looks back at me, sort of frowning, then tips his chin. “Right. Thanks.”

  I conk my forehead against the glass door and fish my cell phone from my purse. “Arizona, Billy Currington. I just ran into Billy Currington. Literally.”

  “You did not.”

  “I quoted his own song to him. ‘Must be doing something right.’ ”

  Arizona’s laugh is loud. “You did not.”

  I walk over to the buggies and yank one free. “I did.”

  “Oh my gosh.” Dishes clink in the background. “You’re going to have to work on your cool if you’re going to live in Nashville.”

  I slam my purse into the buggy seat. “Thanks for pointing it out.”

  “Don’t get defensive. You know what I mean. So, other than colliding with Billy Currington, how’s Nashville?”

  “I sang karaoke last night.”

  “Get out. How’d it go?”

  “Good. I sang a LeeAnn Rimes tune.”

  “Behold, the butterfly . . .”

  Over the phone, I hear a loud crash followed by robust, rapid swearing. “Arizona?”

  “Holy cow, Harold, what were you doing? Robin, call you later.”

  The call goes dead, so I flip the phone closed, but it rings again before I wheel down the first aisle.

  “Robin, it’s Momma. Why didn’t you call back last night?”

  “Hi, Momma. I went out with Skyler.”

  “I couldn’t sleep a wink. I just knew something awful happened.”

  “Great day in the morning, Momma. I’m just up the road in Nashville, not Siberia.” No wonder I got the fright. “Why didn’t you call me if you were so worried?”

  “You didn’t answer.”

  “Ah.”

  “Well, how is it?”

  “Fine.” I stop at a Pop-Tarts display and toss a box of cherry Pop-Tarts into the cart. And, oooh, chocolate-covered mini donuts.

  “And how’s your new place?”

  “Fine.” I need bread, jelly, peanut butter, milk. And a twelve-pack of Pepsi.

  “Fine? You’re a songwriter and all you can say is fine?”

  I maneuver down the first aisle. “No, but I need a guarantee you’re not going to criticize me.”

  “Fine.”

  And she wonders where I get it. While I shop, I tell Momma about my third-floor apartment using descriptive words like “eggshell-blue” and “spacious.”

  “No lice or fleas?”

  “Nope, it’s cleaner than spring hay.”

  “Just be careful, Robin Rae. Smiling people carry knives.”

  “Terrific attitude, Momma. Thanks. But everyone I’ve met has been really nice.” Salad dressing, cucumbers. Apples, oranges, tomatoes, bag-o-lettuce.

  “I didn’t fall off the turnip truck yesterday, girl.”

  “So I’ve notice
d.”

  “Don’t be smart.”

  I sigh. “So how are things there?”

  She launches into an update on life in Freedom and her best friends, Henna Bliss and Sissy Workman, though not much has changed in the day and a half I’ve been gone. She ends with, “I’ll have your Daddy call you when he gets home.”

  “Thanks, Momma.” Hamburger, chicken . . . oh, I should get some spices. “I sang in front of people last night.”

  Big pause. “You did? Where?”

  “On the Rocks Bar & Grill. They have Monday night karaoke.”

  “Land’s sakes, girl. That’s not singing-singing.”

  “Land sakes, Momma, it is singing. Trust me.”

  “Well, how’d you do?”

  “I brought the house down, if you must know.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “Listen, I’m at the checkout counter. Better go.” I start unloading my cart.

  “Robin. I-I love you,” Momma says tenderly.

  I set the ice cream down on the conveyor belt. Her confession smoothes the sting of her criticism and creates a warm spot smack-dab in the middle of my heart.

  “I love you too.”

  Before I meet with Marc Lewis, I swing by the Nashville Songwriters Association office on the corner of 18th Avenue South and Roy Acuff Place. A tingle of excitement runs through me as I take the steps of the Old Mill Music building.

  “Can I help you?” The curly haired NSAI receptionist smiles at me.

  “I just moved to town.”

  “Welcome to Nashville.”

  “Can I schedule a critique with a pro or the membership manager?”

  “You sure can. I’m Ella, by the way. I assume you’re a NSAI member?”

  “I am, proud to—”

  “Well, if it isn’t the runaway singer.” A raspy voice breaks between Ella and me.

  “Hey, Graham.” Ella flutters.

  It’s big-cowboy-hat-and-square-chin guy from the Frothy Monkey.

  “Ella.” He smiles at her with a nod, then props his elbow on the desk and turns his back to her so he can stare at me. “Why’d you run?”

  “Nervous habit.”

  “Better break it. Is this a new problem, a life-long problem, the result of watching The Wizard Of Oz when you were a kid?” He talks like he has permission to dig into my soul. “By the way, nice escape between the hippy and the Goth girl.”