by Rachel Hauck
No. Steady, Robin. Steady. Calm down. You can do this. You made a Robin McAfee decision.
A drop of peace splashes on my soul, and my foot stops jerking. The panic passes. Drinking from my one ounce of confidence, I pull out my phone. Might as well call in the troops. “What are you doing tonight? Nothing? Good, come to the Bluebird.”
“Why?” Skyler asks. “Are you going to sing?”
“I’m in line.”
“I’ll be right there. Don’t leave.”
I hang up and notice the late-afternoon sun casts shadows over all the cars and trucks in the parking lot except mine. One thin ray of sunlight shines over Ricky’s handiwork like a heavenly spotlight: Freedom’s Song.
I smile. Tonight, I hope to put a big dent in the old fear caboose. I turn to the guy in front of me and stick out my hand. “Hi, I’m Robin McAfee, and I’m scared.”
He scoffs and shakes my hand. “Allen Davis, and I’m not.”
Waiting in the crowded Bluebird with thirty other wannabe songwriters, Jeeter’s advice skips across my mind: “Sometimes you got to face your fears.”
Skyler, Blaire, and I have a table just left of the stage. The Bluebird is stuffed with guitar-hugging folks, waiting for their turn. And in the midst of them, Graham is off yakking with Frank, who, I discovered, is a publisher, song plugger, or producer. I can’t remember, but it’s something with a P.
And lucky me, I’m number five in tonight’s lineup. Five. One, two, three, four . . . me.
Skyler taps my shoulder. “How many songs do you get to sing?”
“One.” I point over my shoulder to the little sound booth in the back of the room. “The woman over there, Barbara Cloyd, is the open-mike host, and she said there are too many signed up to do more than one.”
“Look at you, already a Bluebird expert. So, what song are you singing?”
Was it not a mere week ago that I ran from the Frothy Monkey, terrified? Then braved karaoke? It feels like a month of Sundays.
“Robin,” Skyler snaps her fingers in my face. “Focus. What song?”
I bite my lower lip. “I don’t know, I hadn’t gotten that far.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re a mess. Come on, what’s your favorite song?”
“Well, I like ‘Your Country Princess,’ but Graham called it sophomoric.”
“Forget him. Sing what feels right to you.”
“Last night I wrote a song about Steve being overseas with the Marines while his wife is home, pregnant.” I crinkle my brow, waiting for Skyler’s approval.
“Sing the princess song. You’ve worked it longer. Don’t sing something you haven’t perfected. I hear it from my clients all the time.”
“Hadn’t thought of that.” What am I doing in this town?
“Do you have a lyric sheet with you?”
“No.” I tap my temple. “In here. Besides, I wasn’t planning on being number five and actually having to sing.”
“Well, you are.” She reaches around for a napkin. “Write it down.”
I shove her napkin aside. “I’ll remember.”
Blaire whispers over the tabletop, “You’ll be all right, won’t you?”
I whisper back, “Yes.” I see in her eyes she’s half for me and half against me. If I overcome, does she have to overcome?
Skyler drapes her arm around me. “I’ve updated my New Year’s resolution: get Robin on stage.”
“You can’t make me your New Year’s resolution,” I protest, sloughing off her arm.
“Why not? None of mine are working.”
“Because your resolutions are stupid, Skyler.” Blaire counts off on her fingers. “Meet a man in February. First date in March. Engaged by late August. Married in December. You can’t control any of them. Resolutions are about changing you.”
Skyler twists her lips. “Excuse me, I didn’t know there was a resolution law book.”
I laugh. Their banter calms me a little and how they cut each other no slack. And if I can’t have Arizona and Eliza around, these two are perfect substitutes.
When the fourth songwriter gets up, I smell the rubber burning on the road. This is it. I’m next.
A long-haired, faded blonde with big eyes and a small face sits on a stool before the mike. “I’m number four, Vickie Daniels.” Without another word, she starts strumming and singing.
I wince. She’s started the song way too fast and is trying to adjust the tempo as her clear, high voice pierces the room— off key.
My heart starts thumping, and I spring to my feet.
Skyler clasps my arm. “Where’re you going?”
“Little girls’ room.” A minute ago I was freezing. Now, sweat trickles down my neck.
“I’m going with you.” She stands.
I pull my arm free. “The bathroom is a one-seater.” I know she thinks I’m going to bolt, and maybe I am, but for now, I’m going to the girls’ room alone.
Unfortunately it’s locked and occupied. Two high-pitched female voices giggle and yak behind the door. What is this? Saturday afternoon at the country club?
I knock loud. “Hello, waiting.”
The giggles are louder. “Just a minute.”
What are they doing in there? I bang again. “Got to go.”
“All right. Hold your horses.” More giggling and yakking.
How rude! I could be sick or dying. And they’re laughing. I’m about to kick the door when Skyler bops around the corner. “You’re up.”
I hear Barbara call from the sound booth, “Number five.”
I wring my hands. “I can’t.”
She grabs me by the elbow and declares, “Yes, you can,” and shoves me toward the main room.
I jerk away from her and tug my top straight.
“She’s coming,” Skyler shouts to Barbara, pointing at me.
The front door is obscured by the crowd. Can’t run. As I squeeze pass the bar, I hear, “Knock ’em dead, Robin.”
I gaze into Lee’s strong face. “What are you doing here?”
“Number five.” Barbara calls again.
He brushes my shoulder with the tips of his fingers. “I stopped by Birdie’s. She told me you were here.”
Remember the night at the Hall.
Remember singing karaoke.
Remember the Alamo.
So, I wasn’t at the Alamo, but I need a third victory. Fellow Tennesseean Davy Crockett won’t mind if I borrow from him.
My legs wobble as I step up to the stage, hugging my guitar like it’s a life jacket. The room is a blur. I plug in my guitar with a resounding thunk! Moans and ahhs float around the room.
“Sorry.” I clear my throat. “Hi, everyone.” Be cool. Be cool. Look around. Gradually, blurry images come into focus. Skyler and Blaire are smiling, Graham still has his head bent toward Frank. Barbara Cloyd smiles at me with a nod. I like her. And Lee . . . where’s Lee?
Just sing, Robin. Sing. I wipe my hands down the sides of my jeans and pull my favorite pick from my hip pocket. “I-I’m number five. Robin McAfee.” I sound exactly like a hick from Alabama.
“Robin, move closer to the mike,” Barbara calls through cupped hands.
I nod, stepping a little closer. When I do, my pick slips from my stiff fingers into the guitar’s hole. Crap. I panic and flip my guitar over, crashing into the microphone. It careens off the stage and smacks down on the table right in front. The patrons stumble out of their chairs splashing beer and soda all over.
“I’m sorry, so sorry.” What am I doing in this town? I’m insane.
The room is deathly silent except for the waitresses cleaning up my mess and the rattle of the pick inside my guitar. Barbara weaves her way through the crowd. “Hold on, folks.” She’s so calm, so forgiving. A saint. She sets the microphone right, looks me in the eye, and says, “You can do this.”
Really? You think so? “Thanks.” I think my eyelashes are sweating.
Paranoid I’m going to do a repeat with the mike, I stand a foot
away. Skyler watches with her face and shoulders scrunched up. Next to her, Blaire stares at the ceiling, her lips moving silently.
Then I see him. Lee. Standing by the door. He nods his encouragement. Why is he at all of my most embarrassing moments? Leeeeee!
A snort escapes my nose. If I’d get over myself, I might just kick butt and take a few names.
I step up to the mike, carefully. “Is there a spare pick in the house?”
Laughter rumbles from the crowd, and half a dozen songwriters surge forward offering red, brown, white, gray, and blue picks.
I choose the light-gauge blue one from Vickie and start the opening chords of “Your Country Princess” before I change my mind and run. “In case y’all haven’t noticed, I’m scared to death.”
A few people applaud. Several shout, “Go for it.”
“Go for it,” I echo. “Good advice. When God gives you a burning passion that sticks to your soul like warm wax, you have to go for it, right?” I glance around. Blaire’s aiming her camera at me.
I give a little intro. “I dedicate this song to my brother, a Marine serving overseas. God bless our troops.”
My voice yodels and goes flat on the first line of the verse, but I catch my breath and straighten out. By the time I get to the chorus, I sense the crowd is with me.
Ooo, let me be your country princess . . .
15
My head is spinning. I’ve officially done the ’Bird. Skyler and Blaire congratulate me with high fives back at the table. I didn’t bring the Bluebird crowd to their feet like I did at On the Rocks, but they applauded long and loud. Even heard a few whistles, though I suspect they came from Lee.
“Robin,” Blaire holds up a tiny piece of a pill. “This is for you.” She drops it on the floor and crushes it with her heel.
I slap her another high five, then catch her eye. “Just be careful, Blaire.”
She nods. “I’m talking to my doc and my counselor. Have no fear.”
She stops. Her brown eyes bug out. She snorts, then I choke, and all three of us laugh behind our hands, mindful we’re in a listening room, not a comedy club.
“Talk about your Freudian slip,” Skyler whispers.
We snicker and snort behind our hands again, and I turn my back on them. Otherwise, I’ll bust a gut, and Ms. Cloyd will have to kick me out. Besides, songwriter number six is on the stage, belting out a sad, lonesome cowboy number, and I want to listen.
Skyler taps my shoulder and whispers, “We’re going to go. I have to get up early.”
I nod. “Thanks for being here.”
Blaire stretches over for a light hug. “Until next time.”
When they leave, Lee slips into Skyler’s empty chair. “Hey,” he says, his tone rekindling a little of yesterday’s longing. My scalp tingles as he drapes his arm over the back of my chair. “You . . . You were great.”
The songwriter ends and exits. I focus on applauding for him. “How did you like the mike-knocking-over trick? Smooth, wasn’t it?”
He shakes his head. “It was funny and heartbreaking at the same time. But then you started singing and all we remember now is the country princess.”
I thump my hand over my heart. “Are you trying to make me fall in love with you?”
His smile fades a little as he sits back in his seat. “Just don’t doubt yourself, Robin.”
“S-sure.” I twist away from him. Hello, lead balloon?
Songwriter number seven is up now, wandering through a ballad, but all I can think is how I just crashed and burned with Lee . . . Trying to make me fall in love with you. I press my forehead into my hand. Didn’t I flunk flirting?
“Robin?” I feel a light tap on my shoulder. Glancing around, I’m face-to-face with Barbara Cloyd.
“Ms. Cloyd.”
“Barbara, please. You started out kind of bumpy, didn’t you?” She sits in Blaire’s chair.
I shake my head. “Sorry about the microphone. I’m not used to—”
Her smile is warm. “You made me look up.”
“I know . . . Sorry. I didn’t realize I stood so close—”
She shakes her head. “No, Robin. Listen, every once in a great while a new songwriter makes me look up from the sound booth. You did that tonight. I want to see you in here again.”
“Really? Thank you. I’ll be back. I will.” Chalk one up for courage.
Lee gives me the eye after she leaves. “Told you.”
For the rest of the evening, the vibes from our picnic lunch linger between Lee and me, though neither of us seems quite sure of what to do about it. I’m aware of how he disrupts my sense of the ordinary, as if one magnifying-glass-like stare could discover all my weaknesses and imperfections. As if he could easily scale the boundaries of my heart.
When he walks me out to my truck at the end of the night, he says, “I had fun.” His eyes peer into mine without a blink.
“Thank you for being here.”
“My pleasure,” he says in such a way that I believe him.
“Robin, you leaving?” Graham struts toward me with his friend, Frank. “Let’s do some cowriting. Meet me tomorrow at four. NSAI offices.” He stops next to me, giving Lee the once over.
I introduce the men, and instead of shaking hands, Graham tugs on the brim of his hat so his eyes are hidden. “Listen, tomorrow at four, Robin. Don’t forget.” He strides off with Frank.
“Nice guy,” Lee says with a smack of sarcasm. He crosses his arms and settles against my truck.
“He is, under the duster and hat.” I unlock the truck door.
Lee steps up. “Here, let me help.”
I raise my guitar to slide it over to the passenger side. Lee gives it a little shove. “Oh, wait, Lee, it’s stuck.” I back up to adjust the guitar case.
Hello! Mars, meet Venus.
Lee’s hand collides with my, um, “perkiness.” Flames of embarrassment engulf my torso. I don’t need a mirror to know my face is every color of red invented.
Lee jerks away. “Robin, I’m sorry.” He whips around toward the lights on Hillsboro, his shirttail fluttering, his shoulders shimmying.
Sorry, my eye. He’s laughing.
“It’s okay. You didn’t do it on purpose.” I snort-snicker.
He glances back at me. “I’m embarrassed.”
“You’re embarrassed?” I shove my guitar into the cab and face him, arms crossed. “You know you might have to marry me. Where I come from, touching a girl’s breast is practically a proposal.”
Lee walks back with a smile on his lips but a scary look in his eye. He props one hand on the truck and hovers over me. “Maybe I will.” His dark brown bangs flop forward.
She-doggies. He’s confusing me. “I-I w-was kidding.” My heart thumps against my ribs.
“Right, I know. Just kidding too.”
Oh, shew-wee. For a minute there . . . Dang, is that you, Disappointment? Knocking on my door?
“Hey, Robin . . .” Lee settles against the truck with his hands in his pockets. “I need to tell you something.”
“What’s up?” I’m struck by how much I feel like his friend already.
He rubs his hand over his hair. “Well, my ex-fiancée came back into my life unexpectedly today.”
May fades into June, and I’m busy in the daily routine of cleaning offices, lofts, and lobbies; writing songs; and attending workshops at NSAI and ASCAP. I manage five more open-mike nights—two at the Bluebird, two at the Douglas Corner Café, and one at The French Quarter Café. The freak-out feeling isn’t as gripping, but when it’s my turn to take the stage, my knees still melt like lumps of clay in the noon sun.
And Skyler tells me I have no stage finesse. “It’s like watching Kong tour Manhattan.”
Okay, fine, I’ll work on finesse. But I do have this—a fan. Not Skyler or Blaire, nor Graham or Birdie. Sadly, not Lee. I’ve only seen him in church since that night at the Bluebird when he announced his former fiancé came back into his life. We wave hi acros
s the sanctuary, but that’s it.
My fan is Mallory Clark. The crazy girl I almost hit while driving to Nashville. I call her when I’m going to an open-mike night, and she shows up.
“I’ve been doing some singing. Recording demos,” she tells me after my last open-mike at the French Quarter.
“So, you’re back to singing as a career?” This after a week of sculpting classes and a zealous but short-lived consideration of culinary school.
“Yeah,” she says with soft confidence. “My ex messed me up, but I’m back on track.”
“Good for you. Never let the ex keep you down.” I grin at her and pull out my little notebook. Never let the ex keep you down . . .
Besides making open-mike nights, I’ve been writing songs with Graham, who’s become a good friend, and with a woman I met in a NSAI workshop, Kim Flowers. She’s a spunky English gal who has helped me a lot with writing melodies.
“You’re stuck writing with all the major chords,” she told me in her fancy English. “Let’s throw in some minors, shall we? Be daring.”
I laughed and slapped down a B minor on the song we were writing. “How’s that?”
“Excellent, darling.”
Being around Kim, hearing her accent, made me think of Eliza, which made me miss her, so I actually sat down at one of the NSAI members’ computers and e-mailed her. Not sure, but I think I heard her fainting all the way across the Atlantic. I wrote all about Nashville, songwriter’s nights, Skyler, Blaire, Birdie, Graham, and Lee. Doing this miraculously brought my life into focus in my own eyes.
A few days later, she e-mailed me back.
Dear Nashville,
My roommate had to revive me after I got your email. What happened to you? Nashville is truly a city of miracles.
Sounds like all is going well, and I’m proud of you.This is the big sister I know. Oh, by the way, I’m into Keith Urban these days, so if you run into him, hug him for me, ’k? One of my classmates, a girl from Ohio State, has his CD, and if we’re not in class, we’re listening to Keith.
Summer in Cambridge is beautiful. The days are flying by. I love the course work, Literature— Shakespeare to the Present Day. Am having a jolly good time touring the countryside on the weekends. But I’m homesick for Alabama.
