Rock the Boat

by Sigmund Brouwer

  “What!” Webb leaned forward.

  “Because our files did not show you as a client, there was some confusion,” Jordan said. “Our receptionist, however, cross-referenced all our recent calendars and realized you had come in yesterday. So she gave the letter to me, as you had set up an appointment with me. You’d given us your cell number when you made the initial appointment, so I was going to call you as a courtesy. Then the receptionist got your incoming call to set up this appointment. And since you’ve engaged me with the retainer, with your permission I suggest we deal first with the legal action about to be taken against you. After that we decide what to do against Gerald Dean.”

  Webb stood. He had to. He really wanted to go into Hulk mode. Rip, destroy, crush. But that wouldn’t do him any good. He paced to the window and back to the chair.

  Jordan hadn’t moved. “Gerald Dean’s legal action is to ensure you don’t make any slanderous statements about his integrity.”

  Webb couldn’t help himself. He thumped his thigh with his fist. “I’m the innocent one.”

  “Please sit,” she said. Her voice was so calm that it served to calm Webb. He sat.

  “Let me explain the situation. Do your best to see it from a legal perspective, not a personal one. Unless we can prove your accusation against their client, you can expect a lawsuit for slandering his reputation if you make that accusation anywhere public.”

  “But—”

  She held up a hand. “It will not go well with you in front of a judge. I took the liberty of making an informal call to my colleague at the other law firm. He says the check you made for payment bounced.”

  “I took money out of my account so it would bounce,” Webb said. “I thought that would be easier than trying to get it back.”

  “Heard of a stop-payment request?”

  Webb had no answer.

  “That makes you look bad, as you can see. And he says his client has a video of you physically threatening him, and that on the same video you clearly make the slanderous accusation.”

  “It isn’t slander. It’s true!”

  “Not to an impartial judge.” She paused. “You need to hear me out on this. Gerald Dean has also hired that law firm to take you to court for the bounced check and to get a restraining order against you. Legally, you appear to be in a bad position.”

  Webb leaned back in his chair, suddenly exhausted by the unfairness of this.

  “It’s going to be expensive to fight,” she said. “You should know that up front.”

  “I’m the innocent one,” Webb said, “but it’s going to cost me?”

  “That’s how the legal system determines who is innocent. And if you lose, they are seeking damages of $50,000. Plus his legal expenses.”

  “I don’t have the money,” Webb said. “To fight or to lose.”

  She spoke softly, as if to lessen the blow. “Their offer is that if you formally sign an admission that Gerald Dean is the writer of the song and lyrics titled ‘Rock the Boat,’ no further legal action will be taken.”

  She paused. “And they have given you until noon tomorrow to sign the admission.”

  Fourteen

  For Webb, when things were as bad as they could be, there was only one way to escape. Music.

  He found a street corner in downtown Nashville. He set his guitar case on the ground, pulled out his acoustic, left the case open for donations, sat down and leaned against the wall behind him. The brick was warm from the afternoon sun, and Webb tried to focus on the pleasantness of that feeling.

  It was difficult, however, to think beyond what he was facing. He had written a song good enough for a producer to steal for another artist, yet it looked like he had no chance of proving the song was his. He needed thousands of dollars to fight Gerald’s legal action against him, and he’d need thousands more if he lost. As Jordan Marvin outlined the situation, no judge would side with Webb. He’d have to sign over the rights to the song—his song—just to be able to leave Nashville with the last of his money in his checking account. And the same producer who was stealing that song from him refused to deliver all the other songs that Webb had not only paid for already but also put in endless hours recording in the studio.

  Webb closed his eyes. Yup. That about covered it.

  Only one song would help him disappear into the music. “To Get Here.” About a journey to get to someone you loved. It was one of his originals for the album, and one of the studio songs he’d spent so much money and time on, only to have Gerald Dean take it from him in the end.

  But Gerald Dean couldn’t steal the song from Webb’s heart.

  Webb kept his eyes closed. He didn’t need to look at his guitar to find the frets and strings and chords. He hit the strings hard.

  Spinning wheels over dotted lines

  You’re a moving picture in my mind

  And I keep on looking round the bend

  For that sweet, sweet moment I see you again.

  Hold on, baby, let me catch my breath

  From seeing you smile, it’s as good as it gets

  And every step felt like a year

  But it would have been worth a thousand miles,

  Oh, to get here.

  He was so lost in the song that when a strange noise broke through, it took him a few moments to realize that it was applause from half a dozen people who had stopped in front of him and his guitar case.

  Webb gave them a half smile. He wasn’t doing this for them. He was doing it for himself.

  There was another song he’d worked on with Gerald Dean. Not one he’d written himself but one he’d wanted to record for a friend who loved the song. The song about war and peace. About valley people attacking mountain people in an act of greed and hate. That seemed to fit the situation too.

  So Webb played and sang his remake of the song, shifting some major chords of the original to minor.

  More people stopped. Dollar bills floated into his guitar case. A couple of fives and tens too.

  “You rock!” someone said.

  It was a decent balm for his soul—except for the phrase “You rock,” which reminded him of “Rock the Boat.”

  Then it occurred to Webb that when he wrote the song, he’d really believed what he was saying. Want to reach your dreams? Live life loud. Bring the roof down. Rock the boat. Make sure that when you look back, you have no regrets.

  And now he was feeling sorry for himself. So sorry he was thinking about signing that piece of paper in the lawyer’s office and taking the safe and sure way out?

  Forget that, Webb told himself. He wasn’t going down that easily. It was time to rock the boat.

  So he hit the opening chords hard, shifted into the up-tempo portion and leaned into the vocals, grinning widely as he played the chorus.

  You gonna have to know we’re gonna mess up

  You gotta know we might wreck stuff

  You’re gonna see us learn our lessons

  But it’s gonna be our best of.

  Yeah, we’re gonna rock the boat

  That’s the only way to know

  We’re gonna have to rock the boat

  Yeah, that’s the only way to go.

  The small crowd was clapping to the beat, and when he reached the chorus for the third time, some people sang it with him.

  Great moment. No, awesome moment. Wasn’t this what it was all about?

  Webb noticed someone had pulled out a phone and was shooting a video.

  And that’s when he realized something he should have thought of a lot sooner.

  The realization felt like a current of electricity running from his guitar and through his body. It was such a strong bolt of inspiration that he almost jumped to his feet without finishing the song. But there was the clapping and the singing, and no way was he going to break the amazing connection the music had created between strangers.

  So he forced himself to play the song to the end, even though he felt embarrassed by the hollers of appreciation.
/>   When he stood and the crowd moved on, he reached into his guitar case and pushed past the bills for the small compartment where he’d put the business card with Harley’s address on the back.

  It was Thursday. He hadn’t planned on accepting Harley’s invitation to go hang with some of his friends for a jam session that evening, but Webb’s bolt of inspiration had changed all that.

  Yup.

  Tonight Webb was going to find Harley and definitely rock the boat.

  Fifteen

  “Hey,” Harley said when he answered the door. “Great to see you. Come on in and meet my friends.”

  Harley paused, taking in Webb’s shirt. “Edmonton today? Aren’t they, like, Calgary’s biggest rivals?”

  “I rotate through the league,” Webb said. “No favorites.”

  He was surprised at Harley’s knowledge of CFL teams, just like he’d been surprised that Harley knew where Moose Jaw was.

  Then again, Webb had been surprised when he was down on the street pushing the intercom button for Harley’s place. When Harley had said he and his friends jammed in a warehouse, Webb had pictured a few guys getting together in some empty, long-abandoned building with broken windows and maybe an empty oil drum in the center with burning wood to provide some heat—a movie cliché, but Webb hadn’t been able to help himself.

  This building at the edge of the river, east of downtown and close enough to the core to be in the shadows of the skyscrapers, was in an area of upscale coffee shops and intimate cafés.

  And calling it a warehouse was accurate only in the sense that, yes, at one time it had been a warehouse.

  As Webb stepped through the doorway and followed Harley into his loft, he saw a huge space with living quarters at one end, hardwood floors and large windows that overlooked the Cumberland River. Only someone with money could afford a place like this.

  Harley had set up the center of the open area as a stage, complete with monitors and speakers. Four guys were hanging out there, chatting quietly as they tuned their instruments. None of them looked like the homeless people Webb had known when he was living on the streets in Toronto.

  Two of the guys had guitars. Webb tried not to show any reaction as he realized the guitars were top-end Telecasters. A third guy was riffing quietly on a drum set. And a fourth sat behind a keyboard, eyes closed, smiling.

  Crap, Webb thought. Have I gotten myself in over my head?

  Then he noticed the framed records on the walls. Framed gold records.

  Crap, he thought again. Who exactly is Harley?

  “Guys,” Harley said, “this is Webb. He’s the one who fed me the other day when I was busking.”

  All of them laughed. It was good-natured laughter, not mocking laughter.

  “Cool,” one of them said. “You made Harley’s day. He was telling everyone that he wouldn’t have made it through the day without that kind of generosity.”

  The guy at the drums—middle-aged, earrings on both sides, goatee—hit the snare with the kind of ba-rump that follows a punch line.

  “Well,” Webb said, thinking of the gold records on the wall, “he was playing his guitar so bad I thought he’d starve otherwise.”

  That earned another ba-rump from the drummer and more good-natured laughter from the other musicians.

  “That’s right, Harley,” the keyboard guy said. “Remember, you can’t eat a Grammy.”

  This was heavy-duty stuff. A Grammy?

  Webb leaned close to Harley and spoke in a low voice. “I had no idea. Really. But you play on the streets to keep the music real, right?”

  “The industry can wear you down,” Harley said. “That’s why all of us hang out here on Thursday nights. To get away from managers and lawyers and agents and enjoy the music.”

  Those words sunk in. Managers and lawyers and agents. As in musicians who had deals and needed managers and lawyers and agents.

  “Maybe,” Webb told Harley, “I could just sit in a corner and listen?”

  Harley looked at his friends. “The kid just wants to sit in and listen. Not a chance.”

  He put his hand on Webb’s shoulder and pushed him toward the stage. “Plug in and give us that great song you played on the street.”

  “About that,” Webb said. “Something has been happening, and I’ve got a question or two.”

  “Business?”

  “You could say that,” Webb said.

  “Rule one here,” Harley answered. “No business. Just music. Come on. Plug in and play. They don’t know the song, but they’ll jump in like I did.”

  Fresh from playing it on the street, Webb was in a great mood for “Rock the Boat.” Harley joined in immediately, but the bass guitarist froze and stared at Webb until Webb stopped, just after the first chorus.

  “I mess up somewhere?” Webb asked the openly hostile face.

  “Yeah,” the bass guitarist said. “When you ripped off those guitars from Gerald Dean. And his song.”

  Sixteen

  “Hang on,” Harley said. “Everybody stop playing and come and sit down.”

  “Huh?” said the drummer.

  “Rule one. When we’re playing, we don’t discuss business.”

  Harley pointed to the far end of the loft. At the easy chairs and leather sofa that formed part of the living area. “Let’s grab something to eat and drink, and settle in and talk about this.”

  The drummer was the first to move. The others followed.

  Harley stayed back a few steps and put his hand on Webb’s shoulder.

  “Straight up,” Harley said. He spoke in a low voice to keep the conversation private. “That your song?”

  Webb said, “Yes.”

  “You steal Gerald Dean’s guitars?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’ve got your back.”

  To Webb, those words felt like the first rays of sunshine penetrating fog.

  At the other end of the loft, Harley made a point of grabbing a can of soda and handing it to Webb with everyone already seated and watching.

  “First thing,” Harley said. “I invited Webb here as my friend. Someone’s your friend, you give them a good hearing if someone else makes accusations against them, right?”

  “Stealing someone else’s music is a big deal in this town,” said the bass player.

  “Let me ask you this,” Harley responded. “How many great songs has Gerald Dean written?”

  Silence.

  “How many not-so-great songs has he written?” Harley asked.

  Again silence.

  “See what I mean?” Harley said. “The guy’s a decent producer. We all know that. He’s not known as a writer.”

  Harley kept going. “When I was busking with this kid, a guy accidentally threw a hundred into my guitar case. Kid said no way we should take it. Does that sound like someone who’d steal a guitar?”

  Harley turned to Webb. “This is putting you on the spot. But I’m thinking any guy who brings breakfast to someone he believes is living on the streets has a code that would keep him from ripping someone off.”

  “It’s my song,” Webb said. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out the papers he’d been given at the law office. “I came here to show you this and ask about—”

  Harley held up a hand, smiling. “We’re music people. Not agents or managers. If you wrote that song, no way is it your first song. So I’m okay doing this to you: play us something else of yours.”

  Webb understood where this was going. He went back to the center of the loft and stood alone among the cords and speakers. He picked up his guitar and strummed it a few times to be sure it was still in tune. Of course it was, but this was something he did automatically.

  Webb didn’t see any point in playing another up-tempo song like “Rock the Boat.” Harley’s challenge was simple: show us you are a songwriter, because we know Gerald Dean is not. Webb would demonstrate some range and give them his favorite slow song. About a girl he missed—a girl whose smile he missed.
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  “Tuesday Afternoon.”

  Webb started slow and kept it slow.

  In my favorite spot on a Tuesday afternoon

  With a coffee pot and a window to the world

  Where my thoughts seem so much smarter

  And my heart beats that much harder

  For you…

  Webb had spent some time with a girl from Alabama, who had come up to Nashville to visit. Not enough time. She’d left to go to college in California, and he’d spent long hours thinking about what might have been.

  Did you leave me because I wasn’t what you hoped for?

  Wish you would have told me something I could do

  But there’s some things you can’t change

  The way that I can’t change

  That I love you…

  As he sang and played, he went back in time. He was sitting in the houseboat with Ali Hawkins, watching rain streak the windows and spatter the calm water, listening to her say she was going to California and it wouldn’t make much sense for either of them to wait for the other while they were on opposite sides of the country.

  The sadness and longing must have filled his voice, because when he finished the song, it was so quiet that the ticking of a clock somewhere seemed to echo across the loft.

  Finally the bass player stood. He gave a single clap of his hands. Then a few seconds later, another clap. He spaced the claps far enough apart that his applause served as an ovation. The others stood and joined him.

  Webb lifted his guitar strap off his shoulders and set down his guitar. He was just realizing how important this moment was. He didn’t know who these guys were—it was killing him not to go over and check out the gold records—but they were obviously a tight-knit group of Nashville insiders who believed first in music. “Tuesday Afternoon” had been make or break. If he’d messed up, he’d have been out the door.

  His legs wobbled on the way back to the sitting area. He sensed that whatever had just happened was far bigger and better for him than if he’d landed a spot with the band at the audition earlier that day.