Traveling Light

by Lynne Branard

  “Welcome to Music City,” a voice behind me calls out and I turn to find a guy handing out playbills. “It’s the lineup at Tootsie’s,” he tells me and hands me a paper. “No cover tonight.”

  I nod and glance down at the list of bands appearing at the bar two blocks up. It’s a different music group every hour.

  “You from Tennessee?” he asks, and I shake my head.

  “Lineup at Tootsie’s,” he announces again and hands out a few more papers to a group of boys walking past. He turns to me again, waiting for something else. “That’s usually the setup for you to tell me where you are from.”

  “Oh,” I reply, obviously unfamiliar with the cues for conversations on the street.

  “North Carolina,” I tell him.

  He nods.

  “Not too far away,” he responds and passes out the remaining bills left in his hand. He’s wearing a backpack so I figure he has more with him.

  “You waiting on your husband?” he asks, motioning with his thumb to the store I just walked out of. “He buying you matching hats?”

  I smile and shake my head. “A friend buying pajamas,” I tell him, taking a closer look at this guy who works for Tootsie’s and for some odd reason is chatting me up.

  He’s maybe twenty-five, thirty; and he’s attractive. Tall, sturdy build, with long arms and a goatee, sandy colored, that matches his hair. He’s got brown eyes, is wearing a diamond earring in his left lobe, and hasn’t stopped smiling since he started talking. I’m not sure if that’s a clue to a naturally sunny personality or if he’s just learned how to be charming while passing out Tootsie’s show bills.

  “My band plays at nine,” he announces.

  “You play in a band?” I ask.

  “Darling, you’re in Nashville. Everybody plays in a band.”

  I nod. “Good to know.” I glance down. “That means you must be in the Alabama Alligators.” I read from the piece of paper he gave me.

  He nods while I continue to read the drink specials. Draft beer is three dollars from seven to nine.

  “What do you think about that name?” he asks.

  I glance up and shake my head, uncommitted, and then I look back down at the list of bands appearing at Tootsie’s. “Well, it’s slightly better than the Rocky Mountain High Notes,” I say.

  “Slightly better,” he repeats, clearly unimpressed by my reaction. He nods and slides the backpack off his shoulders and unzips it. He takes out a bottle of water and takes a long swallow. “We started out as the Alabama Rockers; but that just made us sound old.” He returns the water, takes out another handful of papers, and slips the pack onto his back.

  “How long do you do this?” I ask. I’m not wearing my watch, but it must be close to nine by now.

  “We show up about fifteen minutes before we go on. I work out here for as long as I want before or after a gig.”

  “You get paid by Tootsie’s?”

  He shakes his head. “No, it has to do with the crowd I attract. If folks show up the night we play and especially if they’re in the house when we’re on, we have a better shot at making more money, getting more prime slots. It’s just a way to demonstrate to the management that you’re creating a following.”

  I nod. I never realized all the intricacies involved in trying to make a living playing music in Nashville. I glance up and down the street and see there’s somebody on every corner passing out pieces of paper.

  “You like country music?”

  It’s certainly a fair question. I think about it.

  “I like the old standards—Patsy Cline, George Jones, Tammy Wynette.” I’m not even sure why I said that. I really haven’t listened to Tammy in years.

  “That’s the roots, for sure,” he says approvingly. “Anybody actually living you listen to?” He’s still smiling.

  “Is Tammy dead?” I ask. Clearly I haven’t been keeping up with the obituaries of the stars of country music.

  “Nineteen ninety-eight,” he answers. “Blood clot. Patsy Cline in 1963, George Jones in 2013.”

  His wealth of information impresses me. “Well, aren’t you the Wikipedia for dead singers?”

  “Sorry, it’s what I do.”

  I nod. I actually do the same thing with journalists. Martha Gellhorn, 1998; Dorothy Thompson, 1961; Murrow, 1965. It is true what my neighbor Millie says, “We do not let go of the details of those who shape our lives.”

  “Can’t think of anybody?”

  His question jolts me back to Broadway. “Oh, sorry. Contemporary country music stars . . .” I’m thinking.

  He laughs and shakes his head. “Shania, Little Big Town, Rascal Flatts?”

  I bite my lip.

  “I like some of their Christmas music,” I say.

  “Well, that’s something,” he responds.

  I blow out a long breath; I didn’t really want to confess, but it appears an explanation is necessary.

  “I’m just not really a fan of country music,” I say and watch his face fall. “The truth is I don’t listen to a lot of music of any kind. I like podcasts, speeches, TED Talks—that kind of thing.”

  He nods. I can see he’s trying to understand; but it must be difficult for a musician to hear this sobering commentary. “So, words are okay, just not melodies. No instruments to accompany these great speeches?”

  “I sound like a snob, don’t I?”

  “Well, no, because even snobs like music.”

  I shrug. I didn’t come here to justify why I don’t have playlists, why I don’t listen to music, download some catchy tune, why I don’t listen to the radio and get all sentimental when some cowboy goes on and on about having his heart broken. I like talks; I like to hear a well-thought-out argument and I like to be swayed by words, spoken not yodeled.

  I’m about to make an effort to change the subject when the door opens and out comes Blossom.

  chapter twelve

  “SO, I settled on Alan Jackson. Did you know he wears a hat to cover a scar on his forehead?” She’s holding a bag and has practically run right into me.

  I move a little to get out of her way.

  “Oh, you’re right here.” She pauses. “With a man.”

  She’s suddenly watching me and the guy who’s been giving out playbills, the one clearly offended by my lack of enthusiasm for his passion. I watch as this light sort of goes on in her eyes.

  She pulls away. “I’m so sorry; I didn’t mean to bust up a meet-and-greet.” And she starts to back up like she’s retracing her steps through the door behind me.

  I step aside to give her more room and for some reason this comment from her makes me blush. “Hey,” I say to her and then falter a bit. “You finish shopping?” I ask.

  She nods slowly. I catch on. She’s waiting to be either introduced or given a sign of what to do.

  “Um, oh, this is . . .” Awkward, that’s what this is. I turn to the man with the playbills. “I’m sorry, I realize I don’t know your name, just your band’s.”

  And just like that, Blossom has this big goofy grin on her face. She looks exactly her age, exactly seventeen, and it dawns on me that this guy probably thinks she’s my daughter.

  He holds out his hand to me, not Blossom. “James Hicks,” he says as a way of introduction.

  I smile.

  “Well, that’s a good country singer’s name right there,” I say, taking his hand, shaking it, and then dropping mine clumsily at my side. “Maybe you should just go with that.” I hope this provides some measure of redemption after the last dumb thing I’ve said.

  He smiles and slides a strand of hair away from his cheek, places it behind his ear. “I’m not so sure the rest of the band would agree.”

  “Right, those other guys.”

  He laughs and I hear a clearing of the throat.

  “And
this is Blossom,” I say quickly, having almost forgotten that she was there.

  He nods at her and smiles. “Hello,” he says and then turns back to me. “And you, Miss Carolina Book on Tape, you are?”

  I feel them both watching me closely.

  “Al,” I say.

  “Wells,” Blossom adds.

  “Nice to meet you, Blossom, and Al Wells.” He winks. It seems that he hasn’t taken great offense at how our conversation ended before we were interrupted, and truthfully, I’m relieved we had an interruption. Maybe he won’t push for more.

  “So, an Alan Jackson fan?” he says, addressing Blossom and her most recent purchase.

  “‘Hard Hat and a Hammer.’ ‘Mercury Blues.’”

  I’m guessing these are song titles.

  “Can’t forget ‘It’s Five O’Clock Somewhere,’” the Alabama Alligator James Hicks chimes in.

  “And, oh, Lord, I cry every time I hear ‘Remember When.’” Blossom clutches her bag to her chest.

  Unlike me, Blossom apparently knows her country music genre, and I am now the silent bystander to this dialogue on the street.

  “‘Old ones died and new were born.’” Well, of course he can quote lyrics.

  “Yeah, love that. ‘Life was changed, disassembled, rearranged.’”

  And clearly Blossom is no slouch, either.

  “What do you like about Alan Jackson music?” he asks her. And I’m certain this is for my benefit.

  “He’s classic, that’s for sure. His choices, musical and lyrical, they’re what’s great about country music. They speak of the things we feel but often cannot express.” Blossom suddenly sounds older than her seventeen years. I have to admit I’m impressed.

  “These songs can make grown men cry like little girls. I know because I have seen it happen.”

  “Somewhat more evocative than just a speech, wouldn’t you say?” And he peers at me once the question has been asked.

  Blossom looks at him and then at me. She raises her shoulders and her hands come up in a kind of well, duh gesture.

  “I didn’t say music isn’t evocative,” I say.

  “You just don’t listen to it,” he adds.

  “You don’t listen to music?” Blossom has now taken a side. “Who doesn’t listen to music?”

  He shrugs.

  “I listen to music,” I try to explain.

  “You have a Rolling Stones cassette tape,” Blossom says. “And I saw some soundtracks to old movies under the seat,” she adds.

  So that’s where my Dirty Dancing CD went. I knew I had it when I started this trip. I’ll have to remember to pull it out before we head to Memphis in the morning.

  I nod. “See?”

  “Well, now, that is something. I have to say, you had me worried there, Ms. Al Wells from Carolina. I thought I was going to have to kidnap you off the street and make you listen to Garth Brooks until I made a believer out of you.”

  “Who’s Garth Brooks?”

  He actually appears astonished.

  “You know, maybe I should have gotten a Garth shirt.” Blossom opens her bag and takes a peek.

  He stares at me a bit longer and then shakes his head.

  “No, I think you made a wise choice,” he says and then returns the playbills to his backpack. I guess he’s done drumming up business for the night. “You cannot go wrong sleeping with Alan Jackson.” There’s that million-dollar smile. “Or so I’ve heard.”

  He pulls out a cell phone and reads the time. “Well, as stimulating as this conversation is, I probably need to be heading over.” He returns his phone to his pocket. “My band is on at nine,” he tells Blossom.

  “Do we know the location?” she asks me.

  “Tootsie’s,” he and I answer at the same time and then face each other.

  “The Alabama Alligators,” I add.

  “Nice name,” she responds, nodding her approval.

  He turns to me and I do a kind of applause motion with my hands.

  “Well, we will just have to hop over there and see you,” Blossom responds. “Are you the lead singer?” she wants to know.

  “My brother and I both sing,” he answers.

  “A brother?” Blossom responds, raising her eyebrows.

  I have absolutely no idea what this is supposed to mean.

  “Then we are heading right to Tootsie’s and find ourselves a seat,” she adds.

  “Great,” James responds. “Well, I will see you over there. And I will try to put one song on the list that has talking in it.” He pulls at the straps of his backpack and walks across the street.

  “Okay,” I say.

  “Okay,” Blossom says, too. And she pulls me by the arm down the sidewalk while I still feel the flushing sensation spread from my face down my neck.

  chapter thirteen

  “YOU should call him.” Blossom is sitting on her bed. Her hair is wet and she has it twisted in a towel on top of her head. She’s wearing her new purple nightshirt, which goes down to her knees.

  Casserole is asleep on the floor between the beds and Roger Hart is on the dresser. I have just walked out of the bathroom and I head over to my suitcase and put my dirty clothes in the top zippered compartment. I check the front door to make sure it’s locked and then pull the covers down on my bed and jump in. I realize how tired I am, and this prone position feels very good. I close my eyes and breathe out a long, contented breath. I can’t recall the last time I have been out after midnight.

  “I’m not calling James Hicks,” I say, knowing that she saw him give me his number when we were leaving Tootsie’s.

  The Alabama Alligators turned out to be a decent cover band, but the truth is that even though I don’t know anything about country music I can’t imagine that they’re going to break out into some big national sensation.

  “He’s got to be ten years younger than me,” I add. I’m pretty sure my first impression wasn’t trustworthy. He seemed like a college student once I saw him onstage.

  “Age doesn’t matter,” she responds. “But I’m not talking about the guitar player anyway.”

  “Age does matter,” I reply. “And I’m not calling him, either.”

  I know that Blossom is still talking about Phillip Blake, the boy I had a crush on from sixth grade until we graduated from high school. I told her about him at the last bar we went in.

  When the Alligators had finished and were packing up their instruments, we left and walked a block or two. There was a little dive on a side street where a duo was playing guitar and mandolin, two girls that Blossom claimed sounded like Maddie and Tae, singers I don’t know, so we stayed longer than we had at Tootsie’s. I even had a piña colada, something I rarely do, and I’m still feeling the effect of the rum.

  When we could talk, in between sets, she asked me about boyfriends, and after denying I’d ever had a boyfriend or a teenage crush, I gave her some of the Phillip Blake story, how he got braces in seventh grade, how he grew a foot taller over the summer when we matriculated to high school, how we shared books in American history. I told her a lot—well, not the Sandra part—sipping on my fancy coconut drink.

  Apparently, she found him on Facebook while I paid the bar bill and used the restroom and now she’s obviously even dug a little deeper using the Internet white pages.

  “I have his number,” she says, waving a piece of paper in front of her face. She’s written it down.

  “I am not going to call Phillip Blake,” I tell her, throwing the sheet over my head, hoping she will stop talking.

  “Because of a bad breakup?”

  I sigh and roll over, the sheet still covering my face.

  “It says he’s not in a relationship.” She is clearly not as sleepy as I.

  “It doesn’t say he’s not in a relationship; it just doesn’t say
that he’s in one.” I know there’s no category for “not in a relationship” on Facebook.

  I may not know anything about Snapchat, but I know my way around most of the grown-up social media sites.

  “Same thing.”

  “Not the same thing,” I answer.

  To be honest, I’m pretty sure Phillip is still married; but I actually can’t say for sure. It’s been years since I engaged in my cyberstalking.

  “He lives in North Carolina.” She is quiet for a moment. “High Point, I think. Is that a town? Sounds more like an achievement.”

  “It is—and I know,” I tell her and there is a pause and I roll back over, pull the sheet down, and glance in her direction to see if the silence means she’s letting this go.

  Her eyebrows are raised and she’s staring at me. “So, you have kept up with him.”

  She is not letting this go.

  I roll my eyes and shake my head, punch at the pillows behind me. “I know he stayed around Winston-Salem after he finished college, was still there when he got married. His mother never left Clayton. She subscribes to the paper. She and my father are friends. The real kind,” I add.

  “Did she tell you he’s still married?”

  “She told me when he got married. That was nine or ten years ago. I haven’t asked her about him since.”

  “He’s divorced,” she says and I can see her scrolling down her iPad, her finger sliding along the side.

  “It doesn’t say that,” I tell her. “And even if he is, I am not calling him.”

  “It says it on his timeline.”

  I raise my head. This surprises me. “He wrote on his timeline when he got a divorce?”

  “No, there’s just postings from a few months ago from friends celebrating his ‘newly found freedom.’” And she makes air quotation marks with her fingers when she says “freedom” as she rests the tablet against her legs.

  I close my eyes and think about the wedding picture his mother brought to the paper. I hadn’t seen Phillip since we’d both finished our senior year but just to see him in the glossy five-by-seven stirred up all the old feelings I recalled from high school.