*****
After dinner with Allen, John and Judy went back to the studio and John signed the new contract with a smile. While they had been at the bank he had arranged for Allen to pay off Misty’s house before Brant’s Finance could foreclose on it. It was John’s gift to her for her kindness, patience and firm hand to make him make a move. At the studio he learned he had been booked in three country western clubs in Austin and two in San Antonio. The following week he was booked in Houston, Dallas and Ft. Worth.
He hadn’t had time so far to be nervous about appearing on stage in front of a large group of people. Now, he stood in the wings waiting to be introduced by the house band at Sloan’s, a country western club in Austin. From where he stood he could see out across the dimly lit club; couples were shooting pool off to one side, the bar was packed with cowboys and girls, hostesses were carrying trays of beers and mixed drinks to tables and couples were dancing on the dance floor to the house band.
When the band finished their first set the lead singer, who John knew as Rusty, stepped to the microphone and said, his eyes moving across the roisterous club, “Folks, we have what we hope will be a special treat for you tonight. All the way from Wimberley, southwest of here, a young man by the name of John Travis, Junior has come here for his debut performance. Won’t you give him a big, warm, country, rock-solid, Austin welcome? Now, Mister John Travis, Junior!”
John came out on stage. He looked out across the many people who, for the most part, ignored him. Still, he became nervous because very few acknowledged his presence on the stage. He was disappointed at their lack of attention.
“Come on John,” Rusty said with a laugh. “They won’t bite. Might throw a beer bottle at you, though,” he added, laughing.
Several of the patrons laughed and acknowledged John’s presence, mainly because of Rusty’s humorous comment.
“I’m real nervous,” John commented, loud enough to be heard by many more of the patrons in the club. They stopped and turned to see who this guy was up on the stage.
“I hear ya John!” a drunk patron called loudly from the audience. “Just sang one fer us, son!”
John smiled nervously, then stepped closer to the microphone. “These songs were written by my Daddy before he died in nineteen eighty-five. I hope I make him proud and you happy.”
The crowd cheered, clapped, whistled excitedly and yelled encouragement to John. He relaxed a little more, feeling their friendliness.
“But, this one’s for my Momma,” he was nearly drowned out by the cheering crowd. “I’m sure Daddy wrote it just for her. But maybe for Mommas everywhere. They’re sure special, right?”
The crowd grew louder.
“Sang fer us John!” the good natured drunk yelled again. “The night’s gettin’ old, son!”
John strummed the Martin acoustic and realized he couldn’t hear it. He knew if he couldn’t hear it, the crowd certainly couldn’t.
“Maybe I’d better go electric tonight?” he said smiling wryly.
The crowd cheered good naturedly as Rusty carried the Fender Stratocaster out to John.
“That’s right Johnny, ol’ Son, play ‘er loud,” the drunk yelled, as Rusty plugged the Strat into an amplifier.
“Don’t worry John,” Rusty said with a smile. “It’s happened to me more than once. You handled it well, though,” he added encouragingly, slapping John on the back in a friendly manner. “Do it for those you love the most. Forget everyone else. They’re just listeners amusing themselves. Your loved ones are watching you.”
Rusty turned and walked off stage. John strummed a G cord. It thundered over the noise of the crowd. “Now we’re cookin’!” he yelled excitedly and drove straight into the intro to the song.
The crowd cheered him on wildly as he made the Fender Stratocaster stand up and sing. When he began to sing the crowd slowly fell completely silent and turned to look up on stage at him. They began to move closer to the stage and stare up in awe at him. He sang with his eyes closed, putting his pain and misery, love and anguish into the song to his momma.
Several of the women in the crowd began to cry at the earnestness of John’s voice, when his own tears broke loose and slid down his face. Even some of the young men were seen to wipe their eyes on their long sleeves.
When the song finished and the last echoes of the strings fell silent across the silent, stunned, spellbound club, John opened his eyes and looked out across the silent assembly. He felt his heart sink, knowing he had failed. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you kind folks. I’m sorry for ruining your evening. Please forgive me,” he said, then started to turn from the microphone, feeling rejected. His eyes became misty, seeing Judy crying in the wings beside Rusty.
Before he could take his first step away from the microphone pandemonium erupted deafeningly throughout the large nightclub. He froze in his tracks, looking out over the crowd, his emotions nearing overload. He looked heavenward and offered a prayer of thanks, to God, his father and his mother. Then he looked across at Judy and mouthed the words, “I love you!”
She lowered her crying face into her hands and he turned back to the microphone. As he did, the crowd fell silent once again. “Sang fer us, John!” the drunk cowboy yelled emotionally, all choked up over the song.
“You wanna hear another of my daddy’s songs?” John asked, as curiously as he was doubtful.
Again bedlam broke out with cheering, yelling, jumping, clapping and eagerness to hear him sing and play again.
“I think I just lost my job,” Rusty told Judy offstage, placing his arm around her shoulders. “That boy’s gonna be famous!”
“Yes, he is,” Judy agreed, looking up Rusty’s chest and nodding her head. “I love him so much!” she added.
“He’s a lucky man, Judy.”
“Thank you,” she replied, turning to watch John perform on stage.
Just Beyond the Curve Page 8
