A Nashville Collection (13 page)

With a quick glance at my watch, I cave and sit. “All right, let's hear what you got. How can we beef this
baby
up?”

“The chorus needs more energy. How's the song go?”

For forty-five minutes, we play through “Your Country Princess,” examining chord and lyric. We argue. We play through the song and argue some more. Graham is one arrogant dude, but I'm already starting to like him.

In the end, we change a line of the first verse, rewrite the second, add a few stops in the chorus to jazz up the melody, and Graham comes up with one rocking guitar lick between the second verse and the chorus.

I have to admit, his touch elevated the song to a new level. “Now
that
I can hear Reba or Faith singing,” he says.

“Thanks for your help. I learned a lot today.”

“Let's record a work tape.” Graham walks over to the cassette dubbing deck. “It's good to have tapes of your songs. Never know who you're going to meet.”

“Maybe another time,” I say. Since I'm not sure where Marc's office is located, I need time to get lost. Besides, I planned a stop-off before meeting up with my new boss.

Graham looks up from the dubbing deck. “We can make an appointment to get together. Do some cowriting.”

I nod while settling my guitar in its case. “I'd like that.”

He walks me to the stairs. “See you Monday night?”

“Monday night?”

“Open-mike night at the Bluebird Café. You need to get over your fear.”

“So I've heard.” I start up the stairs.

“Get there early, short stuff. Five o'clock.”

“Right, early.”

11

Maneuvering down Broadway in midday traffic, the Nashville
skyline looms around me. Stopped at the 7th Avenue light, I angle around my steering wheel for a better look at the BellSouth building. Twin towers jut skyward from the roof line, reminding me of the Batman logo.

I love this city.

The light changes, and I head for 4th Avenue and the Ryman Auditorium, the mother church of country music. When I was a kid, Granddaddy talked a lot about the grand old landmark, and I've always wanted to see inside.

At the ticket window, I purchase a single, private-tour entrance, preferring to take my time and wander the hundred-and-fourteen-year-old sanctuary alone and imagine history.

In the concession area, the buttery smell of popcorn makes my stomach rumble. After all my grocery shopping, I forgot to fix lunch. I ask the girls behind the counter, “Can I buy a bag?”

The girl to my right shakes her head. “No, sorry. It's for tonight's show.”

“Oh, okay.” The gift shop is across the way, so I peek inside to see if they have candy bars, but what's the use? My nose riled up my taste buds for hot, buttery popcorn.

Popcornless, I step inside the Ryman sanctuary, listening for sounds from the past—old Sam Jones preaching the gospel, the laughter and music of the Grand Ole Opry, or Minnie Pearl's “How-dee!” The scarred, ancient wood floor creaks under my feet as I make my way down the center aisle toward the stage.

A woman dressed in a uniform motions to me. “Stand up there and I'll take your picture.”

I step over to her. “How much?”

“Five dollars.”

I pull a few bills from my pocket. Five dollars is a small price to pay for a “before” picture. The round steps wobble as I make my way to the top.

“You can hold one of the guitars if you want,” the photographer tells me.

Perfect. I pick one of the two display guitars and slip the strap over my head. This feels amazing. I start to play.

“You're pretty good with that thing. Smile, now.”

One bright flash and I'm captured in history with an instant camera. Robin McAfee on the Ryman stage—almost.

The sanctity of the moment is lost when a touring couple passes through, and the photographer offers, “Do you want your picture? Stand up on the steps and hold one of the guitars.”

The couple stands on the steps, and the camera flashes. They chat with their Ryman tour guide while I secretly wish they'd leave. I want to do something, and I don't have all day. A glance at my watch tells me it's three-thirty already.

Oh, forget the people, Robin. Go for it.
“Y'all mind if I sing a song?”

“Oh, no, go ahead. Go ahead.”

Quivering, I stand in the center of the top step, close my eyes, and sing my all-time favorite song. Simple. Sweet. And true.

Jesus loves me this I know.

The tour guide interrupts. “I know that song. I'll join you.” He steps up next to me and clears his throat.

Grinning, I start the song over. “Jesus loves me this I know . . .” The guide sings the low harmony.

The touring couple applauds when we're done. My hands tremble as I set the guitar back on the stand. But I did it—sang at the Ryman Auditorium. Noted or not, I just joined history.

Waiting for me in the front hall, Birdie is decked out in suede
fringe and leather.

“If you're Tonto, am I Kemo Sabe?” I ask, jogging down the steps.

Her lips curl into a slow grin. “Are you always this sassy?”

“Mostly.”

We walk out the door toward her Explorer. “When's your hair appointment?”

“Tomorrow. Why?” I touch the ends of my hair. I did the best I could without resorting to a ponytail.

“Can't come soon enough.”

And I'm sassy?

The Bluebird is a small, cozy place nestled between a dry cleaning business and Helen's Children's Shop on Hillsboro Road. I love the family atmosphere immediately. It seems fitting that such a humble place launches such great careers. Folks like Garth Brooks. How can I not love a place that embraces people like me?

Birdie weaves through the thick crowd, saying hello and kissing cheeks like it's old home week. She introduces me as Robin McAfee, a friend of ole Jeeter Perkins.

While she pauses to catch up with someone—“We have to write together,” I hear Birdie say. “Let's get something on the books.”—my gaze wanders the room. The clean but close- walled café is so opposite from last night's venture into On the Rocks. Blowups of country legends like Dolly, Willy, and Don Schlitz line the wall, and opposite the bar, above the pew seats, are dozens of photos of Nashville songwriting greats like Victoria Shaw, Suzy Bogguss, and Richard Leigh.

Is there room on the wall for me? Shoot, first I've got to make it to the Bluebird stage. I glance at the door as more folks flood inside and stand along the walls. A knife of anxiety cuts my breath.

“Come on, shug, let's get to our table.” Birdie presses her hand against my shoulder. Her buoyant voice shines light on my dark moment. As I turn to follow, my eye catches a vacant little corner on the bottom of the songwriter's wall. There's room.

Squeezing between the tables, Birdie leads me to the center of the room where bright lights shine down on three circled chairs. “This is called singing in the round.”

I grin. “Got that much down, Birdie.”

“Well, then, you're all set. What'd you need me for?” She takes the table behind one of the songwriters' chairs.

“Are you always this sassy?” I ask, laughing to create my own antianxiety medicine. The small room is closing in on me. I can't sing in here. There's no air.

“Mostly.” Birdie laughs with a wink.

As we sit, a giant of a man with dark squinty eyes and a skunk-striped pompadour bends to hug Birdie. “How's my favorite songwriter?” He's wearing a fringed jacket, like Birdie, and holey jeans.

Birdie chortles like a flitting bird. “She's fine, Walt.”

“Good, good.” He slips through his guitar strap. The guitar's tan wood body is scarred from years of hard strumming. “Who's this little lady?”

“Robin McAfee. My new tenant.”

Walt shakes my hand. “A songwriter, I take it?”

“Trying to be,” I say, smiling, realizing for the first time Walt Henry is
the
Walt Henry I listened to growing up. Granddaddy always noted the songwriter of our favorite tunes: “The writer's as important as the singer.”

Walt takes his seat. “You'll learn a lot from Birdie. Listen to her. Are you planning to sing the 'Bird, Robin?” He leans over his guitar to tune.

“Y-yes, sir.”

Birdie pats the back of my hand. “Remember Jeeter Perkins, Walt?”

“Why sure. Best steel guitar player I've ever heard.”

“He's a friend of Robin's. Says she can really belt out a tune. And write too.”

I flush under her praise. “Jeeter's partial.” How do I know? The impartial Graham Young didn't think my song had all that much going on.

Walt shakes his head. “Jeeter knows his stuff. I'd like to hear you sometime.”

“Any time,” my mouth says without my brain's permission.

The other songwriters arrive. Eric Exley and James Dean Hicks.

I lean over to Birdie. “James Dean Hicks? I
looove
his music. He's one of my, you know, heroes.”

“James Dean!” Birdie pops out of her chair and waves the handsome man over. “Come meet Robin.”

“Birdie—” I growl.

James Dean smiles and takes my hand. “Good to meet you.”

“Good to meet you,” I echo.

“She's the next hit songwriter, James, so you better stay sharp,” Birdie teases.

I gawk at her. What's she thinking? Stay sharp? Holy cow. James Dean is so far out of my league that I can't even see the ballpark. But, I want to be him when I grow up. Write the songs of my soul and turn them into hits.

“I look forward to hearing your songs,” James says.

“Hopefully before the Second Coming.” I will my eyes to smile like James Dean's.

“Are we ready to get started?” Walt steps up and slaps James Dean on the shoulder.

“Let's do it.”

By now, the Bluebird is standing-room only.
In the round
is literally surrounded.
I. Can't. Breathe.
The door is obscured. I'm pinned in by people, tables, and chairs. There's no escape without a scene.
Breathe deep. Listen to the music
I tell myself.

“Take it away, Walt,” James says. “We'll be here all night singing your hits.”

The room laughs, but once the music starts, there's no sound but the writers' clear, rich voices and astounding guitar playing. Their lyrics and melodies are clever and heartwarming, funny and witty. I'm amazed, discouraged, and challenged all at once.

While Birdie orders a brie and bread dip plate, I slurp down Cokes, calculating my future in Nashville. Hell might freeze over before I gather the courage to sing in this place, much less write like these guys and have my photo stapled to the wall. Wonder if Chancy will let me go back to tossing up stock at Willaby's.

But I made a Robin McAfee decision. It can't be revoked. Besides, if I chicken out, Ricky will never let me live it down.

And Momma. Forget it.

When it's Walt's turn to sing again, he looks over his shoulder at our table. “I'm gonna pull a surprise.”

Birdie smiles and leans forward, touching my arm. My head snaps around. Surprise? What surprise?

“We got a gal in here tonight and—”

Is Walt going to call me out? He can't. My heart stops beating. Literally.
Nooooo.

Walt unhooks his guitar strap. “I'd love for her to come sit and sing a song or two in my place. Y'all mind?”

The Bluebird applauds.

But I'm not prepared. I've never even sung at the Bluebird. Is this legal? Don't I have to try out first? My nerves launch fiery missiles and fry half my brain cells. I get up, shaking my head.

“Birdie Griffin, what'd you say?” Walt offers his hand to my tablemate, and the crowd applauds again. “Y'all remember ‘Take Me Home' and ‘Once More for Love'?”

More applause.

Birdie. Of course, he meant Birdie. Embarrassment burns across my nose and down my neck to the tips of my fingers. I sit slowly, ducking my head. What a doofus.

Birdie straightens her fringed leather skirt. “Guess I could do a song or two.”

Eric and James banter with Walt, entertaining the crowd while gracious Birdie takes a chair. “Ain't she something?” Walt says when he joins me at our table. His eyes are plastered on her face.

I'll be. Walt Henry's got a crush. “She sure is.”

“What key, Birdie? We'll play with you,” James says, nodding at the former icon.

“Let's try one in G, James. Eric, man, you're a looker. You still married?” Birdie starts strumming.

“My wife says I am.”

Laughter ping-pongs around the room. So, this is how it's done. My hands stop trembling, and I study Birdie's polished, easygoing performance. She wins every heart in the room with her clear voice and gutsy lyrics. Including mine.

12

“Ready for a treat?” Skyler asks, climbing into my truck when
I pick her up Wednesday for my hair appointment.

“Treat? It's a haircut.” I tug on the bill of my cap. I'm sorta getting attached to it.

“Time for a new you.”

I bristle. “What's wrong with the old me?”

“Frizzy hair.”

I smack her arm. She's right, but I can't let her get too cocky. At the light on 17th Avenue South, I ask, “Which way? Keep in mind I need to stop at Wal-Mart for a laundry basket.”

“Wal-Mart?” Skyler says, pointing to the left turn lane while also changing the station on my radio. “Let me introduce you to Bed, Bath, & Beyond.”

I curl my lip. “Hello, I'm cousin Robin McAfee, Freedom, Alabama. Wal-Mart queen, K-Mart princess, avoider of stores with silly alliterations like Bed, Bath, and Beyond.”

“Fine, spoilsport.” She huffs and turns up the volume of Big 98. “Head down Broadway to I-40.

“Where are we going?” I picture Supercuts or Fantastic Sams.