Bill Fitzhugh - Fender Benders (35 page)

And that was all the bartender would tolerate.
 
“Goddammit!
 
That’s it,” he said.
 
“You’re eighty-sixed, you sorry-ass
drunk.”
 
He pointed at the door.
 
“Get outta here!”

“I just wannanuther beer.”
 
He sounded pathetic.

“I said get out!”
 
The
bartender stormed around the bar, grabbed Chester
by the belt and collar, and forced him out the door.

Chester put up a
drunk’s fight on the way.
 
“I didn’t come
here and I ain’t leavin’!” he yelled as the bartender threw him into the
dirt.
 
Chester
pulled his head up and spit a small rock.
 
His mouth was muddy where the dirt had mixed with beer and spit.
 
He rolled over and yelled at the sky, “And I
want my money back!”

54.

Eddie was on the phone with the program director of WUSN-FM
in Chicago making promises he
intended to keep.
 
“I swear!
 
I will do your morning show,” he said.
 
“I will play at your listeners’ party,
whatever you want.
 
I love you
guys!”
 
Earlier that morning Eddie had
made pretty much the same promises to the program directors at KYCY-FM, San
Francisco; WXTU-FM, Philadelphia; KPLZ-FM, Dallas-Fort Worth; and WYCD-FM in
Detroit.
 
“Yeah, we’re on our way to New
York.
 
I’ll
have my assistant call when we get in and make the arrangements.”
 
By the time the plane landed, Eddie would
have spoken to eight or ten more country stations in the top twenty
markets.
 
He looked out the window at
mid-America and wondered if someone down there was listening to his song when
the program director asked him a question.
 
“Sure, I’d be glad to,” Eddie said.
 
“Is tape rolling?
 
Hey everybody,
this is Eddie Long and you’re listening to WUSN-FM!”
 
He couldn’t have been happier.

Neither could Megan.
 
She loved flying first class.
 
She
was made for it.
 
Prior to take off, she
sat there, casually flipping through
Architectural
Digest
, periodically casting a disdainful eye over the top of the magazine
at the coach class fliers as they filed past.
 
Yeah, that’s right, I’m
somebody.
 
Now move along, you’re slowing
the champagne service.

The members of ‘Team
Long
Shot’
were living a rare dream.
 
‘It
Wasn’t Supposed To End That Way’ had gone from number seven to number four in
its second week.
 
And now, in its third
week, it was the number one song on country radio.
 
The reviews were sparkling, four-stars,
pick-of-the-week, pre-ordained Album-of-the-year.
 
Many of the reviewers commented on the
remarkable overall sound of the record, “Like nothing you’ve heard in years,”
one reviewer wrote, “as full, rich, and warm as a living room guitar
pull.”
 
It was on all 149 of the top
country stations reporting to
Radio &
Records
and was getting spins on roughly 2,300 of the 2,500 country
stations in the US.
 
The album had sold a total of 620,000 units
in just
under
three weeks, the media requests were
pouring in, and Eddie’s accounts receivable were getting fat in a hurry.

Big Bill, Franklin, Megan, and Eddie were on their way to New
York for three days to kick off a national media
blitzkrieg.
 
In addition to six magazine
features and three newspaper interviews, Eddie was scheduled for
Good Morning America
and
Late Night with David Letterman
.
 
Then he had to do the morning show on New
York’s number one country station, WYNY-FM.After New York they were headed for
Dallas to start a thirty-five city tour in support of his album.
 
The tour would take them to Los
Angeles where he would do the
Tonight Show
, as well as
Entertainment
Tonight
, and
Access Hollywood
.
 
He’d also meet with several film agents
interested in looking at him with an eye toward roles in upcoming
features.
 
After that, Eddie started a
thirty-five city tour in support of his album.

Megan was next to Eddie, in the aisle seat, tickled pinker
than a salmon.
 
Two days earlier, still
in Nashville, Big Bill had called
to tell them
Long Shot
had been
certified gold and was on track for platinum status.
 
Being the kind of girl who adhered to the old
adage, ‘them that don’t
pluck,
don’t git feathers,’
Megan rushed out to buy some champagne before returning to pluck Eddie’s lights
out.
 
Afterwards, with Eddie lying next
to her sweetly drunk and satisfied, Megan picked up the phone, dialed the radio
station, and quit her job.
 
Then, gently
stroking Eddie’s champagne flute, she convinced him that the smartest and
sweetest thing he could do right then was get Big Bill to hire her.

“I’ll be your road manager and your personal assistant,” she
said as she began kissing his chest.
 
“You need somebody to schedule all the media stuff and coordinate with
the travel agents and the promotion people and the label.
 
And you don’t want Herron and Peavy doing
it.
 
You want them out making deals.”
 
Megan’s kisses began migrating south as she
continued her pitch.
 
“I’m perfect for
the job.”
 
She kissed his stomach, making
it quiver.
 
“I’ve got radio credentials
and I know enough about the record business and concert promotion.
 
And besides…”
 
She gave little Eddie a kiss on the
head.
 
“I take dictation.”

Eddie smiled as he looked down at Megan.
 
He was as drunk on his newfound fame as he
was on the champagne.
 
In fact, his hat
size had probably doubled in the last week.
 
“Why don’t you go ahead and finish what you’re doing,” he winked, “and
I’ll see what I can arrange.”
  
He grabbed
the phone and dialed.
 
“Hey, big
buddy,
just wanted to call and thank you for hiring my new
assistant.”

“What’re you talkin’ about?” Big Bill said.
 
“I didn’t hire anybody.”

“Sure you did.
 
She’s
here takin’ dictation right now.”
 
Megan
performed some sort of fancy oral maneuver.
 
“Whoa!
 
And we need to give her a
big raise.”
 
Eddie explained the deal
while Megan continued her work.

Big Bill hesitated only slightly before agreeing to the
terms.
 
He knew women like Megan.
 
He was still paying alimony to three of
them.
 
He considered saying no but he
didn’t want to piss off the golden goose.
 
He played everything upbeat.
 
“Hey, tell her she’s got the job.
 
‘
Specially
if she gives good dictation.”
 
Big Bill tendered a fraternal chuckle.
 
“Hard to find an assistant
willin’ to do that these days.
 
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m trying to sell some synchronization rights
on your behalf.”

55.

Two days later, ‘Team
Long
Shot
’ had four seats in first class winging east toward the Big Apple.

The sudden success had an interesting effect on Franklin and
Big Bill’s relationship.
 
They’d become
almost chummy, at least as far as you could tell by looking.
 
Sitting next to one another across the aisle
from Eddie and Megan, they were working on several things at once.
 
Big Bill was on the phone hammering out tour
details with concert promoters while Franklin
was finalizing a merchandising agreement.
 
Later, while Franklin
checked in with the record label, Big Bill was hunched over a legal pad,
tapping the pen against the paper, apparently unable to articulate his
thoughts.
 
After a moment he elbowed
Franklin who put his hand over the mouthpiece.
 
“What?”

“You have any idea who said, ‘writing about music is like
dancing about architecture’?”

Franklin shook
his head, shrugged, then returned to his phone call.

Big Bill had been working on his version of Eddie’s
biography ever since the call from Jimmy Rogers put the idea in his head.
 
After nearly two months, he almost had a
first draft of the opening line written.
 
He was starting to think a better use of his time might be to farm out
the actual writing of the book while retaining the ‘written by’ credit and the
royalties.
 
He stuffed the legal pad into
the pocket of the seat back in front of him,
then
he grabbed
his phone book.
 
He’d put in a call to
someone he knew in publishing, see if he couldn’t find an eager young writer,
someone who was hungry.
 
Big Bill knew he
could always make a good deal with somebody whose stomach was growling.

Eddie hung up with the guy from WUSN-FM and opened his
laptop.
 
He figured he’d try to get
started on songs for the second album, which they planned to record in about
six months.
 
As he started to type, Megan
eased a real estate flier onto the keyboard.
 
“Sweetie, I think this is the best we’re going to find in Belle
Meade.
 
Six bedrooms,
five baths, four fireplaces.
 
Gourmet kitchen, three acres, gated, video security.
 
It’s only two point eight.
 
I spoke with Colleen Michie, the listing
agent, and she says we need to get an offer in real quick at that price.” Megan
snuck a glance over her shoulder at Big Bill and Franklin
then lowered her voice.
 
“But have you
thought about what I said about moving to California?
 
Much better media access, and if you’re going
to be doing TV or features it
makes
more sense.
 
I mean, you can live anywhere you want and
write songs.”
 
She looked at Eddie as he
glanced at the flier, head nodding.
 
“I’m
sorry,” she said.
 
“I shouldn’t bother
you with this.
 
Get back to
writing.”
 
She leaned over and
bussed
his cheek.
 
“Just leave everything to me.”

56.

As he waited for a response from the literary agencies,
Jimmy moved forward on the book.
 
He’d
covered Eddie’s early years in Quitman County, the first show he reviewed,
Tammy’s death, the debut of ‘It Wasn’t Supposed To End That Way’ at the bar in
Starkville, the Internet marketing scheme, the phenomenal record deal, and the
rise to the top of the country charts.
 
Jimmy had finished two hundred pages and he knew he was going to sell
it, especially now that Eddie had the number one country song in America
and was on his way to setting sales records for a debut album.
 
Of
course if I could come up with some direct evidence that Eddie was a killer,
I’d have a best seller on my hands and Megan would
come
running back like a hungry pup.
 
And with
my corner on the lack-of-self-esteem market, I’d welcome her with open arms.
 
He gave that a moment’s thought.
 
I
really need to work on that.

Jimmy looked into the file of all the reviews he’d ever
written on Eddie shows.
 
Inside, he found
a document Eddie had given him, listing every club, casino, and frathouse he’d
ever played and the dates he’d played them.
 
He was about to create a time line of Eddie’s early years on the road when
the phone rang.
 
Jimmy picked up.
“Hello?”

“Jimmy Rogers, please.
 
This is Jay Colvin in New York.”
 
Jimmy recognized the name as one of the
literary agents he’d sent his book proposal to.
 
He had an off-key-nasally-talking-at-the-speed-of-sound thing going with
the voice.
 

“This is Jimmy Rogers.
 
How are you doing, Mr. Colvin?”

“How am I?
 
I’ll tell
you how I am,” he said.
 
“I’m
excited.
 
I’m very excited.
 
That is unless you’ve already signed with
another agent, in which case I’m depressed.
 
Very depressed.
 
Obviously I’ve read your book proposal.
 
First of all, I’ve got to tell you, you’re a very gifted writer.
 
Extremely talented, no
question about it.
 
Second I’ve
got to tell you, this is the mother of all book proposals.
 
I’m talking mother with a capital M.
 
Forty points, all cap.
 
And third I tell you these things not only
because they are true, which they are, but also because, as we like to say in
the publishing game, ‘timing is everything.’
 
And you, Mr. Rogers, have excellent timing.
 
Excellent.
 
Best timing I’ve ever seen.
 
I saw in the trades today that your friend
Mr. Long has the number one song on country radio, but I suspect you already
know that.
 
So tell me, Mr. Rogers, have
you signed with another literary agent?
 
No, wait, let me rephrase that, please tell me you haven’t signed with
anybody else.”

The guy talked so fast Jimmy could only pick up about half
the words, but he got the gist of what Mr. Colvin was saying and he liked
it.
 
“No sir, I haven’t signed with—”