a slip of a girl. Anybody ever tell you you’re a dead ringer for Cher?”
I nodded. By twelve I was constantly compared to the dark, exotic celebrity when she was young, starring in the 1970’s Sonny & Cher Comedy Hour. I was tall and willowy, and my straight blue-black hair fell to my waist. But, where Cher wasn’t exactly well-endowed, I was ample in the bosom department. The other difference between me and Cher was that my eyes were green.
“So . . . what style of music do you do, Jennifer Anne Clodfelter?”
I borrowed some confidence from Mac’s words when he handed me my last paycheck. “I’m the next Patsy Cline.”
“Alrighty.” Roy chuckled. “Then let me guess. You do traditional? Or maybe early country?”
“Huh?”
“You said you’re Patsy Cline. But, there’s tons of styles. Got your Nashville sound and your country rock. Then there’s rockabilly, bluegrass, honky-tonk, outlaw, and Bakersfield sound. Cowboy Western and Western swing. Oh!” he clucked his tongue. “About forgot Texas country style, and the new traditionalist, and can’t leave out the contemporary sound, and of course, alternative. Though I don’t cotton to alternative.”
My heart started racing for fear my ignorance would show. “I’m the old kind of country.”
“I see. So, you want to be a star?”
I saw mischief in those blue eyes, and I didn’t know how to answer this question either. At last, I nodded.
That’s when he began regarding me with amused pity. “If that’s the case, you’ll really want to be here a little longer. Actually,” he paused and drew a long breath, “you’ll want to be here nine years.”
“Huh?”
Roy cleared his throat, and it seemed he stood on tiptoes because he rose up at least two inches. “Nashville may be the creative center of the universe if you’re a singer and a songwriter—got all kinds of resources here for learning the industry, lots of places you can sing—but folks don’t call her the nine-year town for nothing. They say it takes nine years to break into the scene, to become an overnight success. I’ve lived here all my life and I love her, but if you’re looking to break into the music business, she can chew you up and spit you out like nobody’s business.”
I must’ve looked sad or confused because Roy’s face softened, his voice grew smooth as silk, “You got people here?”
“I’m on my own.” Four simple words—the truth of it stunned me.
“I got an extra room at my house.”
“Um . . . thanks. No offense, but I’m fine on my own.”
“Ain’t trying to rain on your parade, but I’ve seen plenty have to wait tables or worse. Randy Travis was a cook and a dishwasher at the Nashville Palace before he could make it on his music. Seen a good number turn around and head home, too, tail tucked between their legs. You might need a place if—”
“I said I’m fine.”
Roy rolled his lips inward, considering. “Independent type, hmm? Well, good luck. But don’t worry if you change your mind.” He drew in a long breath. “If you change your mind, you just come right on back and see Roy. I’m here most evenings after seven. I just figured if you’re new around town, trying to make your way in the country music scene, it’d be good if you had somebody to fall back on.”
Back in my room, I sat on the bed, Roy’s words hanging over me like a dark cloud. Chew you up and spit you out, and Folks don’t call her the nine-year town for nothing. Just like that, a dark cloud moved over me. This spirit of despair was something I often felt, and it had a Siamese twin who drove me to do really rash and stupid things. That was how I’d made my worst mistake to date, acting on blind impulse. And now impulses to bolt from Music City were gathering forces. I knew despair was the worst thing, the killer that blinded you to possibilities, and so I clenched my teeth, closed my eyes, and forced myself to go back all those years to a little scene that happened on the stretch of linoleum between the music room and the gym.
“Really, Jennifer, you have a gift you need to share with this world.” It was between classes, and Mr. Anglin whispered in this intense voice, his small mouth barely moving against my ear. “Promise me you’ll get these demos to Nashville.” I recalled that his hands clenched into fists, even after I gave him