Run Rose Run(12)

What she looked like now, she thought, was hungry.

“Well, there are worse things to be,” she reminded her reflection. “And you’ve been a few of them.”

She spent the rest of the morning wandering the streets and gazing into shop windows, feeling awkward and conspicuous with her big lumpy backpack. Though live music began at 10 a.m. all along Lower Broadway, she knew she’d never be able to talk her way onto one of those big stages. The people who played on them were seasoned professionals.

In the afternoon, she returned to the park to stash her belongings. A crow—the same one or not, she certainly couldn’t tell—was the only witness as she placed her pack in the hollow, covered it with leaves and branches, and then trudged back into town.

She’d decided to try her luck at a little spot on the corner of Church Street called the Dew Drop Inn, but when she asked the bartender if it might be possible for her to sing there, the woman didn’t even speak—she just started laughing. She laughed until a tear shone in the corner of her eye, and AnnieLee wondered if she’d been drinking more of the booze than she’d been serving.

“Every day,” the woman finally said, wiping her face with the back of her hand. “Every livelong day there’s a new face asking me if they can perform in my bar. Is there a farmer growing a whole field of you somewhere? Some bumper crop of wannabes?”

AnnieLee bristled. “You can just say no. You don’t have to call names.”

“Sorry,” the woman said, though she didn’t sound it. She pointed vaguely east. “You can try over at Patsy’s.”

AnnieLee moved toward the door. She didn’t know where Patsy’s was, but she certainly wasn’t going to ask.

“Just take those leaves out of your hair before you walk in,” the woman called after her.

Flushing, AnnieLee pulled a tiny twig from the park that’d gotten caught in her dark waves. “Thanks,” she said tartly, and dropped it on the sidewalk outside the Dew Drop.

After only a few wrong turns, she found Patsy’s and began to make her inquiry, but before she’d finished, the bartender interrupted and told her to put her CD on the bar.

“My what?”

He didn’t answer; he’d moved away to help an actual customer.

A lady in cat-eye glasses and bright-pink lipstick leaned over and poked AnnieLee in the forearm. “Your demo, hon,” she said.

“My what?” AnnieLee said again. She knew she wasn’t what anyone would call worldly, but she was starting to feel like there was a whole heck of a lot she didn’t know about the way things worked in Nashville.

“Most people who want to play here leave a CD they’ve made—you know, with them playing their music?” The woman pointed to a tall stack of CDs leaning on a counter behind the bar.

“Does anyone actually listen to them?” AnnieLee asked. They looked dustier than the picture frames at the Cat’s Paw.

“Who knows? But it’s like a calling card, sweetheart. You oughta get one.”

“Okay, thanks,” AnnieLee said. She’d add it to the list of things she needed, right behind a hot meal, a bed, a shower, and a guitar. “Can you recommend another spot for me to try?” she asked. “Someplace small—a bit out-of-the-way, maybe?”

The woman scribbled a few names on a bar napkin and then pushed it toward AnnieLee.

“Here you go,” she said. “You’re real pretty and you’ve got a nice figure, so you might have a little luck.”

Is that what matters around here? AnnieLee thought.

“Then again,” the woman went on, “you might not.” She pulled a long, gold-filtered cigarette from a pack and put it between her lips without lighting it. “And if it seems like all those folks are trying to stop you from getting anywhere, hon, that’s because they are. They’re the gatekeepers, whether they deserve to be or not, and they don’t want anyone but the best and brightest coming through.”

“Separating the wheat from the chaff,” AnnieLee said. The Gospel according to Matthew had been her mother’s favorite.

“Mm-hmm. If you want to make it in this town,” the woman went on, “being talented is just one little tiny part of the battle. Fearlessness is mandatory. And shamelessness sure as hell don’t hurt.”

AnnieLee nodded. “You’ve been really helpful,” she said. “I hope I get to sing for you someday.”

“Oh, I bet you will, sweetie. I see hunger in your eyes.”

“Yeah, literal and figurative,” AnnieLee said. “Thanks again.”

Outside, she closed her eyes and leaned against the sun-warmed brick building. She told herself that she wasn’t discouraged. She knew she was going to have to knock on a lot of doors, and it was only to be expected that some of them would get slammed in her face.

After another moment’s rest, she righted herself and started walking toward the next watering hole. She thought of her stepdad, lurching from dive bar to dive bar, trying to remember which place hadn’t eighty-sixed him.

Just like him, she needed a bar desperately. Not for a drink, though: for a chance.





Chapter

12



But it wasn’t desperation that took AnnieLee back to the Cat’s Paw Saloon two nights later. It was loneliness.