Date: Mon, 10 Jan 2011 21:48:30 -0600
From: michaelpete@hushmail.com
Subject: The Musician

The story is fiction but based on real characters, events, places and
situations. There is no relationship between the names used and that of any
real person. Send comments to michaelpete@hushmail.com.

THE MUSICIAN

By Michael Peterson

Chapter 1


	The name Bobby Stottlemeyer popped up for the first time seventeen
years ago, about a month before Holy Week of 1989. The information took an
incredibly circuitous route getting to me. It was amazing that the news
about the boy ever got through at all.

	When it did, being, among other things, a Nashville music producer,
I was very interested.

	The story, as it finally arrived, began with the janitor of Bobby's
school overhearing someone singing in the boys' room. Apparently, Bobby's
teacher regularly gave him plenty of time in there as it was the only break
away from the abuse of his classmates. Bobby was more than a bit
effeminate.

      The janitor was a black man raised on the music of the south. In
fact, he played a guitar at home and was familiar with the song, `Making
Believe', that he heard being sung. Thinking the boy was pretty good, he
rushed down the hall to the music room and convinced the music teacher to
leave her class and go listen. The music teacher wasn't sufficiently
familiar with American country music to know the tune but was certainly
qualified to realize the student singing was very talented.

	She waited for a while to see who the singer was but after a few
minutes listening to the racket coming from her classroom, left the janitor
and rushed back to her out-of-control students. The janitor then went
inside again to listen. At that point, the boy was doing a stylized version
of Buck Owens' `Together Again' complete with Owens' particular
inflections. He accented the completion of that song with an on time flush
of the toilet.

	"You Bobby from third grade, aint' cha?" asked the janitor when a
surprised Bobby Stottlemeyer walked out of the cubicle.

	"Why? Ah din't do nothin' wrong?" he defended with his deep
southern accent.

	"You got one fine voice on you, boy."

	Bobby flushed. "I gotta git back ta class."

	The janitor, who'd been leaning on his dry mop by the door, stepped
back to let Bobby leave then reported the singer's identity to the music
teacher. She was sufficiently inspired by the boy's voice, if not the boy,
as Bobby was considered by many to be a problem child, that, immediately
after that class, she headed for the office and called a choir director
there in St. Louis, Missouri. He came right over.

	In the meanwhile the music instructor spoke to the boy's third
grade teacher who claimed to be completely unaware that Bobby had any
talent at all. He was a good student but seemed to have so many personal
problems that any talent could well have been hidden inside the tumultuous
world the boy inhabited.

	Bobby was the youngest of three children of a single working mother
who had gone to bed with three different men, each brief tryst resulting in
a child. However, as the teacher later explained to me, she provided each
of her babies with the real father's last name in hopes of forcing some
kind of child support. That strategy never worked out.

	"I don't know where he got his brains from `cause his mother has
none," explained Bobby's teacher to the music instructor. "Daddy must have
been a genius to pass on enough to get Bobby where he is. He's probably the
smartest kid in my class but, with all his problems, I'm surprised he does
as well as he does. And he sings real good?"

	"Good? He's the best I've ever heard. Ben Matthews from the Boys'
Choir is coming over to listen to him. Do you mind if I take Bobby out of
class when he gets here?"

	Poor Ben was to be greatly disappointed. One of Bobby
Stottlemeyer's more pronounced problems was an intense insecurity which
made him extremely timid. Despite the pleading of the music teacher, he
steadfastly refused to sing for the choir director.

	The teacher later explained that when Bobby entered first grade,
he'd sung a lot, even during class. However, the heckling of the other
children put a stop to it.

	Fortunately, Ben Matthews didn't give up. The music teacher had
convinced him they had something very special in Bobby. Matthews was part
of a nationwide choir director's association, another member of which he
knew was very good at bringing shy kids out of their shell. The man lived
in Chicago but Matthews felt sure he could convince him to come to
St. Louis. He called him that night but was told the soonest he could make
it was over a month later, after the Holy Week holiday.

	Matthews told the music teacher they'd have to wait. The music
teacher, an Evangelical Christian and not one to be sympathetic toward
homosexuals as many considered Bobby, nonetheless did, during lunch break,
again comment to Bobby's teacher what an amazing voice the boy had. The
teacher suggested she mention it to the school social worker who was
sitting across the room. Perhaps, she said, he could be transferred to a
school with programs for musically talented children. The social worker had
dealt with Bobby's mother for years since her two older kids, one a pimple
faced rebellious boy bully and the other an overly emotional twelve year
old girl, had been sent to her office a number of times. She felt sorry for
Bobby but had far too many charges to get more than briefly involved with
any one child.

	"Look, this boy's mother is not going to be helpful. First, she
works long hours as a waitress in some diner so she's hard to get to after
ten in the morning when she goes to work. Another thing, anybody you bring
here to help this child better be white. She's never called me a nigger but
she blames everything on those black juveniles as she calls `em.  And,
finally, you heard how Bobby talks, like a girl?"

	The music instructor nodded affirmatively.

      "You know how most folks around here feel about that."

	In the end, the social worker handed over Bobby's home address and
a wish of `Good luck'. The music instructor called Ben Matthews and gave it
to him along with her own wish of `Good luck'. She'd hoped that would be
the end of her involvement but Matthews leaned on her to accompany him on a
visit to the mother.

	After finding out from Sissy Sizemore, Bobby's half sister, that
the mother's day off was Wednesday, Ben Matthews and the music teacher went
after school that day to the boy's house only to find the mother was out
shopping. A week later they tried again, this time after sending a note
home with Sissy that they were coming.

	"Lord, that boy sings all the time," Bobby's mother said in the
doorway. "Drives us crazy but I din't think he was all that good. You sure
ya'll talkin' about Bobby Stottlemeyer?" She spoke with an accent that
sounded quite a bit farther south than St. Louis.

	They assured her Bobby was the one. She invited them in and called
her youngest son. He'd been in the back yard of their narrow two floor,
five room and bath row house playing with his toy animals.

	The moment he saw the music teacher, he blushed and backed up into
the kitchen.

	"Bobby," shouted out his mother, "git your butt in here. They come
to see you."

	"Actually, Miss Andrews, we came to see you." Matthews explained
that he had a children's choir and wanted to invite Bobby to come hear his
choir at practice to see if he liked it.

	The mother agreed. "Any time ya'll want him. Jus' that he don't
like to go nowhere with people he don't know. But I'll talk to `im if ya'll
want."

	When Matthews went for him the following Saturday, he was nowhere
to be found. Bobby's mother promised to hold on to him the following
weekend.

	That next weekend, Bobby was at home but refused to go anywhere. He
wouldn't leave the backyard. Without his mother around to force the issue,
that was that.

	The choir director took a small portable cassette tape recorder to
Bobby's mother at the working class restaurant where she was employed. "Do
me a favor, without him knowing it, try to get some of his singing with
this."

	She agreed. It took repeating the instructions up to five times in
one case, to teach her how to use the device. Matthews gave Bobby's mother
his business card so she could call him when the tape was used up.

	Her promise to cooperate was empty. Nothing was recorded that
week. The following week was mostly a school holiday and the man from
Chicago was due the following Wednesday. Matthews was growing increasingly
frustrated. When Bobby again refused to go anywhere that last weekend
before the Holy Week vacation, Ben decided to make one last try. Easter
Monday morning, he took the unused tape recorder to school early and spoke
to Bobby's teacher. She handed it over to the janitor and promised to send
the boy to the bathroom at about nine.

	Nothing happened that day. Tuesday, there was an near endless
stream of boys so they gave up. Wednesday, though, they got lucky. Bobby
sang two familiar country songs and another they'd never heard before
during an eighteen minute stay in the boys' room, all that despite other
kids coming and going, a couple of whom made remarks about the fag on the
toilet who couldn't `sing for shit'.

	The sound produced by the small device wasn't great but there was
no doubting the talent of the singer. Matthews called the man from Chicago
to play the tape for him only to be informed that he would be unable to
travel to St. Louis. He did, however, recommend a music agent who
supposedly knew lots of people in the business. "He's sure to know somebody
who can help."

	The choir director called the agent who referred him to a contact
in Nashville, Tennessee. Then it got convoluted. The Nashville contact
called a well known singer who told her to try an agent in Cincinnati. The
Cincinnati agent called another agent who called the original contact back
in Nashville. They laughed and dropped the matter.

    	By chance, the Cincinnati agent, who'd been in the circle of calls,
made a visit to Nashville a couple of days later. His second evening there,
he mentioned the boy to a recording engineer friend of mine who probably
knew more about me than I thought, or, at least, had put some things
together.

	Okay, about me. The name's Simon Baker, thirty-nine years old in
1989, the year our story begins. Back then, I was doing some record
producing more as a hobby than anything else. Being a person of
considerable means and loving bluegrass and mountain music, I'd been able
to get to know quite a few artists and other folks in the industry. I'd
studied music from the age of five and at the time of our story played a
number of stringed instruments including guitar, banjo, mandolin and some
fiddle. I kept my mediocre fiddle playing private so as not to embarrass
myself. I played in a country band as a child, then formed my own rhythm
and blues group as a middle teen. That lasted until I went off to college
where I went back to what in those days was called `hillbilly' music.

	So how does a New York City rich boy come in contact with
`hillbilly' music? At age five, my parents finally recognized my interest
in music and arranged piano lessons. They had a nice music system in our
living room and played a broad range of classical music on it when I was
around. For my sixth birthday, they bought me a huge Grundig `table'
radio. The thing had an antenna connection which they wired up to one on
the roof. I spent hours listening up and down the dial until one night I
happened on WCKY out of Cincinnati, Ohio. They were playing some Monroe
Brothers song. Wham! I was hooked. Then I found stations in West Virginia
and Nashville and insisted on guitar lessons in addition to piano.

	This is not to say I dumped classical. I still love it very much. I
have recordings of just about anything and everything J.S. Bach wrote along
with plenty of Telemann, Mozart, and the rest of the Baroque set as well as
some of the Romantic crowd, particularly if boys' voices were part of the
package.

	Actually, I became quite a storehouse of information on boys'
musical groups and individual boy singers though mostly those doing
classical and some folk. I've never much enjoyed boys doing anything
popular, probably because boys performing pop, including country, seemed to
feel it necessary to sing loud rather than well. I remember buying a couple
of Larry and Lorrie Collins records but mostly because the kid was a
dynamite guitar player and cute to boot. I gradually put together, in my
music room, a huge collection of LP's, cassettes and, later, CD's along
with original tapes from studio sessions.

      It's important here to admit that, aside from the music, the
underlying, no, principal reason for my interest in boy choirs was, is
boys. I like pre-adolescent boys, very much.

      Growing up in New York City, there'd been plenty of opportunities to
indulge in sex with boys from a couple of conquests in my private school
through Times Square hustlers. Then there were the occasional meetings
among the sons of wealthy family friends and contacts. Having large houses
provided plenty of places for horny rich kids to experiment and have fun.

      During my last three years of university in my hometown, I worked
three weeks during the Fall as a pronunciation coach for an internationally
known boy choir which spent a week practicing at a city hotel then did two
weeks of concerts in the region. I stayed at the same hotel and got to know
of couple of the choristers quite well. You can take that in the biblical
sense if you like. It was a different time.

	Due to being the only child of a corporate CEO [ a man who managed
to get hired then let go with huge bonuses three times during my
adolescence and early adult years, I grew up in great comfort. Although it
wasn't what I'd have preferred, my first job after college was in the music
business. Music was my major in college. I was, by graduation, sufficiently
accomplished on several stringed instruments and piano to do what I really
wanted: play in a country band. My father abhorred the thought of his son
becoming a musician, worse, doing `that hillbilly junk' as he called it. It
was bad enough that I wasn't into girls.  So, we compromised and I went to
work for a major record label scouting then signing artists in areas of the
management's interest, mainly classical and folk music.

	Shortly after my twenty-fifth birthday, my parents went on vacation
to Europe and were killed, along with two others, in a horrific automobile
accident in Germany. My father and I had never really gotten along so
losing him was bearable. My mother, however, was my anchor to reality.

	For two years I drifted in and out of a drunken stupor, losing my
job, connection to the aforementioned boy choir, and most of my
friends. Finally, I was arrested for fondling a boy in Central Park, right
in front of his grandparents. The boy, a very pretty blonde eleven year old
private boarding school kid, was playing alone with his Cocker Spaniel on
the side of a hill. I was halfway gone after downing a bottle of gin and
Schweppes. The kid was a tease. When I began playing with his dog, and
obviously looking more at him than the dog, he asked my name which I gave,
where I lived which I also told him, what I did which was nothing. He let
me sit next to him and, while giving me coy looks from beneath his nearly
white bangs, allowed me to put my arm around him. Not only didn't he pull
away, he leaned back slightly and opened his legs, a move I took, and
possibly correctly so, to be an invitation. I do remember him saying
something about other people being near by. After a quick squeeze around
his middle, I dropped my hand into his crotch, grabbed him gently there,
then released and took my arm away.

	Moments later, the cops were pulling me up and saying some very
unpleasant things about my sexual orientation. The boy appeared to be
trying to defend me but stopped abruptly when his grandparents stepped
forward to assure the lawmen I was the `disgusting pervert'.

	In court, the boy admitted, when plied by my very capable lawyer,
that I might have been falling backward and grabbed whatever was
available. Unfortunately, the grandparents were as well off as I and
brought along an equally competent attorney who advised the less competent
prosecutor. I've always believed that they also knew the judge. Somehow
they'd managed a closed hearing in the judge's chambers, something I
learned about later, much too late to make it possible to appeal my
conviction. I did luck out somewhat. My lawyer apparently just wanted loose
from my situation. The sentence was probation along with an order to see a
shrink during my entire five years of probation.

	Another lawyer, a former friend of the family, was able to
facilitate the required treatment by a `doctor', actually just a bent
psychologist, who merely needed to be paid, not necessarily seen. He also
convinced the authorities to let the medical pro do the supervising. It was
another proof the adage that the rich were rarely punished for their
misdeeds

	I did, however, submit myself to month long stay at a drying out
clinic in the Adirondacks. That and the realization that another conviction
could be disastrous redirected my loins to safer pursuits such as bi-annual
visits to the orient where professionals were plentiful. Sadly, that didn't
provide much emotional satisfaction as the relationships were mostly a few
weeks in duration and generally exploitive, of me.

	So, I indulged in my love of music, practicing long hours on my
instruments, particularly the guitar. I moved to Nashville and went to just
about any performance of interest. I hung out in clubs frequented by the
musicians where I bought drinks without, I'm proud to say, touching
anything alcoholic myself. I also studied the genres that moved me, reading
a raft of books on the subject, meeting and getting to know the experts and
even sponsoring a couple of weekend long festivals featuring bluegrass and
mountain music performances and workshops.

	By the end of the eighties, I was fairly well known in music
circles around Nashville and other seats of my kind of music. I had
produced a number of recordings by less than well known artists, often
bringing in stars to do instrumental and vocal backups. And, of course, I
still kept up my interest in young artists and musical groups. I was a
significant contributor to half a dozen boy choirs in the South and the
Southwest which brings me the friend who informed me about Bobby
Stottlemeier's existence, a man who probably knew more about my
inclinations than I guessed. Let me explain.

	Stanley Morrison was a recording engineer and a very good one. He
and I shared, almost exactly, the same musical tastes, even Baroque choral
music. We were forever giving each other recordings of one artist or
another, sharing books and playing our instruments in jam sessions at clubs
that were into that kind of thing. Stan played a mandolin quite well and
could sing a lot higher than I. That skill might have come from his years
in a well known American boy choir where he managed to hold on to his rich
soprano voice right up to growing a mustache; well, almost. He claims to
have had hair in his armpits before having to retire. I've tapes of him
singing beautifully when he was nearly fourteen.

	Although he refuses to confirm it, I get the impression he was a
loved boy during that time. He's certainly not Gay. He's married with two
kids and has a couple of girlfriends on the side. The reason I think he's
on to me is complex because there's never been anything concrete; no
remarks, not even a wink.

	For instance, he's twice made me aware of boy choirs with a
particularly pretty, possibly interesting membership. In one case, I
received an out-of-the-blue invitation to visit an Eastern European boy
choir whose director had some connection with Stan's former boyhood musical
boss. Once there, I was boarded in a room along side the boys' dormitory. A
couple of the kids, as best as I could tell, made themselves available. On
the third night, I acquiesced, albeit nervously, to their request that they
be allowed to come into my room, which they did, in pajama tops. They were
obviously more into each other more than me but I was allowed access, so to
speak. Needless to say, that choir has another donor, possibly the real
reason for my invitation, and an occasional visitor. Stan, through his
former director, was the only person who could have turned them onto me.

	I also believe he was aware of my little music school in
Argentina. An old friend, who lost just about everything when he jumped
bail in Texas, runs it. He was a very charismatic, repeatedly awarded
scoutmaster in Houston until a jealous boy, not invited to night time
trysts in the scoutmaster's tent, alerted a school social worker to
possible improprieties. He'd managed to get himself as far as Argentina
with plans to earn a living teaching English. Things were really cheap down
there for dollar spenders but he found out very quickly that he was to be
paid near valueless Argentine pesos. He spent five of his hundred and seven
remaining dollars calling me to beg for aid. The bait was hints of
available blonde haired lads in his new home.

	They weren't really all that blonde but close enough. He'd quickly
improved his sparse Texas Spanish and was making it with three. In '83 I
spent three months with him and fell in love with an enchanting eleven year
old with genuine musical talent. I put him with a piano teacher who made a
pass at the boy, a pass that was immediately reported to me.  Miguel
considered himself strictly mine, and vice versa.

    	Rather than bounce the piano teacher, I hired him full time – It
was cheap! - with orders to find his own bed partners. He went around to
schools in poor areas and auditioned kids that were recommended to him,
with potential musical abilities. In the end, we took on seventeen as
students, eight of whom gradually became borders, including my Miguel. Dear
Miguel put up with my irregular, sometimes brief visits and was extremely
friendly when I was there, guaranteeing my loyalty.

	Well, like I said, Stan heard about Bobby Stottlemeyer over drinks
one night after a long session at the studio. He went straight to a pay
phone and called me.

	"There's some nine year old kid in St. Louis who's supposed to be
the greatest voice since Caruso, but soprano. I've got the phone number of
a choir director I never heard of who is in contact with the kid. Seems the
boy has a shyness problem, won't sing for anybody. But, get this, he learns
entire songs after hearing them once or twice on the radio and this guy
thinks he writes songs himself. Nine years old. They're looking for
somebody good with kids to bring this lad along. Interested? Oh, and you'll
never guess what kind of music this kids sings."

	"Bluegrass," I remarked sarcastically.

	"Well, he sings stuff like `Making Believe' and `Is This My
Destiny'. They got him on tape in a school boys' room singing that and his
own stuff. I'll bet the guy'll play it for you right over the phone."

	So I called Ben Matthews and he did just that. I was hooked on the
second line of `Sweet Dreams' which they'd recorded the previous week. I
listened to nearly half an hour of tape, after calling him back, of course
- long distance was expensive in '89. After filling him in on who I was,
mentioning my work with boys' choirs to connect better with him personally,
I agreed to see the boy.

	A recording session the next day and a gig Friday and Saturday had
me tied down until Sunday morning. I promised to drive over then. I debated
using a chauffeured car since I'd be driving on about four hours sleep but
decided it might be best at the start not to appear too well off in front
of such a poor family.

	Ben Matthews met me at a diner on the outskirts of the city. After
introductions and how glad I was going to be that I came when I realized
how great this kid could be, Ben sighed and said, "There is one thing you
ought to know about Bobby. He's a little effeminate, well, uh, a
lot. That's probably, no, certainly why he's so shy. According to his
teacher, the other kids ride him all the time so he hasn't got any friends
at school. But I know if anybody can bring him out, you can."

	The possible second meaning of that last line seemed to strike both
of us both at the same time. He dropped his eyes to the tape player. Covers
blown! I got past that by suggesting, "Well, let's go see him and take it
from there."

	He explained that we needed to stop by the mother's diner and let
her know who I was which we did. Miss Anderson (she never got married) was
a small but sturdy woman who appeared to be in her late thirties but might
have been younger. As Ben spoke, she gripped one hand with the other then
switched back and forth. They were the strong hands of a woman who used
them to wash a lot of dishes or pick a lot of cotton. From her speech, she
might well have done the latter some time before working in a restaurant.

	"Well," she said with a lilt, "Ah s'pose it's all right. Just don't
take him nowhere without tellin' me first."

	I took that to mean we'd be able to do just that if the opportunity
arose.

      Bobby's sister answered the door. She was an almost pretty, still
flat-chested twelve year old, and small like her mother. She didn't was a
bit puzzled about why we were there, maybe thinking we were salesmen or
worse. by us being there [sounded like you wore weird clothes]. There was
no telephone in Bobby's home, so there'd been no way for her mother to call
and say we were coming. Matthews had told the teacher to pass the word to
Bobby but she felt alerting him to a visit might cause the boy to be
elsewhere that day.

      I produced a business card with `Musical Producer' under my name. Ben
told Sissy that I was a musical agent from Nashville who'd come to meet her
little brother and hear him sing. It didn't match the job description on
the card but was apparently close enough. She relaxed and invited us in.

      "Ah think he's out back. Ya'll can talk to `im there if you want."
She looked me over like a meat inspector.

      It wasn't my first visit to the home of a poor family. Most had a
somewhat different smell than those of the slightly better off, probably
more lived in, a bit less washed. But this place was clean, almost fresh
smelling.

      We followed the twelve year old through the kitchen with washed
dishes and a frying pan stacked up in a plastic rack along side the chipped
but otherwise spotless porcelain sink. An old Formica topped table and
three chairs stood in a corner.

      The narrow backyard hadn't received the same care as the house. It
was all dirt and weeds. I didn't see the boy anywhere. A set of cracked
wooden stairs went down to a trodden dirt path that led to a wooden gate in
a plank wall at the end of the yard. Ben noticed the pair of small legs and
feet sticking out below us and pointed. Bobby was belly down in the dirt
under the stairs surrounded by small plastic farm animals. He was humming
something then began singing softly while he wrote in a copy book beneath
his face. I got the impression he either didn't hear us or was just
ignoring the presence of whoever was making the stairs creak above him. We
watched as he started humming again, then sang, cocked his head to one
side, sang a few words then wrote some more. I didn't recognize the
music. What little I could hear of the voice that wafted gently up to me
was on key and smooth, well under control.

	I motioned for Ben Matthews and Sissy to wait inside. When Bobby
had finished, I applauded lightly. Bobby rolled over and looked up my
way. The expression was just irritation until he realized he didn't know
who I was. Then it turned to something bordering on fear but tinged with
anger.

	"You are very good, young man," I said with a smile. "In fact,
you're the best I've ever heard and I'm an expert on boys' voices."

	Bobby rolled back over and closed his notebook. I walked slowly
down the stairs, to the side where his head didn't quite stick out and
squatted a few feet away. Bobby didn't move, just kept his eyes on the
closed copy book.

	"Do you know `Uncle Penn' or `Little Maggie," I asked. They were
songs I hadn't heard him sing on the tape. No sense cluing him to the
eavesdropping.

	Bobby shook his head without moving any other part of his body.

	"I know you know "Sweet Dreams of You." Somebody told me they heard
you sing it. I know the man who wrote it."

	The boy looked up for a moment then dropped back down. "No you
don't."

	"Sure do. Don Gibson. I worked with him a couple of times in
Nashville. And you like `Making Believe'. I know the man who made it a hit
some, oh, eighteen years ago."

	"What..."

	"What's that song you sang the other day in the school bathroom,
not one of those two or `My Destiny, the other one."

	Bobby lifted his face up, an accusing look on it. "How you know
what ah was singin'?" he asked accusingly with a distinctive southern
twang.

	"Miss Blanchard, your music teacher heard you; told me about
it. I'm not kidding, told me how good you were and now that I've heard you,
I know it's the truth. So what was that one other called?"

	"It don't have a name yet."

	"Where'd you hear it?"

	"Nowhere."

	"Nowhere. You made it up?"

	The boy shrugged his shoulders.

	"My God, boy. You should be writing... You make up any others?"

	"Some."

	"Will you sing one for me?"

	Bobby shook his head. "I wanna play now." He started gathering up
the plastic animals.

	"Okay if I stick around? I really do want to talk to you."

	"Ah don' like people watchin' me when ah play." The feminine lilt
which had barely been there up to that point came out full strength.

	"Look, Bobby, you and I like the same kinds of music. We should be
friends. And I can help you find more music. Hey, would you like to hear
one of the singers you like? I can arrange it." I was becoming desperate,
worried I was losing the chance to get to know the kid, also worried that I
should just shut up but...

	Bobby held on to the toys he'd picked up and stared at me. "Why?"

	That was an unexpected response.

	"Well, because, well, I'd like you to see what they're like. I know
a lot of them and, well, I can arrange for you to hear them at a show or
maybe during a recording session.

	Bobby's expression became suspicious. "Who?"

	"Don't know right now, but I'll call around and see who's gonna be
in town.

	He frowned and went back to looking for his toy animals.

	"What? You don't think I can? Tell you what, I'll shut up and
arrange for you to see somebody then come on by here and take you to meet
them. Deal?"

      "Where?"

	"Right here in St. Louis. Not sure when. Like I said, gotta ask
around but sometime in the next couple weeks. I'll give you a call soon as
I know." I knew what he'd say next before he said it.

	"We ain't got no telephone."

	"Then I'll have Mr. Matthews stop by and tell you."

	"He just likes that church stuff."

	"Oh no. He likes lots of different kinds of music including what
you like. His boys' choir sings some cowboy songs like `Whoopi-ti-ti-yo,
git along little doggies'. You know that one?"

	"Unh uh."

	"So where do you learn the songs you like?"

	"The radio. An' ah got a book."

	"Can I see it? I'll bet I've got one just like it. I've got a lot
of song books back at my place in Nashville."

	"Not this one. It's old. This man was gonna throw it away. But you
cain't have it, jes' look."

	His changed attitude lifted my hopes he'd sing for me, maybe even
something he'd written. My guitar was out in the car.

	"Don't worry. I still think I might have a copy. Let's see it."

	Bobby crawled out from under the stairs, snatching up the remaining
plastic animals as he came. He held the notebook with the pencil inside
firmly under his right elbow. My little singer was small and slim, about
the size of a seven year old. His uncut dark brown hair dropped down,
nearly covering a pair of striking light blue eyes that glanced back
occasionally at me as he walked up the stairs and into the
kitchen. Matthews and his sister were sitting at the kitchen table.

	"Ah'm gonna show him my book," said Bobby without looking at them
as he sauntered by.

	"Want me to wait here?" I asked.

	"Naw. Ah'll show it to you in here an' you'll see."

	Feeling that a connection had been made, I happily followed the boy
into the front room of the narrow house, expecting to walk up faded wooden
stairs to the second floor. It was a sort of living room with a threadbare
sofa against the wall, two straight back wooden chairs, a cocktail table
which likely once had glass on it, and an old TV set, probably black and
white, sitting on a milk crate in the corner by the window. The cord was
not plugged in.

	Bobby walked to the sofa, climbed up on the back and, his feet and
buns up in the air, reached down behind it where he retrieved a dirty,
ragged but familiar green book.  He fell onto the sofa seat and handed it
to me, victory in his eyes.

	"Bet you ain't got that one," he said with a slight cockiness in
his voice.

	Not one to ignore a challenge, even from a nine year old, I said
without opening the book, "Sure do. First song is America the Beautiful,
then Auld Lang Syne, no, Old Columbia, then Auld Lang Syne. Got a lot of
nice stuff including Arkansas Traveller, Home on the Range, Whoopi Ti Yi
Yo. Old but great music."

	Bobby's eyes opened a mite and I saw his first smile of the
day. "Shit, you must be old too. Ah seen the date when they made this,
1939."

	"Nah. That's eleven years older than me."

	"So how old'r you?"

	"Why don't you figure it out? You know when that book was printed
and now you know how much younger I am than the book."

	"That's easy. Yer, a, thirty-nine," he answered with a touch of
pride.

	"Very good. Your music teacher said you were smart and a good
student." He seemed to like that. "Now, what songs do you know from the
book?"

	He opened then closed it. "None. All I can read is the words. I
don't understand none a them notes `n' stuff."

	"Well, there are two solutions to that. I can teach you some of
them, ones I think you'll like and the other way is to learn to read the
music. Smart as you are, if you took piano lessons, I'll bet you'd be
teaching yourself some of the songs in the book in a few months, maybe
less."  l
	There didn't appear any enthusiasm for piano lessons so I offered
to get my guitar out of the car and teach him one of the songs from the
book. His shoulder shrug sent me hustling out to get my Martin. Maybe he'd
sing along.

	He dropped to the floor when I put the guitar case down and watched
me open it. I think he let out a quiet `wow' when he saw the shiny
instrument. While he looked and ran his fingers carefully across the
strings, I reached for his book and found `Old Folks At Home'.

	He sat back and watched as I took the guitar out of its case and
put it on my knee. I finger picked and sang a verse of the venerable
Stephen Foster classic. Bobby was watching my fingers possibly more than
listening. Before I could say anything, he said, "Do it agin."

	"Okay, but you at least hum along so you can learn how it goes."

	There was no reaction, and no humming. He moved up closer to the
neck of the guitar and studied my fingers shifting around as the keys
changed.

	"Do it some more," he said immediately when I stopped.

	"I didn't hear you doing anything. Are you learning the song?"

	"I already know it, I jus' wanna watch how you do that, ya know,
make it sound differ'nt."

	"Here, I'll show you. Come on around behind the guitar."

	He moved behind the neck without making any contact with me. I
reached out to nudge him forward. He lurched away.

	"Bobby, I just want you to get closer so you can put your hand like
mine is."

	"That's okay, I gotta do my homework now." He went back to the
sofa. Frustrated, I offered to play a little more "if you like".

	He insisted he had to do his homework, collected the book off the
floor and put it beside him on the sofa. That's when I noticed there was a
sheet and a blanket lying over the back. I almost asked him if someone
slept there but decided I'd actually gotten pretty far considering we'd
just met.

	Our parting was a mite chilly but he didn't say no when I asked if
I could come back and see him again.

	That happened a week later with a plan to just give him a book I'd
bought of mountain and bluegrass music including some songs I felt he
either knew or had heard sung.

	Bobby answered the door. His expression on seeing me was as
enigmatic as one could be so I just handed him the book.

	"Here, I thought you might like this. It's got the kind of music
you like and some songs you've probably heard on the radio, maybe even some
you know."

	He looked at it for a moment before accepting it. "Like what?" he
asked.

	Again, unprepared for his question, or any question, I answered,
"Well, let's see."

	A young female voice behind him called out, "You lettin' the flies
in."

	Bobby looked up and down the street. There were other kids a couple
of years older than him playing cards of some kind a few houses up. He
looked at the book, then me, and said, "Okay, you can come in but I gotta
do chores real soon."

	We stepped into the sort of living room. This time the sheet and
blanket were spread on the sofa for sure like someone had slept
there. Bobby stood. "So what's in the book I know?"

	"Well, name some songs you know?"

	"I know a lot," he responded with a very feminine tone and one hand
on his hip.

	"All right, name some singers you like."

	He rattled off five names, then two more - Mary Jean Kestler and
Doc Watson.

	"Doc Watson's easy. There's several he's done." I went through the
index: "`Deep River Blues', `Footprints in the Snow', `Grandfather Clock',
`Little Sadie', `Rank Stranger', `Tennessee Stud'. Bet you heard some of
them."

	"How come you know what he done?"

	"Well, first off, I'm a fan of his and I've met him several
times. He's about the best flat picking guitar player out there. If you
like, I'll see if he's coming somewhere around here sometime soon and you
can go see him, meet him if you like. You like to meet Doc Watson?"

	The frown was either because he didn't believe I could or would
arrange that or just an unwillingness to show any type of enthusiasm.

      I pushed on. "Who else do you like?"

	He repeated two names besides Doc Watson, paused, took a breath,
then the air seemed to go out of him. "How come you come here?"

	"I told you last time, because your music teacher told me you had a
great voice and knew a lot of the songs I like and because I wanted to hear
you for myself." I made a decision to be as straight as possible with the
boy. I got the distinct impression he'd quickly see though any bull I
tossed his way and that would be the end of our brief relationship. "I
really love the kind of music you like and I really like what little I
heard of your voice out back a week ago. You know I play a guitar. I play
some other instruments too and sing a little but nowhere near as good as
you."

	He paused in thought, then said softly though assertively, "Well, I
don't sing for nobody, jes' me." It had an air of finality.

	I continued looking through the book. "Well, sit down here and
let's see what other songs we both know."

	He didn't sit. I looked up. He pursed his lips slightly and shook
his head.  "You can look at it."

      "This book has a lot of great stuff in it, all mountain and what we
used to call hillbilly music."

	Before I could get out that we now called it bluegrass, he
interrupted.

	"That's a bad word."

	"What's a bad word?"

	"Hillbilly?"

      "What's wrong with hillbilly?"

	"It's like sayin' somebody's a white nigger."

	That sounded like it came straight from momma. But, enlightening
the kid's racial attitudes was not a priority at the time. I let it pass.

	I held out the open book to him. "Take a look. You know any other
songs in there?"

	He turned a couple of pages and said coolly like a put out little
girl, "I told you, I cain't read them notes."

	I discarded my brief visit plan and steered things in a different
direction. "Well, what do you think about hearing one of you favorite
singers? If you like, I can arrange that."

	"Who?"  he asked then, "When?" just as before.

	"Nuts, I got a telephone in my car, I..."

	"No, you don't!"

	"Sure I do. Wanna see it? I'm gonna call a friend in Nashville and
see who knows about appearances in St. Louis."

	"Where's yer car?"

	"Sitting right out front."

	We went out to the street and my car. A teenager was sitting on the
front stoop looking at it.

	"Git out the way, Barney!" growled Bobby.

	The boy, a lanky fifteen or so with a serious case of acne, didn't
move, or even look up. The lankiness was the only sign that they might have
been brothers which I assumed from Bobby's attitude. Only siblings can be
that nasty toward one another without an equal reaction.

	Barney's eyes were close set and brown, his hair a lighter color
than Bobby's, his mouth not much wider than the nine year old's. And, he
had a nasty overbite. It must have been hard to eat carrots.

	I greeted him with a nod. He just stared coldly.

	I got in the car, picked the phone off the dash and invited Bobby
to join me. "Ah'll watch from out here, but you gotta let me hear." The
first half of what he said was as shy as the second part was insistent.

	Bert Ashford, an agent friend I knew who, after a long Saturday
night out, slept in Sundays until three, answered on the second ring. After
the `how ya doings', I asked him, "Who do you know who's up on appearances
in the St. Louis area?"

	Bobby leaned inside the window I'd opened beside me, his ear turned
toward the phone. His brother moved to a lower step so he could see inside
the car.

	Bert suggested a DJ at a local country station and gave me a phone
number he dug out of his address book. I knew where he was looking because
he always hummed the same silly ditty while doing so.

	The radio station's studio engineer answered. The DJ I named didn't
work Sundays. I identified myself.

	"This is Simon Baker. I'm up from Nashville and I need to know if
any bluegrass acts are coming around over the next month."

	The engineer had no idea but felt the DJ on the air at the time
might know. He'd be free in a few minutes if I wanted to wait. I waited.

	The man who answered two minutes later was friendly, speaking with
the exaggerated tones of a radio announcer. I figured the engineer had
identified me as a Nashville bigshot.

	"Let's see," he pondered after we exchanged greetings. "I think
Mary Jean Kestler's gonna be here. She does some bluegrass, and just a
minute." There was silence for about fifteen seconds. "Hmmm, Charlie Pride
but he's not bluegrass," he mused. He found another but it wasn't until
June. "Nope, just Mary Jean. She'll be here Friday and Saturday, the 28th
and 29th." He named a local country music club.

	I thanked him and got back out of the car saying, "That's the
weekend after this one," I told Bobby.

	Barney asked, "What?"

	I told him.

	"Oh, that shit," he muttered, shaking his head.

	The boy and I walked back inside. Barney resumed his post on the
stoop.

	I told Bobby's sister about the show. Sissy didn't seem at all
interested but didn't think her mother would mind my taking Bobby.

	"So, Bobby, I'll be here at seven, no six so we can get something
to eat first, a week from Friday. That sound okay to you?

	Bobby shrugged his shoulders the way kids do when they're trying to
hide enthusiasm.

	I went to pat him on the head. He backed away.








---------------------------------------- Chapter 2

	To say that I looked forward to our night with Mary Jean Kestler
would be a major understatement. It took quite a number of calls to locate
her but I finally got through to the singer, one of my favorites. She'd
harmonized with two up and comers I'd produced albums for. In both cases,
her presence, both by name and ability, made a so so number sound terrific
and was to a great extent what sold the albums that did get bought.

	I told her about Bobby Stottlemeyer and played a tape over the
phone so she could get an idea what I was talking about. She was
sufficiently enthused by what she heard to invite him up onto the stage to
do a couple of songs with her.

	"Mary, this kid defines shy when it comes to singing in front of
others. Just meet him and be your sweet self. We'll just let happen what
happens. Who knows, you might so inspire him that he lets loose in your
dressing room, but don't count on it."

	The night of her performance, I arrived at Bobby's house at six,
right on the button. His sister was serving him and his brother's dinner
even though I'd told them Bobby was to eat out with me. He was dressed in
play clothes and needed a bath. No, I didn't get a chance to watch him in
the tub.

	We ended up leaving just in time to make it to the club as Mary
Jean was going on. She saw us coming in and, in the middle of announcing
her first number, waved and said, "Hi there, Bobby!"

      Rather than hiding under a table, Bobby actually waved back igniting
a spark of hope I'd hear him sing that evening.

      During intermission, I took Bobby backstage to meet the star in her
dressing room. A woman was fixing her hair. Mary Jean stood as we came in
causing the hairdresser to drop her comb.

      "Hi there, Bobby. You are a cute one, aren't you!" She completely
ignored me.

      "How come you know my name?" asked the boy almost like a Gestapo
sergeant.

      "You silly," she bubbled, "Simon told me you were coming and I really
want to hear you sing." She was under strict orders not to mention the
tape.

      Bobby's head dropped.

      Mary finally looked at me. I gave her a `I told you so' expression.

      "Okay, no big deal. Come on over here and sit down." She motioned
toward the sofa. I'd warned her about his dislike of being touched so she
sat at one end. I took a chair. Bobby perched himself gingerly on the edge
of the far end of the sofa. Mary continued, "How'd you like the music?"

      Bobby came back to life and nodded enthusiastically.

      "Which song do you like best?"

      "The one that starts with `Trials and troubles often betray those in
wary body, somethin'."

      "In weary body to stray. That's pretty good. You remember the tune?"

      "Um hmm but I don' wanna sing it now."

      "Well, it's called Green Pastures. So if I give you the words, you
can learn it?"

      "Um hmm."

      She dug into a suitcase full of music and came up with two sheets of
music stapled together. "It's got the music too but there are the words,"
she said as she handed it to him.

      Bobby looked it over.

      Mary said, "Simon told me you write songs too and that your music
teacher said the one she heard was real good." She leaned toward him and
whispered something in his ear.

      He half grinned and looked at me, then shook his head.

      She whispered again.

      The response was the same.

      The hairdresser insisted she had to get back to work on Mary Jean's
hair so the singer returned to her dressing table. She tried to pull Bobby
along with her but he dodged her hand and stayed put on the sofa.

      One of her band members knocked and entered. We knew each other and
said, "hi". Bobby watched them converse about something quietly. The kid
was the perfect observer, small, unmoving, silent. Maybe that was his place
in the world, I thought, to observe and not affect; the perfect journalist.

      Mary Jean went back on stage and we took our seats. I did notice
Bobby moving his feet and sometimes fingers to the music but mostly he
listened. Toward the end, Mary Jean did a repeat of Green Pastures, winking
Bobby's way as she started. He cocked his head slightly, almost but not
quite smiled, and listened, probably writing it all down furiously in his
mind. It figured to be the next song he'd sing in the boys' room.

      At the end of the show, he just wanted to get home. No saying goodbye
to Mary Jean, no ice cream cone, just home. He jumped out at his house,
giving me a quick wave as he rushed up the stairs, pulling the key on a
string from inside his shirt as he went. I was sure he was headed straight
for his notebook.

                                          --------------------------------

      The way things were going frustrated the crap out of me, enough that
I hopped on a plane for Rio De Janeiro. For a week, a delightful, alive,
warm boy, who loved to be touched and held, took my mind off that talented
screwball in St. Louis. But just for a week.

      I ended up driving in to Rio to call his music teacher to see what
Bobby was singing in the boys' room.

      "I don't know what it's called but it starts out `Trials and
troubles'. It's all he sings now. His teacher told me he was bragging to a
couple of the kids about knowing a famous singer but wouldn't tell them the
name. He must have liked that show you took him to. When are you going to
see him again?"

      For two days, I fought the urge to head back north but just two. Even
in the sack, well connected to Miguel's sweet, naked, writhing body, Bobby
Stottlemeyer kept popping into my thoughts. My Texan refugee friend drove
me to the airport.

      On the way back, I worked on a strategy to break down some of the
boy's shyness, to get him to at least sing for me.

      I arranged to meet his teacher and learn more about Bobby as a
student.

      "He's the smartest kid in the class. The last week and a half he's
really soared, paying attention, hand up all the time to answer
questions. His homework's the best he's ever done. You gotta take him to
more shows."

      "I understand the reason you let him go to the boys' room for so long
is because the others are hard on him. How bad is the abuse?"

      "Well," she sighed, "Not as bad as before. Last Fall, it was real
bad. Some of them were taking his money, stealing things from him, hurting
him when he complained. It was awful. There wasn't a lot I could do. You
know, you protect them too much, the abuse gets even worse.

      "It did get better after the first of the year. I suppose they got
bored of it. But there's still the remarks, name calling."

      "Because of the way he talks and acts?"

      "Yes. They can't seem to let that go but at least nobody seems to be
beating on him like before."

      "Does he have any friends?"

      "Not really. Since you took him to that concert, he's spoken to a
couple of white boys. He's got some kind of problem, probably because of
his mother, with the black students. They know it, or sense it. More than
anything these days, they just ignore each other, except for remarks
sometimes, especially when he gets up to recite or answer."

      She held up a finger. "Except that one of the other teachers did tell
me he talks occasionally to a black boy in the fifth grade. I've no idea
what that's about. Maybe they're neighbors. His neighborhood is changing.

      "I wish I could do more for Bobby. He's really very bright, by far
the smartest child in my class. It's really great that you've taken an
interest in him. He really is better now, more confident which is a big
step for him."

      Maybe I was on the right track.

      I decided to buy Bobby a gift, a cassette player and recorder, some
cassette albums, one, of course, by Mary Jean, two empty cassettes and a
small microphone.

      I waited outside his school the following afternoon with the cassette
player in its box, gift wrapped like it was his birthday which was still a
month or so off.

      When he saw me, he stopped, appeared nervous, and changed direction,
heading back into the school. I walked slowly inside. He was nowhere to be
seen so I sought out his teacher in case she'd seen him.

      "Don't ask me, he's still the weirdest kid I've ever taught."

      I drove to his house. He claimed not to have seen me. I held out the
gift.

      "What's that?"

      "Something for you?"

      "But what is it?"

      I chuckled. "A gift, my young friend. You're not supposed to ask what
it is, just accept it. But it's something I believe you will enjoy."

      Bobby looked around the living room. His sister was standing in the
kitchen doorway watching us.

      "Take it, stupid," she said sarcastically.

      Bobby sighed and put his hand out. The package was heavier than he
expected. He and I both lurched forward to keep it from falling to the wood
floor. My hand touched the bottom of his hand. The contact was brief
because he pulled back quickly but I felt as though the warmth from that
millisecond touch shot up through my arm and into my body. A strong desire
to touch him, hug him came over me. It took some serious willpower to
resist. I think I blushed. I know my ears felt warm.

      Bobby sat on the floor and examined the gift, searching for a way to
open it without damaging the paper. I determined to somehow tell him that
day that I cared about him, at least that much, because I really did. The
presence of his sister was going to make it tricky.

      Several times I almost reached down and tore off the wrapping but, in
the end, I endured his painfully slow removal of the paper. He peeled back
the transparent tape without damaging the paper. Once open, he stared at
all sides of the box without opening it.

      "You know what it is?" I asked.

      He pursed his lips and shook his head.

      I took the three cassette tapes out of my pocket and held them out to
him, the one with Mary Jean's picture on top.

      "That's her, ain't it?"

      "Yup. And she sings twelve songs inside. Take the player out of the
box and I'll show you how to use it."

      Bobby carefully opened the box and gently, slowly, pulled out the
player.

      I sat cross legged on the floor in front of him. He shrugged his
shoulders and handed the player to me. I made a point of brushing his
fingers when I took it. He didn't seem to mind.

      With far less care than Bobby, I tore off the plastic wrapper on the
Mary Jean cassette then pushed the button that opened the deck and put in
the cassette. I laid it on the floor between us and pointed to the play
button. "Push on this."

      "Don't you gotta plug it in er sumpin' first?"

      "Works on batteries. Got fresh Duracells inside. Go ahead. Push."

      He pushed. The machine went click clack and made a slight 'doing
something' sound. Then, out came Mary Jean's band and voice. Bobby, elbows
on his knees, dropped his chin into his hands and listened. It was a song
he'd heard at her show.

      We sat there motionless for forty minutes, through the entire tape.
I worried I would have difficulty standing. Bobby's toes moved up and down
a little, his fingers waved side to side, even his body gently rocked back
and forth occasionally to the beat of the music, especially to Green
Pastures, a song a lot of people rocked to. I waited in vain to hear him
sing.

      He looked toward the kitchen door. Seeing his sister no longer there,
he leaned forward and asked, "Can ah keep it for a while?"

      "No, you can keep it forever. Like I said, it's a gift."

      He looked at and through me for a moment, moving his lips back and
forth.

      "Bobby, this is a gift because I care about you. I really want to be
your friend. If you let me, I'll help you with your music. For instance, if
you want to take music lessons, piano, singing, whatever, I'll arrange it
for you. I want to take you out to hear more music like we did with Mary
Jean. You liked her, didn't you?"

      The boy seemed to relax. His lips moved slightly up on the edges of
his mouth. I took it for a sort of smile. "Um hmm."

      "In fact, if you'd like and your mother says okay, I'll take you to
Nashville where they record a lot of the music you hear. A bunch of the
musicians live there, like Mary Jean." I worried I'd gone too far but he
just seemed to soak it all in though, as usual, not showing any
emotion. But, I knew he was listening. After all, he was the ultimate
observer. Listening was part of that. I let it all filter in and waited to
see how he reacted.

      I did have a hard time standing. Halfway up I remembered the
recording portion of his gift. "Oh, something else." I pulled the
microphone and empty cassettes out of my other pocket. "You can record
things too like something off the radio or even yourself. That doesn't mean
you have to record anything for me although that would be a gift I'd really
appreciate. You know how much I want to hear you sing but you don't have to
do that until you want to. But, you can record yourself singing and see how
good you sound. Just hold the mike about a foot from the radio or your
mouth, like this." I demonstrated and sang a few words from `Green
Pastures'.

      Bobby smiled.

      "Okay, so you're better than me. I admit it, but I can sing some
too. One of these days when we're in Nashville together, you'll hear me."

      "Ah'll wear ear plugs."

      I grinned, enjoying the rare repartee,, and showed him how to record
and play back.  I promised to return within a week. We parted as friends.

      A meeting with his mother was next on my plate. Due to commitments
back home in Nashville, I wasn't able to go looking for her until the
following week when, as promised to Bobby, I came back to St. Louis. It was
nearly two in the afternoon when I hit the edge of the city so she figured
to be less pressured to take care of customers.

      I had the diner's address but didn't know St. Louis particularly
well. It took stops in gas stations to finally locate the dive where she
waited on tables. Maybe dive is unfair. It was reasonably clean except some
parts of the black and white checkerboard tile floor which could have used
a stiff brush and some Ajax. It took a second look on her part to recognize
me.

      She called me Mr. Simon, just like Bobby, and agreed to sit with me
for a while. I ordered two plates of the apple pie they had on display,
each with a dip of ice cream.

      "Bobby likes that cassette thing you give him. Got it around him all
day, even takes it to school. Kinda fancy fer a boy ain't ten yet."

      She was smiling but there was a question behind that last remark. I
decided to wait for it to come out in full.

      "Bobby's who I came to talk about. He's really very shy, doesn't want
to sing in front of anybody. Why do you think he's like that?"

      "Oh, that's jes' Bobby. Alus been that way." She appeared nearly as
shy as her son when she asked, "Ah gotta ask you, you know `cause he's mah
son `n' all, what are your attentions regarding, you know, my son?"

      There it was. The question sounded rehearsed. Someone was coaching
her to find out if I was what I am. I was prepared.

      "Ma'am, your son, as you must know by now, is very gifted
musically. His voice is one in a million. He has great pitch, a perfect
sense of timing and rhythm and, maybe best of all, a musical
imagination. I've only heard part of a song he made up and it's really very
good, maybe even salable. I have seen all the words. They are pretty darned
impressive for a nine year old. I want to help him develop that great
talent he has." I dug into my back pocket for my wallet. "I thought I gave
you my card but here's another just in case I didn't.

      "I'm a musical director, a producer and occasionally an agent though
I generally work that through others and don't accept commissions since I
don't do all the work."

      She broke in, "You wanna make him a perfessional singer? You know he
don't like to sing in front of nobody so how's he gonna do that?"

      "He may come out of that over time. He's met one singer and, with
your permission, I'd like him to meet more. Sometime in the future, again
with your permission, I'd like to take him to Nashville. That's the home of
country music but you probably know that. The real professionals are there,
people who might inspire him to sing. With a little coaching, he could do
very well. If he doesn't want to sing, he could write music, or play one or
more instruments."

      "Where's he gonna learn ta do that. We don' got no money fer lessons
er nuthin'."

      I folded my hands on the table and looked her in the eye. "That's
where I come in, ma'am. Like I said, I'd like to help Bobby become whatever
he wants. If that means music lessons, I can take care of that. I've got a
foundation that sponsors poor but talented young musicians. I've even got a
couple in university studying music. And we're lucky with Bobby `cause he's
so young. I usually don't hear about these kids until they're in high
school or their twenties. People know about me and call when they find
someone with talent. That's how I found out about Bobby. I got a call from
a man who heard about him from someone else."

      After a pause to get my thoughts together, I continued. "Ma'am, it's
possible your son is the most talented kid I've ever come across. I'll do
all I can to help him and that includes my own time, music lessons,
whatever. I'll always talk any plans over with you first. You can say yes
or no."

      She looked a bit confused.

      I said, "Now, you go ahead and ask me any questions you might have."

      The expected one concerned my marital status but what I got was,
"Well, ah s'pose it's okay if ya'll wanna give him music lessons, it's
okay."

      Wonderful, I thought. "Okay if I buy him a piano or guitar?"

      "Long as he's goin' ta school, sure, an' doin' his chores, it's
okay. You wanna see `im today?"

      "I'd like to take him out to dinner so we can talk if that's okay
with you, so we can discuss music lessons."

      "Jus' have `im back by nine so's he can go ta bed. Gotta git up at
six thirty ta git ready fer school."

      There really wasn't much left to say so we ate our apple pie and
melted ice cream.



      I knew better than to try to meet Bobby at his school so I went
straight to the house and waited out front reading the newspaper. After a
few minutes, he knocked on my window.

      What I really was anxious to find out was if he'd recorded anything
of himself. We were inside on the living room floor listening to a Bill
Monroe song he'd recorded off the radio when I finally felt it was
judicious to ask.

      "Uh huh, but I `rased it after. Weren't no good."

      "Bobby, my friend, if it was you singing, it was very good."

      Then, at the end of an Osborne Brothers recording, there was a piece
of himself he'd neglected to erase. He went to stop the machine but I put
my hand over the buttons and listened. He pried at my fingers but not very
convincingly. It was him singing along with a recording of `Ruby', the song
we'd just heard, easily hitting high pitched tones. I wanted to hug him it
was so good. He actually sang harmony part of the time, and right on key.

	I'd been listening with my eyes closed. When I opened them, he was
staring at me expectantly.

	"Bobby Stottlemeyer, you are terrific, I mean, really great."

	He seemed pleased at first but that dissolved into something else
not so pleasant. He pursed his lips and looked down at the floor. I felt I
knew the problem.

	"You don't have to sing in front of anybody until you want to,
never if that's what you decide. How would you like to learn how to play a
guitar or piano or both?" Heading off the expected protest, I said, "Don't
worry; I'll get you whatever you need including the instruments. But you
gotta practice."

	Bobby's expression changed for the better. He wobbled back and
forth, almost like he was going to come give me the hug I wanted to give
him. I reached out and took his hand. He almost pulled it away but then let
me hold on. I squeezed gently then let go, very happy to have gotten that
far.

	"Now, you've got to think what you want to do. A guitar's great to
play and sing with but writing music is done easier on a piano. You can do
both if you want but it's a lot of work. Just think about it for a while,
no rush to decide."

	We ate pizza in a small Greek parlor not far from his house. He'd
seen it on his way to and from school. The pizza was very good, the company
better.

	Bobby was trying to decide, out loud, what he wanted to do, which
instrument, how much practice. I tried to nudge him toward piano but then
decided it was a bad idea. He had to decide on his own.

	"If'n ah wanna do `em both, pianer and guitar, you gonna buy me
both things?" The little hustler pronounced guitar `gitter'.

	"Sure. The piano will be a keyboard with a small amplifier and
speaker built in. You get good, I'll buy you a better one. Same goes with
the guitar. I've got mine in the car if you want to try it. It's better and
bigger than the one I'll get you first so don't get too excited."

	We went back to his house. I got my precious 1932 Martin D-28 out
of its special place in the trunk. As before, he watched closely as I
opened the case and lifted it out.

	"That's old lookin'. How come ya'll don't get ya a new one?"

	"Good guitars develop a better sound with age and this one's
fifty-seven years old." I wasn't about to tell him I paid more for it than
a new Cadillac.

      I showed him a G chord progression but on just four of the six
strings. His little fingers would've had difficulty reaching beyond them.

	After scouring through the three cassettes I'd brought him, we
listened to a relatively slow song in the key of G. The second time playing
it, I called out the chords and tried to get his fingers there before the
next chord change. Didn't work too well so I sang the song using the keys
for words, like G G G G G C C C C and so on. It went a bit better but was
still a struggle.

	"Is pianers easier`n this?" he asked after a while.

	"Not easier, different, easier on the finger tips for sure but
mostly just different. Finger tips get used to strings." I showed him how
mine were calloused and slightly indented at the tips

	We talked about pianos and guitars for a while. He did like the
sound of a good rhythm guitarist. Nonetheless, I decided to get him both
then let him decide what he'd like to take lessons on.

	His half sister, Sissy, wandered in and out of the living room
while I was there. I got the impression she was listening, curious, but,
other than the initial "Hi", she didn't say a word.

	I spent the night in a hotel and stopped by a country radio station
in the morning to get a more complete list of who of interest might be
coming to town over the next couple of months. There were three Bobby
figured to like. Next, it was off on a visit to music stores. In the second
one, I saw an old four string Martin up on the wall for a lot of
money. Still, it was the perfect size for Bobby and, as a matter of fact,
exactly what I started out on as a child, might even have been the same
instrument. My father had traded mine in on a new six string Guild for my
eleventh birthday.

	I told the salesperson I'd take it but to leave it where it was,
just take the price tag off it. They had plenty of inexpensive keyboards so
that wouldn't be a problem.

	We discussed music teachers. The salesman took me to the store's
owner. He provided some names, addresses and phone numbers and suggested
one particular man who promised to be expensive but the right choice if
Bobby was as talented as I claimed. I called from the office and arranged
to go see him at a little before one that afternoon.

	Rodney Hammich was older than his voice had sounded and obviously a
man who expected a lot from his students. The American flag on the pole in
front of his well groomed suburban home plus the cowboy shirt and close
trimmed crew cut pretty much asserted his political leanings.

	"This kid does pretty well in school but comes from a very poor and
very disorganized, fatherless home. He's extremely self conscious." I told
him of my battle to get him to sing in front of me and Mary Jean Kestler.

	"You know Mary Jean? One of my students played in her band a few
times when she was in the area. How do you know her?"

	I gave him a rough picture of what I did in the music world. It
didn't seem to impress him.

	"You play a guitar?" he asked possibly expecting me to say no.

	"Got my Martin out in the car. Don't like to leave home without
it," I answered with a grin.

	"I'm a Gibson man myself," he answered as though that indicated a
superior level of musicianship. "This boy got an instrument?"

	I told him.

	"He's not gonna be afraid to play in front of me, is he?"

	I hadn't thought about that. "He says he wants to take lessons and
he knows I'm not gonna be his teacher. I suppose so."

	We agreed on a one month trial, and a price. I promised to arrange
a regular taxi ride to and from his lessons. The teacher's studio was a
good half hour away from the boy's home.

	After a stop at his mother's restaurant to let her know what I had
in mind and get her okay, I again waited at his house for Bobby to come
home.

	The moment he saw my car, he ran down the street and tugged on the
passenger door handle. "We gonna git me a gitter today?"

	"And a piano. Come on. Let's go." I almost copied his "payaner".

	He tossed his book bag on the seat and jumped in behind it.

	"We gotta wait for your sister so she'll know where you are."

	"Ah told `er you was comin' so's we could go out and buy a gitter
so she knows. Let's go."

	He grumbled about the waiting I insisted on but it wasn't for more
than a few minutes and we were off.

	He wanted a full size six string guitar but when he tried out the
small one, he realized it would be easier to use, and gentler on his
fingers.

	Bobby hadn't expected a piano too but was happy to be getting one
though he wasn't sure he wanted to take lessons.

	"Like I told you, it's easier on a piano to write down the music to
the songs you write."

	He seemed to think that was worthwhile.

	We spent over an hour sitting side by side on his sofa before going
off to dinner. He learned simple G and C chord progressions well enough to
play them while I sang and played songs he knew, hoping that, at some
point, he might join in.

	He didn't.

	Though she had a schoolbook in her lap, Sissy, sitting on the
stairs, spent more time listening to us than studying. I felt a bit guilty
about not inviting her to go along with us but wanted the opportunity to be
alone with Bobby.

	On the way to a restaurant, we stopped at the music store and
bought two basic piano instruction books designed for kids.

	Dinner was pleasant enough. I wove school and friends into our
conversation to see if there'd been any improvement there. He bragged about
knowing everything on all his quizzes but dodged the friends issue by
redirecting the talk to guitar lessons and his promise to practice at least
an hour every day.

	"Take breaks after about fifteen minutes until your fingers get
used to the strings." I again showed him the grooved calluses on mine from
nearly a lifetime of pressing down on metal strings. "Takes a while to get
these but they really help."

	I took a piece of cake back for Sissy. That brought on the nicest
smile she'd yet given me.

	"You gonna teach Bobby how to play a gee-tar?" That's how she said
it.

	"Well, not me. Another man will do that. What kind of music do you
like?"

	"You know, rock `n' roll, Michael Jackson, like that."

	"I like some of his material too. He's a very talented man."

	She stood in the kitchen doorway eating her cake with her fingers,
picking off tiny piece by tiny piece while Bobby and I went over the same
chords we'd practiced before dinner.

	Before leaving, I told Bobby that I was going to be away for two to
three weeks. I could tell he didn't like that a bit.

	"It's business, Bobby. I've got to work. Next week I'm working on a
project with a boys' choir down in Texas. They're doing an album with an
Irish group. It should be very good. I'll bring you a copy. Don't worry,
it's not church music, well, except a couple of hymns but you'll like
it. Green Pastures is a sort of hymn.

      "Then I've got to go out of the country for a while but I'll get back
as quick as I can."

	In the end, he wasn't too upset. In fact, he hardly noticed it when
I left. He was engrossed in working on chords.











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