Date: Fri, 14 Jan 2011 20:48:03 -0600
From: michaelpete@hushmail.com
Subject: 2nd part - 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 3

      The boychoir project was a pleasure in many ways, some of which I'll
tell you about at some other, more appropriate time. Still, as talented as
some of the boys were, not one could do with their highly trained voices
what Bobby Stottlemeyer was capable of with none. The comparison hardened
my resolve to all possible to lift my little genius to his greatest
potential.

      Although I had hoped to be with my Argentine lover for a couple of
weeks after completing the Texas sessions, an important bluegrass
association meeting was called that required my presence. That was followed
by unexpected negotiations in Los Angeles with a major label for the
boychoir album from the week before. In the end they failed but I had a
fall back label which was quite happy to take the project and promote
it. The choir had its own avenues of sale ready for the expected release in
a couple of weeks. A friend was re-mixing some cuts then there was a master
and copies to be made.

      It was Friday when I finally was able to jump in my car and drive to
St. Louis where an unpleasant surprise awaited me. The guitar teacher was
refusing to work with Bobby who hadn't liked the man from the start so
wasn't that upset about the situation.

      "He jest said ah couldn't come over no more so ah din't. Ah tole the
taxi man so he wouldn't come neither."

      I called the guy and asked what the problem was.

      "He just isn't the kind of student I'm used to working with, too
young."

      The music store owner had told me he had a number of grade school
aged students.

      "Too young? You've got other kids his age. What's the difference?" I
was beginning to smell something.

      "Look, I'm sorry, Mr. Baker. The boy just doesn't fit in here."

      "Whatta you mean doesn't fit in. He's certainly as talented as any
other kid you've got."

      "Look, I just can't have his kind coming in my house. I..."

      I hung up to avoid saying what I was thinking. The man was a
homophobe. With Bobby along, I went back to the music store for another
suggestion.

      "I'm sorry about him. I didn't know he was that way. Hell, I'd take
him here but we stopped giving lessons nearly a year ago. Too much of a
hassle."

      He sat down and thought about another prospect. "Most of `em really
aren't very good or don't want kids. Christ, there's Miss Layton. Used to
take kids but got tired of `em not practicing. Still, you might call
her. She's good, damn good except she's more classical than bluegrass or
country. She'd teach him technique good as anybody." He was looking up her
number on his Rolodex as he spoke. He called her and passed the phone to
me.

      "Miss Layton, Simon Baker from Nashville. I've got a boy here with
tremendous talent and desire to learn. I know you don't want children any
more but this one's different. I guarantee he'll practice and I'll take
care of payments and getting him to and from..."

      She interrupted telling me that it didn't really matter how old he
was that she just didn't have any time left for new students. Then she hung
up.

      Seeing the puzzled look on my face, the music store owner
smiled. "That's Miss Layton. What'd she tell you?"

      "No time for new students."

      "I doubt that. None of the music teachers in this town are
full. There's one other person, another woman, young, used to teach
school." He went through the cards again and made another call. She wasn't
in so he gave me her information.

      I gave Bobby another lesson at his house then took him and his sister
out to dinner. The older brother was out on a date. The sister was a bit
friendlier, even apologized for not liking country music.

      "Don't worry," I told her over pizza, "most folks are into what you
like."

      At the hotel I booked for the night, I tried calling the last chance
guitar teacher. She was home. We made an appointment for the next morning
after her ten o'clock student.

      She was a cheery sort, right off some Saturday morning kids' TV show.

      "Well, Bobby," she said after putting him in a blue chair with a
teddy bear painted on the seat, "Let's see what you know."

      She had him play a C chord then applauded when he did. "Bobby, that's
great! Can you play an F?"

      Bobby played an F and received another round of applause. That went
on for four other chords. Then came the final straw for me. She tried to
teach him `Twinkle Twinkle, Little Star' a melody I actually like but not
in the silly, childish way she was playing and singing it. The strange look
on Bobby's face clearly indicated he agreed with me.

      She knew she'd lost us when I promised to get back to her but didn't
ask her rates.

      By the time we finished an early lunch at his mother's restaurant, I
had a plan.

      "Okay, I'll make you a deal. You take piano lessons and I'll teach
you guitar. Can't promise every week but I'll do my best, but you've gotta
practice both instruments."

      He looked up at me suspiciously with those blue eyes. I got the
impression we were at some sort of suddenly critical point in our
developing relationship. So much of what I'd presented him with had been
things: a concert, a musical instrument, music teachers, promised
connections. But this was different. It was a commitment by and of me,
Simon, saying he'd do something on a regular basis, dad taking him to all
his soccer games, mommy walking him to school every day. A chill shot
through me. Was this commitment actually possible? I was committed to a lot
of things: weekend gigs with Stanley, a number of budding musicians and
groups, my boy in Argentina. My boy in Argentina! This was going to
seriously crimp my visits there, absolutely affect that relationship. That
boy loved me, depended on me, provided me with a kind of love not possible
in my home country. A wave of guilt and potential loss settled in like a
penetrating winter chill.

      Then it came: "You gotta promise." The words came out slowly,
quietly, seriously.

      I stared into his eyes, eyes which demanded absolute honesty. A
hollowness grew in my chest. My brain seemed to warm up even though I
nearly shivered. Maybe I needed to think this over before accepting the
challenge laid out before me. This boy didn't need any more bullshit in his
life.

      Bobby cocked his head ever so slightly.  I suddenly felt very
selfish. Here was a boy who genuinely needed me. I could completely change
this child's future, a life probably full of unhappiness and disappointment
without me in it.

      "There will be times when I have to go away for a couple of weeks
but, other than that, yes, I promise."

      Defining the relaxing expression on his face would be impossible but
somewhere in there seemed to be relief, maybe even hope. Did he believe me?
Jesus, I thought, what have I committed to that I can definitely not get
out of?

      We went back to the music store and contacted a piano teacher who
agreed to see us the next morning.

      On the way to his house, I caught him staring at me from the
passenger seat. Was there doubt? I reached out and took his hand. Not only
didn't he pull away, he put his other hand on top of mine and pulled it up
onto his thigh. There it was. I was stuck. He was accepting my promise of
damn near fatherhood.

      I chuckled to myself. He damn site better sing for me sometime soon.

      The hand holding was wonderful. Bobby's affection was genuine but
wasn't nearly as profound as the sense of security this boy probably
felt. He'd likely never had a man, or anyone for that matter, ever show the
concern he was receiving from me. Even his mother considered him more of an
obligation, an annoying one at that, than a son to be loved. He was an
embarrassment to his older brother. What had I gotten myself into?

      He was more serious that night, carefully watching my fingers,
imitating what I did. At one point, he dragged out his notebook and wrote
down the names of chord progressions. I showed him where they were in his
guitar instruction book. He wrote down the number of the page that
coincided with the chords he had written.

      I sang a couple of songs but he didn't join in though I got the
impression he was memorizing the words with that amazing sponge of a mind
he possessed. Oh, how I wished he'd sing with me.

      The piano teacher was an elderly woman with her hair in a bun,
glasses and a dark patterned dress down to her ankles. Her skeptical
expression softened after a while but never complete disappeared. I worried
this was another dead end.

      She did briefly frown when she saw how small Bobby was. Bobby stayed
close to me as we entered.

      Her home was out of the nineteenth century, including the piano, an
old but well kept Baldwin grand covered with neatly stacked sheet music and
soft cover music books.

       "My name is Mrs. Lauterburg. Who is going to be responsible to see
that this boy practices?"

      "I will, of course," I replied.

      "From what I understand, you don't live with him and his mother works
six days a week."

      She'd called back the music store manager and asked a lot of
questions.

      "Don't worry, Mrs. Lauterburg, he'll practice."

      She had him sit with her at the piano. "His hands are very small,"
she commented then played a three note C chord. Bobby watched her. "Try
that," she ordered.

      Bobby put his hand where hers had been and pressed. Mrs. Lauterburg
pulled his little finger to where it would reach only two keys farther up.

      "Very small," she commented, "never going to able to play anything
that requires a stretch. Why is this boy taking piano?"

      "Well, because it is the basic instrument for any musician, and,
well, he writes music. He'll need it for that."

      "Is that what you think?" she asked Bobby.

      He apparently wasn't sure what to answer but finally said, "Uh huh."

      "Let's try it for a month and see how he feels." She set him up for
Tuesdays at four.

      As promised, I was back the next week. Bobby had mastered the C, G,
F, and D chord progressions and could play the notes of `Making Believe'
with an occasional chord thrown in. But, he didn't sing it.

      I called Mrs. Lauterburg each week to see how Bobby was doing. She
sounded more satisfied than impressed with what he was accomplishing with
her. He played scales and chords for me the second week. I was impressed.

      That's how it went through May and into June plus a couple shows we
went to.

      The school year ended on Friday the fifteenth. Bobby's mother
insisted she had to work and asked me if I'd go to receive his report
card. The teacher bubbled over Bobby's final exams.

      "Nobody gets all hundreds, but Bobby did. I gotta think it's been
your influence, Mr. Baker. He's a changed boy."

      "Has he made any friends?"

      "Not really but he doesn't seem to get as upset by what the others
say so there not much being said these days. And he does talk to this one
boy in fifth grade, Ronald, and he's black, which is good, I suppose. He's
the one I told you about before. No, Bobby's a lot happier now, calmer."

      I debated asking Bobby about Ronald but thought it better to let him
tell me on his own.

      I took Bobby and Sissy, whose report card was nice but not exciting,
to an amusement park where we covered almost all the rides they had, the
roller coaster three times. Dinner was anything but healthy: enormous hot
dogs smothered in every kind of sauce the stand had then a huge whipped
cream covered chocolate sundae for Bobby and a banana split for Sissy. At
least it had fruit on it.

      Sissy insisted on sitting in front on the way home. She also had the
common sense to suggest I buy a pizza and peach pie for Barney. It
worked. I received the first semi-smile he'd ever sent my way.

      The following week, I finally met Bobby's grandmother, the person I
suspected was constantly putting doubts about my sexual orientation into
the mind of my musical genius' mother. Martha had so far resisted letting
me take Bobby anywhere overnight. Her excuses were always something
superfluous like she needed him to go to work with her the next day for
some unstated reason then didn't take him, or that Sissy wasn't going to be
around to watch the house when I knew she would. Sissy was a homebody. Her
friends came to see her, not visa versa.

      Sissy had told me that the grandmother, only forty-nine, didn't seem
to approve of me but would only shrug her shoulders when I asked why.

      The meeting was purely accidental. I think she'd made a point of
avoiding me in the past because she only came around after eight at night
or the day after I'd been there. It was the day before we were to celebrate
Bobby's June 24th birthday, which actually fell four days later. But I
wanted to include his mother so we decided to party on Wednesday, her day
off.  I'd planned to take them all out to a swimming club which also had a
fairly nice restaurant.

      Since I hit St. Louis earlier than expected, I went to Bobby's house
to make sure all was ready for the next day's outing. The grandmother was
sitting on the sofa which, of course, doubled as Bobby's bed. The look I
got, as I walked in, with Sissy was a cross between feigned dislike and
fear. Sissy introduced us.

      She nodded. I held out my hand. She took it but not until she showed
off her frown.

      I decided to take the bull by the horns. With a smile, I said, "So,
we finally meet. I understand you have some doubts about my working with
Bobby."

      If that had been a boxing match, she'd have been out seconds
later. It took her a while to react.

      "Well, course ah do," she stammered. "He's mah grandson. Uh, ah gotta
look out fer `im."

      I could see the wheels whizzing as she searched for a stronger
response. I helped out.

      After sitting at the far end of the couch, I opened, "I'm a musical
producer. I'm always on the lookout for talent, especially the very
talented like your grandson. If he keeps studying and practicing, he will
do very well in the music business either as a composer, musician or singer
or all three. He's the best I've ever seen and I'm not the only one who
feels that way. However, he needs a lot of help to acquire the skills he
needs. That's where I come in."

      Her question gave me the impression she hadn't listened much if at
all. It was nearly a duplicate of one the mother had tossed at me months
earlier.

      "What are yer intentions with Bobby if ah may ask?" She probably got
the line off some daytime television drama.

      Sissy, bless her heart, jumped in. "Gramma, he just tole you. He's
gonna make Bobby a famous musician Ain't ya, Mr. Simon."

      I smiled. "As famous as Bobby wants to be. That's up to him, not me."

      "But he can be one if'n he wants, can't he? Din't that Mary Jean
Kestler say he was good?"

      "I think so but, like I said, he'll choose the path that he
wants. I'm preparing him so he can do whatever he wants in music."

      "An what you gittin' out of it?" asked granny with a hint of sarcasm.

      "I could make a lot of money, not nearly as much as he can, but
that's not what I do. I have a foundation that supports me. Any money Bobby
makes for me will go into a trust fund for his education. Have you seen his
report card? He's college material."

      Sissy added, "An' Bobby's teacher says Bobby's doin' good in school
`cause a Mr. Simon."

      Granma must have felt outnumbered. She looked at her watch and said
she had to be going home. I offered to give her a lift but she said she was
being picked up. Sissy later told me she'd taken the bus. There was no
handshake on the way out.

      The birthday smash went off wonderfully. Martha sort of learned how
to swim. Her efforts reminded me of a Bob Newhart line, "Swimming for me is
staying alive in the water." She'd never been to a pool in her life. Barney
did know how and showed off to everybody. I made a point of being
impressed. Sissy and Bobby needed coaching which I was glad to
provide. Both were wearing tight bathing suits we bought at the pool
shop. Sissy, love her, picked them out, not me.

      Sissy, by the way, had she been a boy, would have been very
interesting. She had what could be called an ideal eleven year old boy's
body with a bit more hip and a couple of small bumps on her chest. Puberty
had just begun.

      Bobby was not as skinny as he looked but still would be considered
slim. I did notice the outline of something longer than I'd expected up
front. He pointed it straight up rather than push it down between his
legs. Was it for show? Sure got my attention.

      Twice in the pool I held him up with my hand over his crotch. I could
be wrong, but I think he inflated a bit the second time which I prolonged
as much as propriety and mommy's watchful eyes would allow.

      Sissy pulled my arm up to her chest when I was teaching her though I
think it was more out of fear of drowning than anything else. She was a
fast learner and was swimming on her own by the end of the day.

      Poor Bobby, without my hands under him, wouldn't take his feet off
the bottom.

      Over the next five weeks, ten year old Bobby and I went to two
bluegrass festivals and a show at a club. By the end of July, he was
playing guitar and piano without looking at his hands, simple piano tunes
from sheet music. There were grooved calluses forming on the finger tips of
his left hand. Since school vacation had begun, he was practicing enough
that the normally tolerant Sissy was beginning to complain. I bought her a
stereo radio cassette player and a pair of Koss head phones.

      Barney was working in a car wash during the day and was out with his
friends in the evenings so I hardly ever saw him. Nonetheless, I bought him
a portable radio with headset to offset my largesse with his siblings. It
wouldn't be correct to say that we were in any way friends but he was civil
when we met instead of surly, a step up from during the school year.

      At the end of July, I again asked for permission to take Bobby to
Nashville where he was to stay in his own room with private bath at my
house. I told his mother that he'd be going to a recording studio where
Mary Jean Kestler and some others were doing some songs for another star's
next album. I promised photos and a few autographs plus a copy of the
cassette when it came out.

      "If we can convince him to do it, Bobby'll be singing on one of the
tracks, and he'll be paid for it."

      Martha looked as though she was actually agonizing over the decision
but, in the end, she agreed and signed the form required for an underage
performer to work in Tennessee. I doubted she'd be telling her mother about
it. Sissy didn't tell the old hag anything. Barney didn't like her very
much either.

      To make it even more exciting for Bobby, we flew from St. Louis to
Nashville. He thought my house was a `mansion' which it almost is what with
21 rooms and a monster living room with two fireplaces and lots of
upholstered furniture. He loved his bed and bathroom with tub and
shower. Back home, he just had a tub.

      We went to a restaurant for dinner. Stanley and his wife were waiting
for us.

      "So this is the famous Bobby Stottlemeyer. You gonna sing for us
tomorrow?"

      I hadn't mentioned that hope to him so Bobby was surprised and
unhappy about it. I tried to cover over Stan's gaffe.

      "Don't worry, Bobby. You don't have to sing for anybody. It's just
that Mary Jean's told everybody about you. I think she's in love with you."

      That worked. Bobby acted coy, like the little girl he sort of
was. Stanley looked at me over his glasses. I'd already told him Bobby was
effeminate, I just kept forgetting how obvious it was. I hoped it wasn't
going to be a problem the next day in the studio. While most musicians are
a tolerant lot, we have a few, like the guitar teacher back in St. Louis,
who are anything but, plus a few who'd feel obligated to bring him to Jesus
for a cure.

      After dinner, we went to our favorite club, a dark and smokey
establishment inhabited mostly by denizens of the country music world. I
knew nearly everyone there except for the inevitable autograph seeking
tourists hoping for the appearance of a star or two. Stanley and I jammed
with the band there as often as we could. I had Bobby sit on the little
stage with me ostensibly to watch how I played. I promised that if he liked
any of the songs, I'd get the music and words for him though I was sure
he'd have them memorized on the second go round. Actually, I hoped being up
close to a live performance would loosen his resistance to singing in front
of an audience.

      "Just about everybody here is a musician. They all love music like
you and me. If you ever decide you're gonna sing for an audience, this is
the bunch. Some of these guys can't sing for beans but they come up here
and do anyhow and everybody loves it. Anyhow, I know they'd love you."

      The bit about treating everyone well wasn't entirely true. I'd heard
a couple receive some loud boos, good hearted but deserved. They'd been
terrible. If Bobby ever were to sing in front of this knowledgeable bunch,
I had no doubt they'd be hoping to work with him one day.

      Stanley, another of the band members who was a well known studio
musician, and I had to be in the studio at 8AM so we planned to play just
two sets. Some of Bobby's favorite songs were on our playlist in hopes we'd
inspire him to join in, if not that night, then next time I was able to
bring him along. The first set went off well. Bobby seemed to be humming
but never opened his mouth in song.

      Then, out of the blue, Mary Jean and her husband, a well to do
landscaper to the Nashville stars as we called him, appeared. Mary Jean
rushed up and gave Bobby a crushing hug. Stanley later admitted telling her
we'd be there in case she could stop by.

      She went straight to Bobby and leaned over to him. "Please tell me
you're gonna sing with us tomorrow."

      "Ah dunno," he said with a `help protect me' glance my way.

      "Only if he wants to, Mary Jean. He's here as an observer tomorrow
but if he decides he wants to, that's okay too."

      Mary Jean pulled Bobby back to her and whispered something in his
ear. Bobby's reaction was a soft smirk with a smile lurking behind it. She
kissed him on the cheek and said, "Mind if we sit in?"

      Her husband was a reasonable guitar and bass player. Our bassman held
out his Kay and said, "Please".

      Jim, the landscaper to the stars, took it. Mary Jean pulled Bobby up
beside her and nearly carried him to the mike stand. Keep in mind, we were
on a stage barely large enough for the five of us who'd been playing so the
microphone was only a step away. I couldn't see Bobby's face being behind
and to the left with Mary Jean between us but he didn't seem to be
resisting.

      Mary Jean turned to us and said, `Making Believe' in F. I played an F
and she started right in with Bobby pressed to her side. The crowd of fifty
or so quieted and turned toward the stage. You've gotta love Mary Jean's
velvety voice.

      Toward the end of the first instrumental break, she took the
microphone off the stand and held it in front of Bobby. I half expected him
to yank loose and rush over to me, but he didn't. He actually began to
sing, softly at first, "Can't hold you close when you're not with me,"
then, when Mary Jean got down on her knees beside to harmonize, he turned
to her and let loose, "You're somebody's love, you'll never be mine". It
was unbelievable. Everyone in the club who hadn't been paying attention
shut up and looked toward the band. I had tears in my eyes. The boy's voice
soared, floated, did what only Bobble Stottlemeyer could do with
it. "Making believe, I'll spend my lifetime loving you and making believe."
When they sang together, Mary Jean's and Bobby's voices melted together
like the tones of two strings played by a great violinist.

      Stanley almost missed his break. Mary Jean hugged Bobby again and
said something two or three times to him. He had what I'd call a terrified
grin on his face. Mary Jean let us know to change to a higher key. After
Stanley's solo, Bobby came right back, perfectly on time, right on key,
singing alone to Mary Jean, "Making believe I never lost you". He never
took his eyes off her. She was mouthing the words with him. Later, Mary
Jean's husband told me they were looking at each other like lovers.

      Our fiddle player took the next break. Mary motioned for us to back
off on the last. Bobby took a deep breath, closed his eyes briefly then put
all the pain the song's words held into a repeat of the first verse,
"Making believe that you still love me; it's leaving me alone and so
blue". Mary Jean joined in their perfect harmony as, at her urging, they
did that verse one more time. They were perfection together.

      Stanley looked at me and grinned at the tears on my face. It was the
most incredible thing I'd ever heard.

      After a moment of really strange silence at the end, the mostly
musician crowd came to their feet and applauded wildly shouting
`more'. Mary Jean hugged Bobby long enough to make her husband jealous. I
wiped my face.

      Mary Jean stood and held her hand up for quiet. Into the microphone
she announced, "That was Bobby Stottlemeyer. And you were the first to hear
him. It's gonna be something to tell your grandchildren."

      Bobby blushed and scurried back to me. I put my arm around him and
said into his ear, "That was the most beautiful thing I have ever heard."
He leaned against me. He was trembling.

      The crowd's calls for more went unheeded. Bobby just nestled closer
into me. Mary Jean told everyone to be happy with what they heard and sang
a few of her hits.

      The one really sad thing was that no one got Bobby's remarkable
performance on tape. Stanley shook his head a number of times, furious with
himself for not being prepared for the possibility.

      "Any time that kid's around an instrument, somebody should have a
mike and a recorder handy."

      "Who was to know that Mary Jean would show up?" I said in
consolation.

      "God, I hope he sings tomorrow."

      So did I.

      As we left, Mary Jean told me what she'd whispered to him. "I told
him he'd earn $200 if he sang that part we all want him to sing. But I
don't think that's why he sang with me. I just think he loved it. Might've
embarrassed the daylights out of him that he did it, but, he did and now
he's tasted the apple."

      At the studio, Stanley gave Bobby the grand tour including the little
private booths where singers performed alone with headsets to hear the rest
of the musicians.

      "Only person can see you in here is me."

      Mary Jean took Bobby aside and sang the part written for him. "Just
sing it to me like you did last night."

      He glanced toward me as though asking permission. I nodded
enthusiastically. He smiled at her. They went off and practiced for a few
minutes then came back. We'd gone over our parts and were ready.

      Mary and Bobby went into a small soundproof booth then Mary came
rushing out, grabbed a chair and darted back in. From where I was, I
couldn't see either of them. Mary had lowered the microphone down to
Bobby's level and was sitting beside him so he could see her while he sang.

      The producer, our mandolin player, started us off. In my headset, I
heard Bobby's voice singing softly, just as he was supposed to. On the
second verse, the main performer for the album came in singing from the
next booth. Bobby sang harmony. Barely ten years old and sang harmony like
an experienced pro. Again, I had a hard time holding in my emotions.

      We made it in one take. Stanley jumped up from behind the control
board and saluted Bobby. I guessed Mary Jean was hugging him again.

      We did four more numbers with Bobby either in the control room with
Stanley or beside me watching my fingers on the guitar neck.

      Our producer took Bobby and me aside after the session.

      "We've gotta do an album with this kid." He looked at Bobby. "I
didn't believe those guys when they told me about last night, but you are
the real thing, kid. You've got a great future in this business. And you
write too?"

      Bobby held onto my arm and looked at the wall.

      I gave the man a `cool it' look and said, "Patience. One step at a
time. Bobby'll decide when he wants to do more."

      Mary Jean took Bobby and me out to lunch. She was bubbling, possibly
too much.

      In the plane on the way back, Bobby asked, "Do I gotta do that
again?"

      "Only if you want to. Oh, here's a hundred and eighty dollars. I get
ten percent but it's going into a bank account so you can go to college." I
handed him the cash. He handed it back.

      "You better keep it so you can give it to my mother."

      At the diner, Martha counted the money twice. "He got all this just
for singing one song?"

      "Actually, just back up vocal.

      I told her who the singer was. It was someone she knew of. I gave her
three polaroids of Bobby with the star, in the control room with Stanley
and Mary Jean and one with all of us in the studio. "I'll have a complete
set of photos in a few days and bring `em when I come next week."

      Bobby's mother counted the money again.

      Bobby did sing a few songs with me each time we practiced, sang like
an angel. He had incredible control, never going even the slightest off
pitch. His timing was just as perfect. His range was unbelievable. He could
float up to a high C like it was an octave lower. And floating was what he
did. He could drift in and out of a word or series of words as well as the
two best singers I knew of, both making high six figures doing so.

      I didn't press a return to Nashville, just let him know that there
were people who dearly wanted to hear him sing again and were willing to
pay well if he did.

      What I did suggest is that he let me take a couple of his songs to
Mary Jean to see if she'd like to record them. Both had terrific melodies
but lyrics that needed work. It wasn't that the words were all that
bad. They just needed an improved flow and slightly more maturity. I
explained that he'd receive a percentage, perhaps three to four cents for
every album that was sold.

      "Mary Jean sells tens of thousands of albums. You do the arithmetic."

      At the end of August, he handed two song sheets to me and told me to
give them to Mary Jean.