Can’t Keep a Good Girl Down: Chapter 2

Chapter 2 of a tale of love, loss and eventual healing, all while traversing the music clubs of mid-90s Nashville.

After a fitful night alternating between semi-sleep and semi-wakefulness, all of it awful and confused, my eyes open up for good around 7 a.m. Something heavy still sits on my chest, which makes it hard to uncurl from a fetal position and separate myself from the soft, fleece blanket. I question whether I want to move from this position at all, ever. As enticing as it sounds — an endless sleep — I push that thought aside.

I rise and pace about the room — straighten the sheets, put on my bathrobe — just like any other weekday. But it’s not any other weekday. It’s Day One, John A.D. Eyes scratchy and puffy and with the worst news ever fresh in my head, I entertain the idea of going to work. Fortunately for my coworkers, our clients, and myself, a more rational part of me knows I should not set foot in the studio on Day One after The Call.

Today is the first day that I call in sick since Bob Solomon, Woodland’s owner, hired me as a receptionist for $5 an hour. John talked me into applying for this job last summer after we saw it advertised on the back page of the Nashville Scene. I had spent many weeks after graduation mailing my resume to record labels, entertainment PR firms and just about any other music industry outfit that was hiring. I wanted an entry-level publicist job, but would settle for any decent job that would lift me out of my assistant-assistant manager role at the Turtle’s Record Store outside of Hickory Hollow Mall.

For my diligent envelope-stuffing efforts, I received a pile of rejection letters, a couple of interviews and, lo and behold, thanks to a connection through my internship, a one-week temp job in Sony Music’s public relations department that ultimately went nowhere. They hired their intern.

I initially blew off the Woodland Studios job because I thought I was overqualified. You don’t need a college degree to answer phones, right?

“Dude,” John said. He called everyone dude. I didn’t take it personally. “You should really think about it. Woodland is one of the best studios in town. Maybe it’s not exactly the job that you want, but think about all of the contacts you could make working there. It could be a stepping stone to something better.”

His advice made sense. I applied, got the job, and quickly realized that he was right on all accounts. No, I didn’t need a college degree to answer phones. But my Recording Industry Management degree from Middle Tennessee State University gave me enough background knowledge to lead client tours without sounding like a complete ditz. Every day, I interact with some of the most respected names in the Nashville music industry, as well as a few from New York and L.A. The stepping stone theory proved true.

In addition to manning phones, I help the studio manager with payroll, make coffee and sharpen pencils for the engineers. Glamorous, right? I’m also in charge of writing, designing and printing our studio’s monthly newsletter, the Woodland Vibe, a project I proposed a few months ago. Projects like this give me purpose outside of cleaning ashtrays and refilling candy dishes.

I squirm as I think about missing work on Day One John A.D., because Woodland’s small staff will have to pick up my slack. I realize though, after I rub the sleep out of my eyes, that I am just not functioning normally. There is no thought behind my actions. I can walk, I can dress myself, and after a cup of coffee, I’ll be able to talk. But this is a body on autopilot. My mind is fuzzy from insomnia and shock. Was The Call nothing but a bad dream? If I blink my eyes or wrinkle my nose will he come back? Oh, how I wish this was just a vivid nightmare, but my rational self knows that it is not. My waking life is the nightmare.

According to psychological assessments of grief, I am squarely in phase one: shock. I’m starting to attend to the myriad of details associated with my loss. I don’t have to plan a funeral, but I do have to inform my employer of my pending absence.

I stare at the black cordless device as if I had never seen a phone before, though I knew it quite well last night. The idea of using this phone to talk to Missy, Woodland’s studio manager, seems like such an effort, so I put it off. I get dressed — jeans, a black T-Shirt — and put my long blonde locks back in a big, silver barrette, the one with the suns and the moons. (I’m into the sun-moon-stars theme these days, from my toothbrush holder to my coffee mug to my silver barrette.) Normally, I wear my stick-straight tresses down, with bangs cut short. My attempt at a Betty Page ‘do comes across more like Barbie’s friend Skipper. When it doesn’t get washed, like today, the hair goes into the barrette.

I can no longer avoid the call to Missy, which is certainly less traumatic than last night’s Call. I take a deep breath, shelve my emotions and prepare to sound “normal,” whatever that is, to the woman that will have to either take over my duties on top of hers or delegate them within the next hour.

Missy picks up on the second ring, her cigarette-singed voice reciting, with an effort to sound cheerful early in the morning, “Good morning, Woodland Studios!”

“Hi Missy. Um, I don’t think I can come in to work today,” I say, sheepishly.

“What’s up?” Missy asks.

“Well, I’m not sick, not exactly, but, um, I found out that my boyfriend John –he came in not long ago to take me to lunch, remember? — well, he died last night. In an accident.”

“Oh my God. Oh honey, I’m so sorry. That’s horrible,” Missy says, after a pause. “Take as much time as you need. Don’t worry about losing the hours; we’ll work something out.”

“Thank you Missy. I feel bad that I can’t come in. But I don’t think I’d be much help today. I’ll probably be okay tomorrow. Do you want me to call you in the morning?”

“Sure sweetie. Don’t come in tomorrow if you’re not up for it. Don’t worry about this place. We’ll be fine. Just take care of yourself. If you need to take more days off, don’t worry about it. Okay?”

Since I only earn about $6.50 an hour these days, missing even one day would hurt, and the studio doesn’t have a proper vacation day/sick day policy. What a relief that Missy will let me take some paid time off for bereavement, or whatever you call my zombie state.

With that over with, I pour myself a bowl of Special K, out of habit, not because I crave low-calorie, low-taste cereal. A few months ago, I decided I looked flabby and soft. I didn’t think I was fat, but my limbs lacked any definition. I didn’t want to exercise to tone up my spaghetti noodle arms, so I took to eating Special K in hopes that alone would allow me to see my biceps again.

I complained to John once about my flabbiness. “I think you look fine,” he said, “but if you really want to lose weight or get in shape or whatever, then stop whining and get off your ass and do something about it.” I remember his tough love whenever I “whine” about something that’s not working in my life.

Stacey’s ankle bracelet clink-clink-clinks a slow cadence as she approaches the kitchen, where I slump over her 1950s formica kitchen table and stare at my tasteless flakes. She’s dressed and ready for her accounting job, wearing one of her signature outfits: ankle-length, flowy skirts and a silky black top. Stacey used to roam the halls of Smyrna High School wearing similar attire, usually entirely black. She walked with her head held high, silver bracelets jangling, her blonde hair pulled tight into a high ponytail a la Madonna 1988. She had a posse of artsy, cool, popular friends that did not notice me, a shy, eleventh grade band nerd.

Stacey and I finally met my sophomore year of college though Michelle, who became my roommate when my previous roommate moved back home. That Stacey and I came from different high school cliques made no difference, probably because she didn’t remember me anyway. We became close friends over the course of a year or so. (We both warm up to people slowly.) At the time of The Call, Stacey had recently parted with Joe, who seemed, to Stacey and everyone else, to be the love of her life. It was an emotional breakup that didn’t happen by choice for either of them. So when John told Stacey she needed to get laid, obviously it hit a nerve.

“Hey.” Stacey greets me flatly, as one would expect of a night owl with a day job, but her eyes soften when I give her a weak smile. “Did you get any sleep?” I can smell her fruity shampoo and vanilla lotion, both of which awaken my senses, at least.
“Nah, not really.” I can’t even tell that I’m tired because of the numbness.

“Are you going to Warren’s?”
“Yeah.”

“Do you want me to give you a ride? I can drop you off on my way to work.”

“Nah, I can drive. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’ll probably stay for a while, I guess, but I don’t know…I just feel like I should be there.”

I really have no plan, I just want to be with Warren and I don’t want to be alone. Big Red was my second home for much of the past year, so it seems like the right place to be. This could also be too overwhelming. I may want to run away. Or I might want to never leave. I can’t think about the elevator down the hall. Too much for right now.

I say goodbye to Stacey and put my cereal bowl and blue sun-moon-stars coffee mug into the dishwasher. After I check my reflection to make sure I don’t look too horrific from a night of crying and no sleep, I slump into my faded, beige Nissan Sentra and drive the 15 minutes from our (her) townhouse near the Nashville airport to Big Red on seedy Eighth Avenue South.

Homeless people, prostitutes and a handful of brave musicians and artists make their home in this dingy part of downtown. The boxy, three-story Big Red building sits next to The Cannery, which used to be a cool music club but is currently a big, empty building. Big Red used to be mostly empty, too, but it’s gradually being converted into artist live/work spaces. The Big Red owners must call them live/work not only because people live and work there, but also because they have to put in a lot of work to make their unit livable.

Before I pull into the fenced-in gravel lot reserved for Big Red tenants, I stop at the dumpy gas station across the street to buy a pack of Camel Lights. I’ve never walked into this tiny service station before, much less bought gas here. But when I take off my sunglasses and ask for cigarettes, the weathered man in the mechanic’s outfit swiftly, silently, rings up my purchase as if he knows why I am there, as if he knows why my eyes look like golf balls. He must know that someone fell down the elevator shaft in the building across the street. Or maybe he saw the “someone I love died last night” tattoo on my face.

As I approach the Big Red parking lot, I see John’s neighbor Chark walking down the alley towards me, his shoulder-length, baby-fine hair floating in the breeze. Chark and I have a good time talking whenever we cross paths, but I know little about his inner world. Yet, I’ve missed Chark, with his bottle of Miller Light permanently affixed to his right hand, since the breakup.

Chark hugs me for the first time ever. “I don’t even know what to say,” he whispers. No one does.

Chark is dressed down today: bell-bottom Levi’s and an old Jimi Hendrix T-Shirt. When Chark goes out, he substitutes denim for corduroy and cotton with wildly patterned, wide-collared polyester shirts. Chark drives a Chevy Firebird. He knows the Black Crowes on a first-name basis. I don’t know where he works. I’ve never seen him eat.

Chark also throws great parties in his spacious loft apartment (decorated entirely in ‘70s-era brown). He is the life of the party and a welcoming host. He always has a witty cynical comment to throw out. Even his complaining makes me laugh.

But this Thursday morning, Chark isn’t joking. He’s certainly not smiling. After his welcome embrace, our eyes lock. In his I’ve-worn-glasses-my-whole-life squinty eyes, which are now red and a little watery, I see sympathy, understanding and deep sadness. Chark’s eyes say everything that his happy-go-lucky self won’t. Finally, I get a glimpse of his inner world.

Chark walks with me up the metal stairway to Big Red’s third floor and down the white, unpainted drywall hallway, where the studio owner, Neal Cappellino (we call him Neal Cappuccino), greets me with a soft hello. Standing in the barren corridor, Neal looks at me, then at the ground, a frown of concern weighing him down. “I’m sorry,” he says. I know he can’t think of anything else to say. I don’t mind.

Right now, words of condolence don’t matter much. Not that I don’t appreciate the gesture. Lord knows I appreciate any kind word that comes my way right now. The words don’t sink in. Neal doesn’t say any more as he guides me in my dark and foggy state down the hall to #302, where John left his keys.