Have A Little Faith In Me (17 page)

He shuddered to think what she’d say.  After all the money she’d scrimped and saved for him to get away!  And he was just going to let that go.

“I’m so proud of you,” Faith said after he cataloged the band’s successes.  “I knew you’d reach your goals, Rocky.”

“Thanks…but, well… It’s all taking so much of my time, and…”

She cut him off, having already guessed what was coming.  “Just do this for me.  Finish this semester.  It’s paid for, and it’s almost over.  At least get a C average!”

He laughed; he could hear her smiling as she said it. 

“And then you have a year under your belt.  And you can go back later and finish your degree.  If you even need it or want it by then.”

Rocky exhaled, amazed that all the pressure built up inside him could be released so easily, so lightly.

“And…” Faith said hesitantly.  “You should call your father.”

That ruined it.  “What for?  So I can tell him about my successful career in ‘devil music’?” 
Or,
he thought,
tell him that I’m now an official cocksucker?

She sighed.  “He misses you.  He’d never say so.  But I can tell.”

Rocky didn’t believe it.  His father was busy whipping up anti-gay hysteria in Africa, convincing gullible people that the gays were coming to eat their children and steal husbands from their wives. 

Something cruel rose up in him and lashed out.  “Well, tell him I’m gay.  That’ll fix that.”

Faith was silent. 

Rocky regretted it instantly.  “Sorry.  I didn’t mean to shout at you.”

“I forgive you,” she said softly.  Rocky didn’t know if she meant for yelling, or for being gay. 

They said more civilized goodbyes, and only later did Rocky wonder why she didn’t say anything about the gay part.  Did she think he was just saying it to spite his father?  Did she always know, anyway?  He’d never had a girlfriend, and she’d never hinted that he should get one. 

It didn’t matter now.  He’d keep his promise, struggle through the rest of the semester somehow.  And then he’d cut it, his last ties with Georgia, the South, all of it. 

They had to make a video, of course.  Korey had put feelers out to all the famous names in the business, but then one name had popped up out of left field.

When the call came, they were in Korey’s warehouse space, reviewing contracts to turn their hit song into a ringtone, and listening to, of all things, a Belle and Sebastian cover by some country-western dude. 

He spit out his coffee when Korey showed him the promo disc.  “Dex Dexter?” Rocky laughed.  “Like in ‘Dynasty’?”  Yes, his cultural education had finished its essential, higher levels, and was now descending into the depths of camp and kitsch.

“Just listen to it,” Korey said.  “With, you know, an open mind?”

Rocky shook his head.  He knew the name, and the songs attached to it – how could he not, living at UGA, where frat boys were pumping country-western music out of gargantuan speakers all the time?  This was a guy who did shit-kickin’ good time America Fuck Yeah music, so Rocky prepared for the worst.  But then, the song started.

It was “Get Me Away From Here, I'm Dying,” a song with as upbeat a melody as any 60s bubblegum song could aspire to, paired with lyrics full of regret, despair, and sorrow. 

There was something about his voice that stabbed Rocky like a knife.  It had that generic, music-factory-made country twang, sure, and yet.  It was strong, and full and…he was singing his truth, Rocky knew. 

Ooh! Get me away from here I’m dying

Play me a song to set me free

Nobody writes them like they used to

So it may as well be me

The voice soared, swooped, full of regret, longing.  Rocky was silent at the end, truly moved.  He could still hear it, that voice, in his ear, as if he’d heard it before, as if he knew it as well as he knew his own.

“That was …amazing.”

Korey nodded.  “Dude took a huge risk.  He’s getting a ton of shit for it, too.  ‘Fairy music,’ is what the fans are calling it.  Gay, etc.  It’s not even a single, just buried at the end of his album.  But of course, well, you know, Redneckistan.”

“Yeah, don’t I just.”  Even a hint of sensitivity was enough to provoke the wild animals into tearing you apart.

Korey’s phone rang, he answered it, and his eyes widened.  “Yeah, hi.  Wow.  Um, yeah.  Oh yeah!  No, I’m sure they’ll…sure, come on over.  Thank you!”

He hung up, grinning like a crocodile.  “That was our new music video director.  Or will be, if you approve.  Which you will.  He wants to meet you.  He’s in the neighborhood.  He’ll be here in five.”

“Okay.  Who is it?”

Korey strung out the name with all the weight he could give it.  “Frank.  James.”

Rocky laughed.  Frank James was a famous actor, but had ambitions to be so much more.  To be an artist, a writer, a director, everything.  He was everywhere all the time, never not working on something. 

And in Rocky’s circle, he was famous for something else – his notorious flirtation with homosexuality, or at least with gay culture.  He was, allegedly, straight, but his art and his writing were about as homoerotic as you could get.  Everyone said he “had to be gay,” because what straight man would be so obsessed with the gayness?

Whatever
, Rocky thought.  He already knew the way the cycle ran for famous people.  A, flirt openly with gender lines and sexual identity.  B, cautiously declare yourself bisexual and see what the fallout is like.  C, God, finally, you’re gay, everyone already knew it, about time you said it.

Korey opened the door and Frank came in, hugging him, then turned his charm, his energy, on Rocky.

He was handsome, yeah, movie star handsome.  But he didn’t have that Sta-Prest look Rocky despised.  With his dark eyes (
like Nico
), his messy brown hair and unshaven face (
like Nico
), his mile-wide grin (
like…yeah, I know,
he said to the voice in his head)…

“Hey, man, great to meet you.”  Frank took Rocky’s proffered handshake and pulled him into a hug. 

He wasn’t cut and built like Nico the athlete, but he was strong…sturdy.  The look in his eyes was full of mischief, delight, charm…and lust. 
Yeah,
Rocky thought. 
I’ve seen that look before.  I know this story.

Here we go again,
a voice said inside him. 

Shut up
, he replied.  He could feel it, the magnetic pull of Frank’s charm, and he smiled back.

“Great to meet you, too.”  And it was, it was great, to feel it again, that surge of hope, of optimism, of desire sent and received…

He knew how it would go.  Frank would use him, like Nico used him, at his convenience, for his pleasure, on the down low, and then it would end as fast as it began

And Rocky was glad, so glad, it was what he wanted, whatever he told himself he should want, this was just what he wanted.  It would be easy, this time.  He wouldn’t let himself have feelings about it.  He would keep it light, he would have
fun. 

This time it wouldn’t hurt at all.

Dex pulled up to Sam Griggs’ offices in his new black F-150.  He’d been given a lot of advice on what to do with his advance – mostly, to save it.  The amount of time it could take for him to earn it back could extend, well, forever.  When it came to chipping away at an artist’s profits with this expense and that, Hollywood had nothing on the record industry. 

But Dex was eighteen years old and did not want to hear about all the “recoupable debt” that Sam’s label would bill against his royalties.  Every record producer, every music video, every lavishly endowed craft table at at every concert, would all come out of his future earnings.

So what.  He had his family installed in an apartment, he was living on his own (well, with three other guys in the Griggs stable of musicians), and he had real money in his pocket for the first time in his life.  Besides, he was going to be a motherfucking superstar, making so much money that they could bill him for a private jet flight and he’d still be rich.

Sam Griggs Records was a one stop shop – Sam was the artists’ manager, agent, promoter, and record label, all at once.  Dex was not aware at the time that it wasn’t the best idea for his manager and agent to be negotiating with…himself as the label’s owner.  But he had a gobstopping $100,000 advance and that was all he needed to know.

There was nothing “country” about Sam’s offices.  The complex was sleek and modern, with a glass ceiling above its soaring atrium and an open plan office that was a hive of activity.  The recording and rehearsal studios were underground, the earth itself saving Griggs Records some money on soundproofing. 

Sam, of course, had his own office, a space that was big enough for conferences and auditions.

“Dex, have a seat, son,” Sam said, shaking his hand vigorously.  Sam had that weather-beaten look of a real cowboy, a Sam Shepard look on a good day and a Lyle Lovett look on a hangover day. 

“I’m really excited to be here, sir.”

“Great, great.”

Dex went to take his guitar out of its case.  He hadn’t replaced his old Martin yet, but that was only because his first visit to Gruhn Guitars had overwhelmed him with the possibilities.

“I have some songs ready to…”

Sam waved that away.  “We’ll get to that, son.  First things first.” He pushed a button on his phone.  “Janet, we’re ready for you.”

“Five minutes, Sam, I’m on the other line with Toby.” 

Dex blinked.  Toby Keith!  He was at the same record label as Toby Keith!  This really was the big time.

“Okay, son,” Sam said, “we’ve got five.  Play me something.”

Dex had tuned up before he left the house, so as not to waste a moment of Sam’s valuable time.  He started in on a song he’d just written, a song he was terribly proud of.

Workin’ at the ice house, it ain’t good money

But it’s a job and ‘round here there ain’t many

Friday’s pretty good ‘cause we’re done at 4:30

Cause I only work 39.5

It would sure be nice to have insurance

For the occasional workplace tragic occurrence

But that’s for the guys who work a full 40

But I only get 39.5

Dex stopped when a side door opened and a woman stepped in, looking more New York than Nashville.  Tight, expensive suit, high heels, pineapple blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. 

“Janet, there you are.  This is Dex Dexter.”

She smiled, pearly white teeth that probably cost more than the most expensive guitar Dex had eyed at Gruhn.

“That’s a great name, honey.  We don’t even have to change that.”

“I was just playing a song for Mr. Griggs, would you like to hear…”

“Son,” Sam cut him off, “that’s a good song, but that’s not what we’re looking for right now.  Don’t you have anything, you know, fun?”

“Fun…?”

“Sam’s saying, well, come here,” she said.  Dex got up and Janet put a hand on his arm, steering him to a full length mirror.  “Look at that.  You’re a big old boy, handsome as the devil, and when we put a black cowboy hat on you, you’re gonna be a star.  But you’ve gotta have the material that goes with that look, you see?”  Janet pulled a measuring tape out of her suit pocket and began to manhandle Dex, moving him around to measure his chest and waist and even his head. 

“Sam, we gonna push him as a prodigy?  Teen idol?  He’s 18, but shit, he looks older don’t he?  He’d grow right out of that market in no time.”

“No, we go straight for the mainstream.”  Sam got up and took a black cowboy hat off of a hat rack.  “Here, put this on.  Might not fit exactly on that big old head of yours but…Damn, that’s it!  Smile!  Janet, get the camera!”

Click click.  “Plug that into the PC, let me see it on the big screen.  Yeah, that’s great.  This boy is our diamond in the rough, as is.”

Janet considered Dex thoughtfully.  “You’re right.  We’ve got a lot of flack lately for our boys all being too slick, too polished.”

Dex was stunned.  They weren’t even thinking about his music, let alone talking about it. 

“Who’ve we got to pair him up with?” Sam asked.

“Oh, I think Johnny Norway.  He’s got a sound that’ll go with this look, and…”

“Hold up,” Dex said.  “Johnny Norway’s a song writer.”

“That’s right.  We need someone to write your songs.”

“What!?”

“Now, son, you gotta trust us to do right by you.  These guys know their shit, they know what sells…”

“NO,” Dex thundered.  “You’re not gonna let me write my own music?  Fuck this.”  He tore the hat off his head and threw it across the room. “I am walking outta here right now and you can fuckin’ sue me and take away our apartment and…”

Sam raised his hands in appeal. “Okay, okay, calm down!  I hear you.  Janet – I think he’s right.  We’re thinking of him like he’s one of those disposable poster boys.”  Sam gave Dex his most charming smile.  “This young man’s got steel!  I think he’s more of a long term prospect.  And that means getting him credibility, and for that he needs his own songs.”

Sam got Dex settled back in his chair, and put his hands on Dex’s shoulders.  “Now, what I want you to do, son, is go home and have a few beers and get happy and write me some shit-kickin’ good time songs, you hear?  That song you played is a good song, well-constructed, so I know you can do this.  But we need to get you out there with something more…positive, you know?”

“I’m 18, I can’t even buy beer…”

“Aw shit, Dex.  Larry’s your driver, he’s gonna set you up with anything you need.  Anything you need to get some songs written, you hear?” Sam winked at him.  The intent was clear – if Dex needed to get stoned or cranked up or bang a hooker, all he had to do was ask.

“Okay,” Dex said.  “I can do that.”  He frowned.  His family was safe, they had food and lodging, and he had to make sure that didn’t change.  His threat had been bluster, really.

“I can do that,” he repeated, more to convince himself.

“Lisa Sue, stop hitting your brother,” Dex warned his littlest sister.

“Yeah, Lisa Sue,” Kaleb said.  “Stop it.”

“Where’s Carrie?” Dex asked his mom, tucking into another of the ribs from Jack’s Bar-B-Que.  Two family meals plus sides had set him back nearly a hundred bucks, but it was worth it. 

“Cheerleading practice,” Carla said.  “She’s fitting in here real good, Dex.”

“Okay, good.”

Mike Dexter mumbled something from his chair, where he’d nodded off after devouring a pint of mac and cheese.  “Gonna…football…”

Everyone ignored him.  Ever since the moment he’d grabbed his father and hauled him out of his La-Z-Boy the day that Katrina struck, it was accepted that Dex was the head of the household.  He was the adult, he was the breadwinner. 

“Lisa Sue, how you doin’ in school?”

“I got an A- in math.”

“All right!” Dex said, high-fiving his little sister, their rib-greased hands staining each other’s, making Lisa Sue giggle. 

He didn’t ask his parents any questions.  Carla was a stay-at-home mom now, and Mike…well, Mike was a self-induced invalid.  With no financial necessity to force him to get a job, and remain sober at least a few hours a day, he had contentedly sunk into an alcoholic stupor. 

Dex didn’t give a shit – Mike drank cheap shit beer and malt liquor, Keystone or Mickey Big Mouth, so the expense wasn’t that high.  And he wasn’t a mean or violent drunk, so fuck it.  Let the old bastard pickle himself.

After dinner, he rose from the table.  “I gotta go.  I gotta write some songs.”  He went into the kitchen and washed the bar-b-que off his hands.

“Did you get Carrie her autograph yet?” his mom asked him.  Carrie had squealed when Dex had admitted meeting Brad Paisley.

“Shit.  Would you text me that, mom?  If I’ve got it on my phone, I’ll remember.”

Carla took out her brand new iPhone and texted away.  “Don’t forget this time.”

“I won’t, Mom.”  He kissed her on the cheek, rubbed his other siblings on the heads, and went to work.

This was the life, Dex thought.  “Work” meant hanging out with three other dudes in their Griggs Records apartment.  The idea behind that was that they would be both supportive and competitive, and however friendly they were, however much they kidded around, they knew that not all of them would make it out of this apartment into something shinier and more expensive.

“You need to get stoned,” Karl West decided.  “It’s just you and me tonight, man.  Terry and Charlie are on the road.  Nobody to rat you out.”

Dex laughed, taking a beer from the well-stocked fridge.  Charlie was a super-religious dude, who looked at his roommates with infinite sadness whenever they drank alcohol in his presence. 

“Yeah, I don’t know.  I need to focus.”

Karl shook his head and sighed, chugging his beer.  He was already running to fat, but Griggs Records had decided that it was a “blue collar” look that would work for him.

“You need to
focus
to write your socialist anthems, buddy.  You need to fucking
relax
to write what Sam wants.”

Dex laughed.  “Okay, Outlaw Country, you talked me into it.”

Karl was the “bad boy,” the one who’d be marketed as “outlaw country.”  The only problem was that Karl really was outlaw country, which didn’t bode well for a long career with a controlling organization like Griggs Records.

Karl retrieved his bong and loaded it up.  “You get some Febreze like I asked you?”

“Yeah, man, industrial size.  Nobody will smell a thing.”

Dex smoked Karl’s killer shit until he was cross-eyed.  Karl nodded.  “Now write the stupidest fucking song you can think of.”

“Yeah,” Dex nodded blearily.  “Something with fucking trucks and beer and women.”

“Fuck women.  You complain about women you’re gonna lose sales.  Dogs, man.  A boy and his dog.”

“Right.  Party time on the weekend.  A six pack, four-wheeling, and a… oh shit!”  Dex giggled hysterically, doubling over.  “I got it!”

He started scribbling furiously.  “Oh man, this is so fucking stupid.  When I play this, they’ll see what a dumb idea this was and they’ll let me play what I really wanna play…”

Dex grinned at Sam and Janet the next day.  “Is this what you want?”  He started to play and sing his weed-fueled song.

Workin’ so hard for five long days

Now it’s finally Saturday

Ain’t gonna do no goddamn chores

I’m bustin’ right out that front door

Headin’ in my truck where the mud is thick

I’m proud to be such a goddamned hick

I got a six pack, four wheels, two dogs

Don’t give me no shit about a DUI, please

Where I’m goin’ there’s no police

I got a six pack, four wheels, two dogs

When he finished the song, he looked at Sam and Janet, stone faced but intent.  “I got another, too.  This one’s much better,” he said defiantly.  Then he launched into the song he’d started to write back in his parents’ garage, full of anger at his father. 

I’m a gonna go back to work real soon

I’m a gonna fix that busted roof

I’m a gonna get that truck off the blocks

Just as soon as I finish this beer

Hold your horses, I’m a gonna get to that

Just as soon as I finish this beer

Sam and Janet looked at each other, to confirm that each was thinking the same thing, and that neither of them was crazy.

Sam nodded.  “Okay, son.  Let’s get you into the studio.”