put me at ease, setting the tone for the room, which means he’s the alpha dog here. I wasn’t sure that was the case, but now, there’s no doubt. If there’s one thing I can do, it’s read a room.
“Thanks. Yeah, checked into the hotel. It’s nice. Bed has six pillows.” I add that detail to highlight how fancy the hotel is, but the few people in the room smile as though I told a joke.
I scan the room, seeing a round conference table with six people seated at it. They’re mostly young, in their twenties and thirties, I’d guess, a mix of guys and girls, each with a folder in front of them. The woman seated closest to me quirks one salon-sculpted, perfectly-shaped brow when she sees me realizing that the folder has my name on it.
I’m not sure what to feel about that. On one hand, that someone took the time to make six folders with my name seems important. But file folders naturally end up in file cabinets, which means there are likely hundreds of folders just like these. Folders of folks who took their shot and flew, and some who fell flat back down to Earth.
“Sit down. Let’s talk through everything, Bobby,” Jeremy says as he moves to the head of the table. It’s round, so there shouldn’t be a ‘head’ position, but there always is. No room full of people is ever on completely even footing, this one included. And pretending that everyone’s equal puts you at a disadvantage from the starting line. Best to acknowledge and act accordingly.
Except talking through things doesn’t sound like something I’m going to be good at.
I don’t want to talk. I want to sing.
But I sit down like I’m told, willing to play along for this opportunity.
Jeremy clicks a few buttons on a remote, and the window shades roll down automatically, followed by a television on the wall turning on. Showoff, I think.
“To remind us all what we’re starting with, here’s why I’ve invited Bobby here.” He clicks Play, and I come to life on the screen, singing my opener song at Hank’s. It’s a cover, and I see a few looks of consideration. The lady closest to me closes her eyes and tilts her head, listening. But I can’t tell whether they like it or not.
Jeremy fast forwards. “And here’s an original. It is, right?” He’s asking me, and I nod silently.
My own song being judged stirs up fire in my belly. It’s one thing if they like my voice. There are tons of artists who only sing songs written by other people. It’s an entirely different thing for them to like my words, the ones I work so damn hard to find in my head and heart to express what I want to say.
“What’s the working title of that one?” a young guy in glasses asks.
“Her. It’s about my mom,” I reply. It’s the song I wrote when she was sick, and I dare him to say one bad word about it.
He frowns thoughtfully, tapping his chin. “Good title, catchy but generic. Never tell anyone who it’s about.” He splays his hands wide through the air in front of him. “We’ll say it’s for every woman, a ballad to the fairer sex and all they do to rein us wild guys in.” He smiles at me like that made a lick of sense. It did not. Especially when I bet the wildest thing he’s done in his lifetime is put whole milk in his coffee instead of skim.
Jeremy nods. “I like it. Very of-the-moment with the whole feminist thing being hot.”
I blink. “Feminist thing?”
Glasses Guy laughs. “You know. I am woman, hear me roar. Anything you can do, I can do better. Hashtag whatever. That whole thing, you know?”
I feel like these people are talking a different language. “I guess I don’t. I know my sister can outshoot and outride me on any horse. I know I can lift twice as much as she can. The best mechanic I know is a woman, and I can grow damn near anything you want in my garden or fields. We just have different skills, that’s all.”
Glasses Guy freezes. “Oh, my God, Jeremy. What rock did you pull him out from under again? He’s an absolute find!”
What did I say? Was it good or bad?
I have no idea.
But they’re all smiling, so I’m going with the hope and prayer that I haven’t screwed up yet.
Jeremy claps and moves to open