CHAPTER ELEVEN
A Song to be Sung…
Cain sat on the left side of the long table in a place that looked as if it was made of nothing but windows. Framed photos of musicians, some of whom he’d seen blossom over the years, lined the walls of the boardroom, framed in gold. Spinely stood in a corner of the room talking to two men dressed in suits. One of them had a bald head and a huge diamond pinky ring. He could see the huge thing even from a distance.
He sucked his teeth as he sat there in his black slacks, button down black shirt and silver necklace with a guitar charm. Across his neck too was a blood red choker featuring a faux Voodoo Priest skull with a top hat.
His right hand was covered in black onyx rings, and his hair hung in a long black braid flowing down his back. He’d contacted an attorney beforehand who let him know it would be unnecessary for legal counsel to attend this preliminary meeting, but he warned him to not sign anything until he reviewed the contract with a fine-tooth comb. Tapestry had given him a much-needed pep talk and a little mornin’ lovin’ to start his day off right.
“All right, Mr. Johnson.” Spinely approached with a smile on his face and sat across from him. “Sorry to keep you waitin’.”
“No problem… no problem at all.” Cain sat back in his seat and clasped his hands together. The bald man remained in the corner, now on his phone while the other man, who was significantly shorter than the other two, made his way out of the door.
“All right, so, as we’ve made it quite clear earlier today before I left to take a call, we want you in our Nola Studio family. You’ve got a unique sound, Mr. Johnson, and it’s what we’re lookin’ for.” The man then opened up a black leather portfolio, looked at the contents, then turned it in Cain’s direction and slid it across the table.
“Here is where the rubber meets the road. This is the contract. This first page gives information about our company, the history, so on and so forth.” Cain nodded in understanding as the man reached over and turned the page. “These next five pages detail the costs we’d cover for you, such as studio time, equipment, concert and tour expenditures, obviously production costs, things of that nature. It states what percentage you’d receive from each download of your first album.”
Cain read the words on the first page real slow, making sure he didn’t miss anything.
“Now, please bear in mind that this is a two-album contract. We want to lock you in for at least eighteen songs, spread out over a three-year period. Down there on the bottom is where you’d sign, and then you’d go to the next page.” The man turned the page once again. “These two pages are specifically about the song we want to purchase from you for another artist of ours to perform. The song in question is titled, ‘Intuition.’ That’s correct, right?”
“Yes… that’s what I had named the song.”
“All right. Over here just stipulates that we can change the name of the song if we purchase it from you. It doesn’t mean that we necessarily would… just gives us that leeway. Additionally, what we’ve got here is the Production Agreement. This would be further detailed in a Licensing Agreement, the song we want to purchase from you, which we have separately drafted up. This will all be in an independent contract, and the terms will be subject to whatever clauses we negotiate from the original publishing contract. Additionally, it will be registered with ASCAP. It’s just mentioned in passing here so that you’d understand that you’d be properly credited and receive royalties for each time it is played on the radio, downloaded, performed by the artist, so on and so forth.” Cain nodded in understanding.
The man went on and on, and he listened with ears working like a bat in a cave. Even though he had a legal team waiting to go over this whole deal, he wanted to understand it for himself, not depend on someone else to break it down for him in laymen’s terms. The other man with the bald head soon joined them, sitting right next to his business partner. Cain took notice that his smile was much like Spinely’s, only slightly crooked.
“Hey there, Cain!” The man had a thick Texan accent. He extended his hand and Cain reached over and shook it. “My name is Steven Alexander. I’m sure Spinely already gave you information about me, but he and I work hand in hand.”
“Yeah, he told me about you. Hey… how’s it goin’?” Cain propped his elbows on the table and linked his hands. He didn’t like the man’s vibe but did his best to sport the best poker face he could muster. Spinely came off as genuine, while this guy seemed to be trying to run a big ass dog and pony show, the kind that promised glitz and glamour but only delivered heartbreak and crusty, old manure.
“I’m good! Better now that you’re here! So, as you can see there,” the man said, pointing down at the portfolio. “We’re offering you a real generous package…’cause we don’t want to dilly dally and drag this out… We want you, all right? We know you’ve been in the game a minute, worked the circuits in Louisiana for a good long while, so you’re seasoned… ready to jump!”
He burst out laughing. Cain did not.
“Well, I’m not ready to jump on just anythin’ that moves though, Steven. See, the one leap I’m doing is a leap of faith, but only under the right circumstances and trust has to be earned, never just given. Like you said, I’ve been workin’ this for a long while, doin’ my thing, but I’m not desperate. I’m motivated, but I’m not going to just give myself away, either.” The bald man leaned back and clasped his hands. “Now, you may think this is a generous package.”
Cain looked down at one of the pages then back into the eyes of both men. “But I know what the goin’ rate is for comparable guys of my caliber and expertise, and this ain’t enough. This is about 4.8% shy of the goin’ rate and the song deal is a lowball, too. I know that there’s another separate contract with all of the details, but I can see clear as day where this is goin’. I’m not sellin’ a song that I believe could make you all millions in the right hands, and only get about fourteen thousand dollars before taxes. I can count just fine, and these chickens ain’t addin’ up. I will never sell a song outright and let go of my rights. You can license the damn thing, give me my due, then we’re talkin’.”
Cain swiveled the contract around and scooted it back in their direction, then crossed his arms over his chest.
The guys’ smiles turned stiff.
“Mmmm, all right.” Spinely cleared his throat, reached to adjust his blueberry colored tie, and blinked a few times. “Well, everything is negotiable, Mr. Johnson.”
“Call me Cain… just like your uh, business partner.” Cain smiled and pointed at the bald man. “Mr. Alexander here took the liberty of doing so.”
“All right… Cain it is. So, what do you think would be a fairer proposal?”
“What you offered plus 4.8%. Then we can talk about the song—separately.”
“Well, you see, Cain, that type of rate is actually for singers who’ve already been performing in the public, in the media. That’s for artists who—”
“With all due respect, I’ve been performin’ in the public for over two damn decades, startin’ back in elementary school. I’ve been not only on local television shows but a YouTube video taken of me performing ‘Kiss the Sky’ by Jimi Hendrix went viral. Go anywhere in Nawlins or Mississippi and they know my name. I don’t book without fifty percent down and there’s a waitin’ list goin’ out two months to get me in a hole in the wall, local dive, a swanky high falootin’ joint, or even your mama’s living room. I’ve written songs for the likes of some of your favorite country, pop, and blues singers.
“I’ve got over ten signed contracts right this second ’cause I don’t step foot into any place without some money up front and somethin’ in writing letting me know how much I get, with or without a drink purchase minimum. I run that type of tight ship. I’m no newborn baby; I’m in it to win it and I learned the hard way, got my teeth knocked in so to speak as I was teethin’ on this here music life. I’ve had my work stolen from me,” He began to count off his fingers. “I’ve had my equipment nabbed and the bastard turn ’round and play my own stolen guitar right in front of my damn face and dare me to say shit about it. Needless to say, I sure did say somethin’ about it but I’m no longer allowed in that juke joint again due to an assault and battery…
“I’ve had a lot of stupid stuff happen because I wasn’t watchin’ my back and didn’t know what I was doin’… and I was too trusting, too. But now, because I am seasoned and been around, as you say, I know exactly what the deal is, and what you offered plus 4.8% is a steal for me.” Cain pointed at himself.
“And you and I both know it,” he continued. “You think you’ve got the upper hand, but I promise you on my mama and my unborn child that I will walk up outta here without a damn thing, go right back to the Spotted Cat earnin’ jar money, coupons for a free appetizer and unlimited drinks, and be just as content. It ain’t my dream… but I’ll make it sooner or later, with or without you. I believe in myself just that much, and I refuse to sell my 6’4” ass short. Now please don’t do this… it’s insulting. I wasn’t born last night and didn’t just fall off the turnip truck. I suggest you two discuss it amongst yourselves…”
The two men’s complexions turned ashen, like white ghosts. He knew they believed he was some backwoods country idiot—a guy from Sulphur, Louisiana who’d dragged his despairing ass all the way to Nawlins in hopes of makin’ it big, like so many before him.
Time ticked on by, and the two men excused themselves for a spell. Back in the corner they went, huddled up like a small football team. Cain whipped out his phone and began to play a game; their football cluster got him in the mood. A few minutes later, they returned with broad, happy smiles on their faces. They sat down at the table, and the Texan burst out laughing.
“Mr. Johnson… you’re an interesting guy! Wow!”
“…So are you.” Cain grimaced, no longer in the mood to play pretend with the boulder headed fool. This wasn’t Aunt Freida’s funeral. He was fresh out of fucks to give.
“Well, we’re two interesting guys then. Ain’t that special?” The man leaned forward, his eyes darkened. “You drive a hard bargain, Cain… What Spinely and I are prepared to do is offer what was originally offered, along with a 4.6% increase. That is only 0.2% less than your original asking price! Let’s do this! I believe—”
“4.7 %.”
“Cain, this isn’t an auction where you just call out numbers.” The man smirked and rolled his eyes. “4.6, all right?”
“It’s not an auction but you treated it like one when you had the audacity to waltz out here and start at the bottom but we’re not here. 4.7% is what I’m agreeing to. I already dropped it 0.1%, but I’m not going to drop it another. That 0.1% is important to me but a drop in the bucket for you. Call my bluff. I know my worth. I’m a rose with a lot of thorns, but I smell the best in the whole damn garden.”
The big man rolled his eyes. Leaning in close to Spinely, he whispered something and the guy whispered back. The two turned back towards him and extended their hands.
“Mr. Cain Johnson, you’ve got a deal.”
“Now let’s talk about that song, shall we?” Cain grinned and shook both their hands…
…A few weeks later
Ms. Robertson was dressed in a light blue dress with a thick white belt that had to be double looped due to her continuous wasting away. The woman had a hearty appetite, but her latest health issues caused her to not be able to keep much down. Tapestry had shined up her new walking cane, done her hair up real nice, and fixed her favorite dessert—apple pie a la mode.
She glanced down at her watch and took note that Cain would be there any minute. She’d promised the man that he could finally meet her favorite patient. He wanted to take care of it as soon as possible because he was going to be busy recording soon. She was not only excited for him, but also for herself. From her understanding, negotiations were underway for her, too.
“All right, Ms. Robertson, you look pretty as a flower. Woo hoo! Too hot to trot!” Tapestry teased before placing an intricate, antique hand mirror in front of the woman’s face. It had belonged to the woman’s mother, and she was highly protective of it. Ms. Robertson took hold of it and looked at herself from various angles, smiling from ear to ear. Her little earlobes shined with small pearl earrings. She seemed to like those too.
“Oh, my goodness!” The woman reached for her matching pearl necklace and squealed. “You always do such a nice job with my hair, Tammy. You went to beauty school, right?”
“No, ma’am, nursin’ school.”
“Well, whatever school you went to, I look good enough to court! I bet you do yourself up like this for your husband, don’t you?”
Tapestry smiled and shook her head.
“No ma’am… I’m not married, remember?”
“Not married? A pretty thing like you?! My word. You kinda big boned though.” The lady looked her up and down with a discriminatory eye, one filled to the brim with judgment. “But you sure are pretty. You need to find you a husband, Tammy, and don’t worry about being big boned. A lot of men like that.” She waved her hand in her direction as if those were true words of encouragement. “Little extra cushion for the pushin’, as they say. My ex-husband cheated with a big girl once… but she was a whore. In any case, young lady, if you want to have some babies, you better get a move on. Time waits for no one.”
If that woman calls me big boned one mo’ time, I’m gonna serve her some frozen coffee and tell her it’s espresso ice cream.
“I might have to find me a man tonight. Maybe my daughters can introduce me to somebody… they know plenty of men, Tammy… ’specially the kind that are at truck stops wavin’ a twenty dollar bill out their rig window.” Tapestry stifled a laugh. “On second thought,” the woman said with a grimace, “they only find trash ’round town. I want someone who is scholarly and cultured.”
The lady jammed her nose in the air as though snubbing the world. “The only thing those two idiots know about culture is that group, the Culture Club.” At this, Tapestry burst out laughing. “You know, the one with that Boy Girl George man… or woman… whatever he is. We had one of ’em down the ways… cross dressers, boys that look like women but have a big ol’ willy that they tape down ’tween their legs!”
Ms. Robertson seemed to have a tight grip on ’80s music and pop culture for some odd reason. Perhaps those were some of the best days of her life.
“Ms. Robertson, I don’t think Boy George is a cross dresser. He was just a little androgynous back then, and he is gay… not transsexual.”
“Transsexual? What’s that? An infection of ill repute you get on uh train? They never clean those seats after people sit on ’em! Same with the buses!”
Just then, the doorbell rang and Ms. Robertson practically jumped out of her seat.
“Oh, my Lord! That old man that wears an eye patch down the road has probably lost his bird again! He’s on cereal boxes.” Tapestry shook her head. “That bird of his comes over here sometimes, I’m not certain what tha hell for… Old man walks around with a parrot on his shoulder… no wait, it’s a toucan… Toucan Sam. The old man’s name is Owen Bright… but he’s not that bright if he keeps lettin’ the bird get loose! I wonder if he knows Toucan Sam can talk? That’s gotta be worth millions! Next time that bird comes over here, I’m gonna catch it and take it to Hollywood.”
Tapestry chuckled and walked away. She wasn’t certain if the old woman was jokin’ or serious this time. When she arrived at the door and peeped out the hole, there was her baby, standing there with a white t-shirt on, slouchy light jeans and his hair hanging loose, parted perfectly down the middle. Swinging the door open, she ushered him inside.
“Come on in, baby.” He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her in for a kiss. “She’s really cuttin’ up today.”
She walked on back to the living room and Cain followed close behind. Ms. Robertson hadn’t yet noticed him. She was now chatting about something totally out of the blue. It seemed that she hadn’t even noticed that Tapestry had left at all and then returned.
“And then I said, ‘Those biscuits are hard enough to build a fort with! Can you believe it?! Tryin’ to sell fifteen-day-old buns! They try to take advantage of old people down at that bakery, Tammy. I should have you pick it up for me instead. I tell you what, the only old ass buns I deal with are the ones that are attached to my own damn body.”
Cain burst out laughing, now that he too had been dragged into the silly insanity of Ms. Robertson. When he chuckled, he apparently caught her attention. The old woman slowly turned her head and locked eyes with him. Her smile slowly dissipated. With a shaky hand, she pointed at Cain and screamed. The shrill sound radiated throughout Tapestry’s whole body.
“AHHHHHH!!!! God in Heaven! HELP ME!!! It’s him!”
Tapestry raced over to her and took her in her arms.
“It’s okay, Ms. Robertson! It’s all right!” The old lady shook violently and kept her arm raised towards Cain, her finger shaking as she pointed him out. A storm of tears flowed out of her eyes. “That ain’t nobody to be afraid of, honey! It’s just my—”
“It’s Thomas Adrieux! You’ve come back for me… Thomas, please don’t leave me!” The woman cried so hard, she was barely understandable. She thrust her hands out towards Cain, who smiled gently at her, no apprehension in his gaze. He then sat down on the couch next to her, just like they were old friends. Taking her hands in his, he leaned in and kissed her cheek. Tapestry’s heart warmed at the sight.
“Hello, my beloved.”
Tapestry took several steps back, giving room for whatever Cain was thinking up to go on and play out. She placed her hand over her mouth and simply watched.
“I thought I’d never see you again, Thomas! I thought my Daddy had run you off for good! We’re gettin’ married, right? We can run away together! Oh, Thomas! I’m so sorry! I shoulda never let that happen.”
Ms. Robertson flung her arms around his neck and squeezed tight. Cain gently ran his hand up and down along her back, drawing her close. He then kissed the top of her head. Gentle… so very gentle.
“No worries, beloved… no worries at all. Everythang is gonna be all right… just you wait ’nd see. We’re gonna eat fresh strawberries straight off the vine… we’re gonna sing your favorite songs, swim in the river and drink and dance under the moon…”
The woman sobbed loudly now. Cain began to hum, and then it turned into a tune…
“One day, deep down in the bayooou, I met a beautiful girl…
My days had been okay, but she sure made ’em better –
I sat down at the table, with a pint of gin.
I grabbed my trusty pen, and wrote that girl a letter…
Intuition made me do it
Molded from God’s hands –
I want to take her out,
for a little bit of romance.
I bet the Heavens cheered
On the very day she was born –
She is a pretty bayou rose
But I’m just an old swamp thorn.
I said, intuition made me do it
Molded from God’s hands –
I want to take her out,
For a little bit of soul-dance.
I mailed that letter off.
And worked for the right price –
Just to have enough money
To take her some place real nice.
Me and that girl from the Bayou…
Danced under the blue moonlight –
We watched the world spin ’round and ’round
And the songbirds take flight
Her voice was like gold bells chimin’
I was sober, and there was no strife –
I told the girl from the bayou,
It was time that she be my wife.
We went ’nd got married…
The Priestess cast a love spell –
The priest said that was evil.
And that us lovers, were goin’ to Hell.
We paid that priest no mind
’Cause my baby was born blessed –
And I’m not stressed over no threats
’Cause I married the very best.
Intuition made me do it
Molded from God’s mighty hands –
I want to take you out, Ms. Robertson…
for a little bit of romance…”
When he stopped singing, Ms. Robertson was still holding on tight, shaking like a leaf and falling to pieces. Only now, rather than pure pain, her expression was one of pure joy…
Tapestry tried not to cry at the sight, but it was an uphill battle.
“I’m back, my beloved… no worries, all is well…”