I'm Glad I Did (4 page)

“Uh-oh,” Jeff commented, choosing this moment to make his presence felt. He'd made sure he sat down out of the range of fire, but close enough so he could observe my agony.

“The company is called Good Music,” I told them. “And they publish songs and produce records.”

“There was an article about them in last week's
Wall Street Journal
,” Jules remarked. “They've only been in business three years, but they're doing very well.”

I nodded, hoping this was a sign of encouragement. “They're really hot—I mean successful—and I'll be doing office work, but I'll also have the chance to listen to the writers who are getting songs recorded. I'll be playing my own songs for Bobby Goodman, the head of the company. There's a chance I could even get a song recorded.”

“So, JJ,” Janny cut in sharply, “knowing how I feel about the music business, you went behind my back and applied for a job at a music publisher.”

“Not exactly,” I protested weakly. “If you had asked, I would have told you, but you didn't ask.”

“What's done is done,” Jules declared. He stubbed out his cigarette, looked at my mother and then back at me. “Justice, your obsession with songwriting has always bewildered us. If it's a hobby, that's one thing … but you know it's not any serious kind of occupation. Frankly, I don't condone what you did and how you did it, but I for one
would like to see you get it out of your system. This job may be just the way to do that.”

Janny was already shaking her head. “I don't agree, Jules,” she said. “I'm inclined to say no to the whole thing. It's not just the job. It's the deception on JJ's part.”

My heart stopped. I felt completely out of control, which I was. After all, they were already talking about me in the third person, which they knew I hated, as if I were a criminal waiting to be sentenced.

“And what is that in your hand, JJ?” Janny demanded.

I took another deep breath, knowing the worst was yet to come. “It's a contract for three months. It says Good Music owns the publishing rights to any songs that I write during that time, whether they get recorded or not.”

“Think you'll get a record, Irving?” Jeff asked.

I turned to him, my gaze steely. “I don't know,” I told him, annoyed that he was sticking his nose into this at all.

“Let me take a look,” Janny ordered.

I handed her the contract. As she flipped through it, nobody dared to breathe audibly. The clock on the wall boomed in synch with my heart. When my mother looked up, she shook her head.

“This is a terrible contract. It's very one-sided in the publisher's favor. I would advise against this deal, Justice, for anyone, let alone my own daughter.”

“Mom,” I said, trying to keep my voice from shaking, “I'm going to be honest with you. I don't really care if the contract's good or bad. I can learn so much there. It's where I want to be this summer. Please just sign it. Please. It's like Dad said—this way I can get it out of my system.”

My mother didn't answer. I could see the cogs turning in her brain. She was mentally reviewing arguments for and against. Then she and Jules turned to each other once more in silent consultation. My future hung in the air like the last cloud of Jules's cigarette smoke.

Suddenly Jeff stood up. “I have a solution,” he offered. “It's only for three months, right? So let Irving do it. But if she doesn't get one of her songs recorded by the time it's over, she has to give up this crazy songwriting thing and never mention it again.”

My eyes narrowed. I couldn't figure out if he was trying to help me or hurt me. My brother has always had a weird instinctive ability to understand our parents in a way I never have. When he and I fought as kids—as in actual kicking and punching—he somehow knew they would never intervene. Even when he pinned me to the floor, and it was clear I couldn't win, they insisted we work out our disagreements ourselves. Finally, when I was ten, I begged Janny to sign me up for Brazilian jujitsu classes (Juana actually told me about it) because it was all about ground fighting. She was happy to do it, even though I was the only girl in the class. But I was such a klutz that after all my classes I only mastered one move, the upward lift escape. By then Jeff had stopped attacking me physically and had moved on to verbal assault. And that, of course, made his suggestion right now scarier.

“Hmm,” Janny mused, rolling Jeff's proposition around in her meticulous mind.

I had to hand it to Jeff: I could tell the thought of never having to hear me talk about songwriting again had made
an impact on Janny. Her lips curved up in a little smile. “Would you agree to that, JJ?” she asked. “I might actually let you do this if you promised that it could be a way to put an end to your songwriting fixation.”

I shot Jeff a dirty look and turned back to my mother. “Why are you all so sure I won't get a record?”

“Because you're a Green,” Jules proclaimed in his courtroom voice. “You were born for the law.”

That's how simple it was for them. They honestly believed that music was a decision I had made, like wanting to learn Brazilian jujitsu. But it wasn't. It was a part of me—like my laugh and big feet—like arguing was for them. I didn't know if I had talent. I didn't know if I would ever write a song worthy of being recorded. But I knew I had to have the chance to try.

Bobby himself had told me I didn't know what I was doing. A door had opened, and I had to walk through it. Maybe Jeff's deal was fair. If I couldn't get a song recorded this summer, maybe it would be a sign that I was on the wrong track. I didn't know how I'd go on living after that, but I'd worry about the future when it became the present.

“I'll do it,” I said. “If a song of mine isn't recorded by the time I start school, I'll give up songwriting.”

“Agreed,” Janny and Jules announced, almost in unison.

Court adjourned
, I thought with a mixture of terror and relief.

“Good luck, Irving,” said Jeff with a wicked grin. “I'll be rooting for you.”

Two mornings later, at 9:50, I joined the crowd surging into the Brill Building. At this hour there was a more even mix of men and women; the secretaries were reporting for work. But there was another crucial difference. Today I really belonged. My dress, an olive-green linen Jonathan Logan shift with buttons on the shoulder, had been approved by Janny. Even if I was going to hell, my mother insisted that I go in style.

I was waiting for the elevator when I spotted him: Mr. Green Eyes. Once again he was engrossed in a sheaf of papers, waiting for the elevator. I snaked forward so that we pushed our way through the door together, shoulder to shoulder.

“Writer or publisher?” I asked, smiling my warmest smile.

He looked up for an instant with total disinterest. “Both,” he answered, and dropped his eyes back to his paperwork.

I wanted to disappear into the background, but I'd wedged myself next to him, so I had to put up with being ignored until he got off at seven.

As it turned out, this little fiasco was pretty much an omen of things to come.

WHEN I WALKED IN
to Good Music, the girl at the switchboard motioned me through the door into the big room. Rona was on the phone at her desk, but the second she saw me, she waved me over.

“I'll be sure to have Bobby get back to you,” she purred sweetly into the mouthpiece. Then she slammed it down on the hook and snapped, “Sure I will, after I put my eyes out. What makes a writer think I'll get him in to see Bobby if he comes on to me? Ugh! I need a shower.”

“It must be awful,” I sympathized.

Rona sighed. “Yeah, but I get it in a crazy way. I'm Bobby's guard dog, and everyone wants to pet me. Writers will sell out their grandmothers to have their songs listened to by someone like Bobby, so why wouldn't they pretend to like his secretary?” She laughed at herself. “But enough about me. Let me show you the filing system. Pick up those lead sheets and follow me.”

There were stacks of paper all over her desk. I stood still, bewildered.

“You don't know what a lead sheet is, do you?”

I shook my head.

She picked up a pile of music paper and stuck it in my arms. “Come with me, listen and learn. A lead sheet is a piece of music paper with the basic melody, chords and
lyrics to a song written on it. The writers make out one for every song they write, and we make two copies and file one with the original. Then we send one to the copyright office in Washington. When I say ‘we,' I mean ‘you,' JJ. This is going to be your first responsibility, copying and filing lead sheets. Got it?”

“Got it,” I answered, juggling the papers in one arm and saluting with the other with a smile.

“Very cute,” Rona responded, but she smiled back.

She led me into a small room with a big copying machine and a load of file cabinets. After a few demonstrations, I was able to make a copy by myself.

Rona watched and nodded like a proud mama. “You
are
smart,” she said, finally relaxing. “I knew it the minute I saw you. I really wanted another girl in the office. We are so outnumbered. There's Marilyn at the switchboard and me and two female writers, but there are at least a dozen guys, not even counting Bobby. It's such a pain when you get your period unexpectedly, and there are so few people to hit up for a tampon.”

“I always have one on me,” I volunteered.

She laughed. “I knew you would. You carry a handkerchief, for God's sake. You're the type who is prepared for everything in the classiest way possible. I had my fingers crossed that something would happen to change Bobby's mind about you. And then when Bernie called, my prayers were answered—”

“What?” I interrupted. I paused in mid-copy, nearly dropping the lead sheets in my hands. “Did Bernie Rubin speak to Bobby about me?”

Rona shot me a puzzled glance and hit the copy button for me. “Of course. Didn't you tell him to?”

“No, I absolutely did not.” I answered, trying not to explode or cry even though I wanted to do both. “I never even told him I was coming up here to apply for this job. I haven't spoken to my uncle in years.”

Rona shrugged. “Well, who did you tell? 'Cause Bernie knew everything. He told Bobby that he made you feel like an untalented idiot and he personally knew you were neither.”

I blinked a few times. “How do you know he said that?”

“It just so happened that I didn't completely disconnect when he was talking to Bobby.” She flashed a sly grin. “There's something wrong with my disconnect button sometimes.”

I was hardly listening. “I don't know how he could have known,” I said out loud. “I didn't tell anyone but my … oh, wait a minute. I did.” It was all coming back to me. Especially the words
untalented idiot
. “The elevator guy, Nick. I told him.”

“Well, mystery solved,” Rona said, turning toward the filing cabinets. She sounded like she couldn't have cared less, not that I blamed her. “Bernie Rubin wants to know everything that's happening in the biz. He even pays the elevator operators when they give him valuable info. I bet Nick made twenty bucks for spilling the beans.”

I swallowed hard. “Rona,” I said, hoarsely, “you don't understand. I really wanted to get this on my own.”

She glanced over her shoulder and arched an eyebrow. “And I really wanted to go to college. But I have to work
here until I save enough money. You can't always get what you want.”

“That sounds like a song title,” I grumbled.

She laughed again. “Nah, too negative. Bobby likes positive songs. He told me he wants you listening to Top Forty radio all the time. It's okay to bring in a transistor radio if you don't play it too loud. Now,” she announced, her voice all business again, “it's time to learn the filing system.”