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Prologue: Welcome to Music City


Desmond's hand was still sorely bruised as his blue convertible rolled into Nashville on I-65 for the first time. The past was otherwise behind them, nothing but a cheap hotel and a couple weeks of frenzied, desperate apartment hunting ahead of them. He glanced over at Kelsey in the passanger seat. She was staring out the windows, her eyes hidden by thick, dark sunglasses. "Welcome to Music City," Desmond read, his voice carrying a gentle smile, "Nashville, Tennessee. Feels like we've been driving for an eternity to get here, huh?"

Kelsey only just barely nodded.

The convertible was soon lost among the midday rush hour traffic as Nashville's various residents tried to crisscross the city at the intersection of I-65 and I-40. The downtown buildings loomed in the distace, tall and noble, and LP Field mirrored in the Cumberland River alongside the interstate. Desmond leaned forward to look at the extent of the skyline view. "You know," he said, "In all the years I've wanted to come here, I never once thought to Google the skyline?" he glanced over at Kelsey again.

She looked out at the contrast of tall concrete buildings against the bluest sky, at the foliage of trees along the river's edge, and the way the water seemed to dance around it all, a billowing skirt on a spinning dancer. "It's not a terrible skyline," she said, "If you call it that."

"I mean it isn't Boston," Desmond answered, "But that's okay. That was the point."

Kelsey didn't reply.

Desmond's blue convertible inched it's way along the interstate, veering onto I-40 and following the curved route along the east side of downtown.

The sun was just setting, turning the sky a blood-orange hue, by the time Desmond pulled into the lot of the hotel they'd booked. He switched the car off and turned to her. "I'm gonna go check us in," he said.

"Okay."

Desmond hesitated, then left the keys in the ignition, and went inside. The front desk was empty, so he rang the little hand bell on the counter and turned to look at a display of local tourist attraction pamphlets - mostly Civil War History or Country Music related. He had picked up a pamphlet on the famous Blue Bird Cafe and opened it's cover when he heard a voice call, "Can I help you?" The voice rang with a New Delhi accent.

Turning, Desmond said," I made reservations, I'm here to check in."

"Name?"

"Truetree," he said, "Desmond Truetree."

A moment later and the man had pulled up the reservation and was holding up an access key for Desmond. "Room 217," he said, "Round the back. Second floor on the corner. You'll have a nice view of the lights. You want help with your bags? Only an extra five dollars."

"We don't have much," Desmond replied. "I can get it." He started for the door.

"We have room service," the man called, "Very good. Very cheap. Call us up."

"Thanks," Desmond answered.

When he returned to the car and slid into the passenger seat, Kelsey said, "Check in okay?"

"Got the room keys," Desmond answered, waving them for her to see.

Kelsey nodded. "Good."

"It's around the back," he said. "Are you okay?" he asked suddenly as a tear slid below the rim of Kelsey's sunglasses and he wondered how long she'd been crying behind them without him knowing.

"Yes," she said thickly. "I'm okay."

Desmond backed the car out and drove around to the back. When he turned the car off for the night, he raised the roof and they sat in the silence that followed it snapping into place. "It's a new start, a new chance at life," He said.

She nodded, and swiped the stray tears with the backs of her hands.

"It's gonna be okay," Desmond said.

He scooped up the bags from the backseat when they started in, and carried them up the stairs, Kelsey following along carrying an old record player an a case that carried the records themselves. She hugged these things to her chest. At the top of the steps, she stopped at the railing and stared out at the city lights that glistened and glowed in the darkness beyond.

"Desi," she said.

He turned to look at her, dropping a couple suitcases in the process.

"There really is hope here, I can feel it... like heat radiating from the city." She looked at him, and, for the first time in as long as he could recall, a tiny hint of smile flickered across her face. It may have been only a moment, only a flicker, a teaser of the brilliance that her smiles usually were, yet he felt his heart soar at the thought of it having, however briefly, existed. She lowered her sunglasses, and revealed thick black bruises that darkened her face like she was wearing ebony eyeshadow. "It's like sunshine after a storm," she whispered. "Can you feel it, Desi?" she closed her eyes, feeling it.

Desmond closed his eyes, too, and he did feel it. But he was pretty sure that the warmth and hope he felt had more to do with the return of her long lost smile than it did to do with the city itself. Any city, he thought, would do if only he could be near to that smile that he'd missed so much.




Nick sat in his car, staring out the windshield at the bar. Lights flashed in the windows, and the neon sign glowed in the dark. Overhead, there might've been stars if it wasn't for the smog that coated the city. He leaned back in his seat, his palms sweating. He wanted to go in, but something deeper kept him from unbuckling the seatbelt. He glanced at the sheet music on the seat beside him, heard the harsh words that had been dealt to him about his attempts at writing a song, and he curled his fingers around the steering wheel. He needed a drink, he'd earned a drink. And all of them had earned knowing that they'd made him fall off the wagon.

Resolutely, he pulled his keys from the ignition, and pushed open the door, climbing out into the Los Angeles night air. He was walking across the lot when he dropped his keys by accident and they hit the pavement with a cling. He bent down to pick them up and found one of the rings had broken, and the little piece lay on the pavement.

It was his one-year AA chip.

He picked up the piece and stood up, turning it over on his fingers. He looked up at the bar, then back down at the chip. "God damn," he whispered, and he backed away from the doors, his hands shaking, like he was a knight backing away from a dragon. He stumbled once on a dip in the pavement, and got back into the car with trembling hands.

"Close," he muttered, "Too close. Way too close." He slammed the car into reverse, pulled out of the parking lot, hands sweating, mind racing. He drove away, onto the freeway. It wasn't until he was a couple hours east of Los Angeles that he knew where he was going, and he unrolled the windows of his car and threw the sheet music out, and watched them in the glowing red of his tail lights as the pages danced like tumbleweed on the road behind him.

He drove through the night, music blaring, mind racing, thanking his lucky stars that the chip had fallen to remind him, to keep him strong, but knowing he needed more than that. He wasn't sure what was driving him otherwise, he only knew where he belonged, where he needed to be. The sun rose on him driving, and traveled through the sky. He made a couple stops - ate some food, filled the tank.

It was nearly evening the next night when he saw it on the horizon: the highway sign that he'd been waiting for. "Welcome to Music City," he read, relief in his voice.