I'm Glad I Did (2 page)

Jules shrugged into his jacket, folded
The New York Times
, which he always finished before breakfast, and handed it
to Janny. “Check Earl Wilson's column,” he told her. “It appears Bernie is being called to testify in some payola scheme again.”

“What else is new?” Janny asked, biting her lip. “I say a prayer every night—”

“That no one will figure out that ‘the godfather of the music business' is your no-goodnik brother,” Jules finished. “We know, Janny, we know.”

“I know you know. I don't know why I'm compelled to repeat myself.” She dropped her keys into her handbag and the newspaper into her attaché. Then she turned her attention to something she actually could control: us. “Justice, as discussed, you have this week to find a summer job doing something useful, or I'll expect you to begin filing down at my office next Monday. Being around a law office might awaken your legal instincts. Jeff, there's a package you need to pick up at Malken, Malken and Strobe. Please get it to me before ten thirty, and then Susan will tell you what to do today. Jules, I'd like to share a cab with you if you're ready to leave.”

And with that everyone jumped to do Janny's bidding, as everyone usually did. I hightailed it out of her sight before she could figure out that Jeff was right on the money, that I was guilty as charged. Today I was taking a giant step toward my not-so-secret dream and my parents' worst nightmare. Today I was sticking my toe into what Janny called “that cesspool, the music business.” Defying her was scary enough. But even more terrifying would be learning if I had any right to my dream. Today I'd be finding out if I had any songwriting talent.

I stood at the corner of West Forty-Ninth and Broadway, clutching my purse and staring up at Oz itself, the Brill Building. I silently offered up my own Janny-like prayer that I wouldn't run into “no-goodnik” Uncle Bernie, even though I wasn't sure we'd even recognize each other. I hadn't seen him since I was a kid.

This was it, the Mecca of songwriting. The brass doors were flanked by black marble pillars. Above them, set into a brass niche, was the bust of a young guy. I always thought it was George Gershwin or some other famous songwriter, but I found out it was the developer's son. The poor guy died at seventeen. His name wasn't even Brill. The Brill brothers owned the land, and they leased it to a developer. The Brills actually had a clothing store on the main floor.

How do I know all this? I know it because I did a report on New York architecture for my art class just so I could research this location. I can also tell you more than you want to know about the New York Public Library. Like
the lions out front were named Patience and Fortitude by Mayor LaGuardia in the 1930s.

A steady stream of people poured in and out of those amazing doors, and all I'd ever wanted was to have a legitimate reason to be one of them. Fumbling in my purse, I pulled out the scrap I'd torn from last week's
Cashbox:

I took a deep breath.

I belong here
, I told myself for the thousandth time.
This job fits me like a glove
.

And I was already planning to emphasize the office experience to Janny and Jules.

Shoving the scrap back in my bag, I checked my watch, then strode through the entrance. I wanted to be early, but not so early that I looked desperate.

Inside, everything was gleaming brass and mirrors. I double-checked the Good Music suite number and strolled as casually as I could to the elevator at the end of the lobby.

A whole bunch of people, mostly men in suits, stood waiting. The only person close to my age was a really cute guy. He looked like he might be Italian, with olive skin and black hair. He was studying papers in a manila folder, and when he looked up at the elevator dial, I saw that his eyes were green. Not blue-green or gray-green
but almost emerald green. I'd never seen anything like them before. I had to look away to get my mind back on my own business, reviewing my song in my head, the one I was going to play for my audition.

When the doors opened the waiting crowd, including Green Eyes, swarmed into the elevator. Everyone yelled out their floors to the elevator operator, a short cheery guy in a uniform, and I chirped out, “Eight,” hoping I'd been heard.

Conversations swirled around me as the doors opened and closed.

“Hey, Nick, when you take a break, bring me up the trades.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Bienstock,” the elevator guy answered.

“Where are you this week, Aaron?”

“Five with a bullet,
Cashbox
. Seven with a bullet,
Billboard.”

“Enjoy it now, my friend. Goodman's got the follow-up.”

“Is there anything he doesn't have the follow-up to?”

“I've heard he's asking for a guarantee of the B side these days, and he's getting it.”

“Yeah, it's that and your firstborn child.”

There were some chuckles. I wondered what was so funny. They were speaking in Music-Biz, and the only person I knew who could translate was Uncle Bernie. But soon I wouldn't need an interpreter. I'd learn how to speak fluent Music-Biz on my own.

When we hit eight, I elbowed my way out of the elevator.

Good Music was way down at the end of the hall, and as I made my way there, I could hear muffled music coming
from behind closed doors: pianos pounding out riffs, voices struggling to find melodies and records being played—no, not played, blasted. All of it was punctuated by some very bad language. I quickened my pace with a secret smile. It was exactly how I imagined it, raw and real, and a million light-years away from the world of the Green family.

At Good Music I entered a small waiting room with built-in seating. Two guys a little older than me had settled in, probably to wait for
their
auditions. One was tall and skinny, all elbows, knees, and acne. The other was a chubby little guy with an already receding hairline, wearing a suit and a tie with musical notes on it. At the far end, a switchboard operator was busy chewing gum and frantically answering continuous incoming calls.

“Good Music. Hi, Nancy, Bobby said to tell Mr. Wexler he'll call him back after lunch. Good Music. Sorry, Mr. Goodman is booked all week. Just drop off the demo, and I'll get it to his secretary. Good Music. Please hold. Good Music. We're not seeing any more applicants until Friday, so call back on Thursday to see if the job's still open. Good Music. Sorry …” She looked up at me. “Lost the hold. So what can I do for ya?”

“I'm JJ Green. I have an eleven o'clock appointment to see Mr. Goodman about the assistant job.”

She nodded. “Take a load off. You're after these guys.”

As I sat down, she called out, “Paul Keller, go on in.”

The suit with the musical tie got up and gulped audibly. All the color drained out of his face. He looked so terrified that my heart went out to him, even though we were competing for the same job.

“Good luck,” I whispered.

He looked at me, eyes glazed with fear, wiped his hands on his pants and entered the inner office. He looked as if he was going to his execution.

“You're not here for the assistant job, are you?” the skinny one asked.

“Yeah, I am.”

“I didn't know girls wrote songs,” he announced, as if his ignorance was something to be proud of.

“We learn something every day, don't we?” I responded politely. “Did you ever hear of Alberta Hunter?”

His face was blank.

“Great blues songwriter, female. Wrote a song called ‘Downhearted Blues' that sold two million in 1923. How about Kay Swift?”

He smirked. “I know about Bob Swift. He was a catcher for the Detroit Tigers way back.”

“Kay Swift was the first woman to write the whole score to a Broadway musical called
Fine and Dandy
in 1930. Did you ever—”

“Hey, you a music teacher's apprentice or something?”

Before I could answer, Paul Keller of the musical tie emerged from the inner office. He stood facing us in a daze.

“He hated my song,” he announced in a bewildered voice. “Bobby hated the best song I ever wrote. It made my mother cry.” He stared at us. “He's mean—really, really mean.” Before we could respond, he blew his nose loudly into a crumpled Kleenex and exited.

The receptionist nodded our way. “Artie Lorber.”

Tall-and-Skinny got up and stood there for a moment, his eyes wide with the same panic. You could almost hear the wheels in his brain turning. He hesitated for what seemed like an eternity, then turned and followed Paul Keller's route out of the office.

“Wrong door,” the receptionist called out.

But Artie Lorber paid no attention. He didn't even look back.

“We lose a few of the thin-skinned ones,” she muttered. “Go on in …” She checked her list. “JJ Green.”

I stood up, took a deep breath and moved toward the door that Artie couldn't open.
Here goes
, I thought.
Be brave, be strong, and be ready to hear the truth
.

The room I walked into was five times larger than the room I came from. At the far end, guarding a red lacquered door emblazoned with
BOBBY GOODMAN
in gold letters, was a cute girl. She wasn't much older than me, and she was wearing a beige polka-dot Anne Fogarty dress that I'd been saving my birthday money to buy. On her desk was a brass nameplate:
RONA CALUCCI: DON
'
T TRY TO GET PAST ME
. She was talking on the phone, rummaging through a huge stack of music paper and trying to wipe up spilled coffee all at the same time. There were more doors leading off this main room, and from behind them I could hear more pianos in different keys, hammering out clashing melodies.

I took out my handkerchief—Janny always insisted I carry a real handkerchief and not a Kleenex—and tried to help with the mopping-up operation.

Rona looked up at me. “Thanks,” she said. “You JJ?”

“That's me,” I answered.

“First female applicant.” She took my soggy handkerchief, squeezed it into the wastepaper basket and handed it back to me. “Go on in.”

I walked into the vast office. There was a baby grand piano and a huge desk with records and tapes scattered all over. Behind it sat the man himself, Bobby Goodman.

He was a big guy. Not fat, just big. I would have guessed him to be early thirties, but I had read in
Cashbox
he was only twenty-four. His face was wide and open, with a high forehead and thinning hair. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt. You never would have guessed by looking at him that he was a big deal music publisher. He looked more like a coach for a suburban Little League baseball team.

Taking my application from a stack on his desk, he leaned back in his chair. “So, JJ, what makes you want to learn about the music business?”

I sat down in the chair facing him and tried not to sound as nervous as I was. “Well, I want to be a songwriter. I'm sixteen, and I've been playing the piano since I was about four. I took a semester of lessons in school, but I'm mostly self-taught. I started writing songs when I was ten, but you definitely don't want to hear any of those.” I chuckled self-consciously.

Bobby didn't even pretend to smile. A sense of humor was obviously not one of his character traits. “What made you start writing? Anyone in your family musical?”

“Oh, no, nobody, not a soul. Everyone's a lawyer.”

An image of Uncle Bernie popped up in my mind, but I ignored it. I was determined to get this job on my own. No Bernie bias would influence anyone's decision.

“So are you the black sheep or the shining star?”