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But I can’t help but feel the steady sinking in my gut, because I know this wasn’t enough to soothe anyone’s opinions of me.
19LORELAI
MY GIVE A DAMN’S BUSTED
The rest of the week is much the same, and it’s pretty clear by Friday afternoon that the overall result was underwhelming and ineffective.
Even Jen’s early return from L.A. on Wednesday morning could do nothing to curb the intense dislike reflected on the faces of the gatekeepers of country music radio. In the beginning, I really did make an effort at earning their good favors. Not everyone was as despicable as Reggie, but the disapproval was clear. No matter how demure I pretend to be, no matter how self-deprecating, no matter how fucking charming (and I’m charming as hell when I want to be), it’s not enough. The best I can figure is because what I stand for, what I’m about deep down in my center, still remains, and they have to sense that.
They aren’t ready for that version of Lorelai Jones.
“They feel duped,” Huck tells me over the phone after a particularly shitastic interview with a popular conservativedeejay on iHeartRadio. “You made them fall in love with you and shower you with praise. You were everyone’s pliable darling until you showed your claws. You pulled the wool over their eyes and made them look stupid. Not only that, you made the rest of the country stand up and take notice of the more backward traditions in this industry, and they’re slow to forgive that.”
“I’m not the only one, though. Look at Kacey Musgraves and Annie Mathers. Miranda Lambert. The Highway Women. Mickey Guyton.”
“Would it make you feel better if I told you that I think what happened to you opened doors for others? Jefferson said Annie sent him to mebecauseof you. Because she admired you and never thought what happened to you was right. I’ve heard she has a clause in her contract that says she can speak about whatever she wants, and her label can’t legally drop her for it?”
After that, the apology tour was pretty much a joke. I went through the motions twice on Thursday and three times this morning, but I shouldn’t have bothered. At the last, disastrous meeting, the deejay, wearing a T-shirt that readGET YOUR HANDS OFF MY SECOND AMENDMENT, had cued up a bootleg recording of my performance of “Ohio” before my ass even touched the seat across from him.
“How do you feel about the Second Amendment now?”
I can feel my agent’s eyes boring holes into my skull as if to give me the proper response, telepathically.Don’t mess this up, Lorelai. Be vague. Polite. Play stupid. Anything but the truth.
Fuck it.
“I think assault rifles hadn’t been invented when it waswritten. I think the right to bear arms and a well-regulated militia have no place in school buildings or college campuses or hospitals or cemeteries or grocery stores or churches or any of the hundreds of other mundane locations where people, completely innocent and nonthreatening human beings, are going about their right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.That’swhat I think.”
Jen has her head in her hands, but I can’t make myself care. If this is the only way back to music, I guess I don’t want it. I’ll return to my classroom and sing to my third graders every day for the rest of my life before I offer one more lie to appease these people.
I shake my head, feeling the weight of the headphones over my ears, and lean toward the mic one more time, feeling more myself than I have in months. “I sang a song. That song, the one you just played, to a stadium full of people years ago. My heart was broken, and like a thousand times before, I sang that broken heart into a crowd where other people could share it. That’s what music is supposed to be about. A shared experience. A transfer of emotions and understanding. Empathy.
“I sang that song because I couldn’t let one more minute pass without saying it. And I was told to shut up. The proverbial mic was stolen from my hands and the lights were shut off. Because of me. One tiny woman singing a song that wasn’t even mine. I don’t know why that scared y’all so much, but I’m done apologizing for it. I’m taking mysorrys back. I’m not sorry. I’d do it again in a second. Just watch me.”
And with that, I remove my headset, my hands steady and my breathing calm. I scoot back in my chair, whispermy thanks to the production team, and walk out into the waiting area.
Jennifer is pale and shaky. She looks like I kicked her puppy, and that won’t do. Clearly I’ve outgrown her.
“I just got off the phone with the Square network. They canceled your interview for tonight.”
“Already?” I quip. “That was fast. Well, I think we can officially call this apology tour an epic failure.”
Jen straightens, running her trembling fingers down her pencil skirt. It’s fascinating to watch. She reminds me of a cartoon Transformer, reconfiguring herself back together.
“I’ll get on the horn with the Colter team.”
“No,” I say, my voice soft but strong.
“What do you mean, no?”
“Jen, I’m releasing you. Be free of my bullet-train-off-the-rails of a career.”
“It’s not as bad as all that. I’ll have to sweet-talk Marty, but he’s always had a soft spot for you. You know what? Even better.” She’s nodding to herself and brushing her manicured fingers down her fitted jacket. “Let’s head on over there together. He won’t be able to turn you down to your face. You won’t have to even say a word…”
I blow out an exasperated breath and hitch my purse higher on my shoulder. “Fuck’s sake, Jen. I’m firing you. I don’t want Drake’s tour; I don’t want an apology tour, and I don’t want whatever plan you’ve cooked up next.”
Jen gives a pitying sigh. “You’ll never sing in this town again, Lorelai.”
My smile is sad, I know, but it’s also genuine. “Maybe not. But that’s no longer your concern.”
