The Music City Mantra

By James Beauhall

This book is the second effort of this songwriter turned novelist. After retiring from his position as president and CEO of a seven-state insurance agency, he took up songwriting as his next career challenge and now has a catalogue of over two hundred songs, forty of which have been recorded by various country artists.

After five years of jousting with the windmills of the greedy power-hungry, megalomaniac music moguls that come and go like tumble weeds before a prairie wind, he has once again retired, this time from the frenetic, backstabbing, dog-eat-dog world of the Nashville music industry, where the question is always “What have you done for me today?” and the mantra is “You scratch my back while I stab yours.”

He’s now living the quiet life with his wife, Maelene, and their four cats in the serenity of the Woodlands, Texas.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 6, 2018
• ISBN: 9781546269540

James Beauhall

This author was formerly president of an interestate insurance agency with seventy-five agents and offices in six states. After retiring; following a dream of his youth; he took up songwriting as a means of keeping his mind active. His song catalogue now contains over two hundred songs; thirty of which have made it onto records by various country music artists. His songwriting efforts eventually led him to Nashville in search a publishing company to represent him and promote his songs. This book is inspired by his experiences in the dog eat -dog world of the, megalomaniac mogul controlled, mecca of country music.

Book preview

Chapter 1

A noisy crowd was no stranger to Billy Ben Borden; nor was the breathtaking hype and feverish frenzy that is part and parcel of the CMA award shows. Like so many of his fellow songwriters, he’d hovered longingly on the fringes of Nashville’s mover-and-shaker crowd for some seven years, depending on how you define hovering. He had become accustomed to, at least as much as one ever does, the glamour and excitement that drive fans into a state of mass hysteria as they fight to get close enough to see, or maybe even touch, one of country music’s idols. He never missed Fan Fair, and he attended as many personal performances by his favorite stars as his schedule and finances allowed.

But tonight was a different story. Tonight he was on the other side of the barricade set up and patrolled by some fifty Opryland security people, along with an equally large contingent of Nashville’s finest. Tonight he was an occupant in the seemingly endless parade of gleaming stretch limousines snaking its way up the tree-lined drive, flanked on either side by dirty gray snowbanks. A moonbeam from the three-quarter moon, perched directly over the festivities, cast its reflection off the newly fallen snow, giving the driveway the appearance of an undulating ribbon of silver.

The destination of this parade of chariots bearing country music’s elite was the entrance of Nashville’s crown jewel, the Opryland hotel. There they would disgorge their glittering cargoes into the screaming, adoring throng. Tonight was the culmination of a two-month-long flurry of parties, photo ops, meet and greets, open houses, concerts, and every other conceivable kind of falderal. This bombastic blowout was the annual shtick put on by the record labels, producers, publishing companies, and management agencies in their attempts to put their brand on some of the talent represented at this Super Bowl of the country music industry. Yes, tonight was indeed Billy Ben Borden’s night to shine.

He had blown a bundle on the limo he had hired to chauffer his entourage to the shindig tonight. On one side of him sat his wife, Melanie, and on the other sat his mother, Dorothy. Opposite him were his two best friends, Jimmy Gee Gravely, who was with his girlfriend, Jill Barrett, and Tree Hiller, who was with his wife, Kate. After all, this was the biggest night of Billy Ben’s life—excluding his wedding night, of course—and he wanted to share it with those closest to him.

In 1981, as an engagement present for his fiancée, Billy Ben wrote a song entitled When My Love Smiles at Me. When she had heard it, she decided she wanted it to be the song for their wedding dance. To sing the song, Billy Ben selected a young female recording artist named Anne Marie Boudreaux. Her recording of the ballad turned out to be nothing short of phenomenal, and the media attention the song eventually received resulted in its nomination for song of the year.

However, as thrilled as he was for it to have been nominated, it had never even occurred to Billy Ben that it might actually pierce the curtain of incest that enfolds and protects Nashville’s good ole boy community and win. Tonight he was just here to enjoy all the hoopla and watch Nashville’s beautiful people working at being Nashville’s beautiful people.

Chapter 2

T here must have been at least five hundred screaming, autograph book–waving fans jammed into the roped-off area along both sides of the drive leading up to the grand entrance of the hotel. Two million lights twinkled festively in the trees like earthbound stars, giving the scene a delightfully cheery, albeit surreal, ambiance. Owing to a steady snowfall over the last few days, the surrounding grounds had taken on the beauty of a winter wonderland.

The security people had their hands full trying to keep the lunging mob at bay as searchlights probed incessantly through the night sky above them. Blindingly bright spotlights glared from a number of the light posts and trees as Billy Ben’s party emerged from their rented chariot into the pandemonium. When they were finally able to adjust to the spotlight’s assault, they began their trek along the red carpet. Midway through their runway journey, a small dog with a lady’s high-heeled shoe in its mouth suddenly darted through the ropes and into the path of the approaching celebrities, a pair of guards hot on its heels. The dog somehow managed to escape both the guards and the frantic efforts of the jubilant crowd to catch it as it zigzagged between the legs of the jocular participants, the shoe still firmly clenched in its mouth.

In spite of this ongoing melee, Melanie’s appearance immediately caught the attention of the awestruck onlookers. A sleeveless gown of dark green velvet encased her slender, nearly perfect five-foot-three figure. Conservatively cut in the front yet seductively low in the back, the gown was the ideal showcase for Melanie’s porcelain skin. The reflection of the spotlights in her emerald-green eyes seemed to light up the space around her, and her perfectly coiffed strawberry-blonde hair shone with the brilliance of a precious gem. Adorning her neck was the diamond drop necklace Billy Ben had given her on her last birthday; matching earrings glittered on her ears. She was a vision that any man would be extremely proud to have on his arm, and Billy Ben glowed with pride as they made their way toward the hotel’s entrance.

Who’s that in the green dress? Billy Ben heard someone screech as he and his group began to make their way through the crowd. The screecher was a plumpish middle-aged woman with a sixties beehive hairdo dyed platinum blonde. Her splendiferous rear was impaled on a pair of stubby legs encased in skintight chartreuse stretch pants, giving the appearance of fifteen pounds of potatoes stuffed into a five-pound sack. A striped yellow sweater, stretched to the tearing point across her more than ample chest, proclaimed, I got my G-string strummed in Nashville. A pair of high-heeled cowboy boots completed her outfit. Her makeup was as thick as putty, and her eyelashes sported several coats of mascara. It was a makeup job that would have made Tammy Faye look like the wallflower at the high school dance.

"I think maybe she’s on one of them daytime soap operas like Days of Our Lives," her friend answered.

The friend, bedecked in an outfit almost as outlandish as the blonde’s, was the spitting image of the blonde except that her hair was dyed ebony black. She was pointing at Melanie and jumping up and down as if she were strapped to a pogo stick, and she knocked the cigarette out of Blondie’s mouth.

Damn, girl, settle down before you land on someone and squish ’em, Blondie demanded with a glare that would have made a mafia hit man cower.

Who’re the other women? a teenager with multicolored hair screamed as she pushed against the people in front of her to get a better view. The girl was decked out in a bright red miniskirt that barely covered her essentials when she was standing. When she leaned over, which she regularly did, those essentials literally screamed for attention. A pair of butterflies adorned her left buttock, and the name Joe Don, encased in a heart, adorned the right. To complete her look, each ear sported about a dozen earrings.

The tall one in the black dress is the lead singer in that new group Hoe Down, I think, shouted another teenager, who looked as if she and her friend had been created from the same outrageous mold. The biggest differences were that the friend’s hair was spiked a little higher and streaked with more colors, and her orange skirt appeared to be an inch or two shorter. No butterflies were apparent on either buttock, but her bikini panties bore the message Tuesday’s prime.

That hoe could go down on me anytime, anyplace, a tall, pimply teen standing next to her muttered as he pushed his way to a better vantage point.

Kate caught the pimply kid’s remark and started to turn and set him straight, but Tree caught her arm and gently nudged her on through the crowd.

"The woman in red is always on the Saturday Night Live show," someone shouted from the back.

Yeah, she’s too cool! Who are the hunks with them? the first teenager asked.

I don’t recognize any of them. Probably just the chicks’ boy toys, the plump woman answered, still bouncing up and down.

Kinda old for boy toys, ain’t they? the first teen asked.

Hell, any one of them could eat popcorn in my bed, and I’d eat the kernels! the plump woman shouted as several people turned around to glare at her. She returned the glare of a woman standing a few feet away and shouted, Don’t give me that look, sister. You know you would too!

Hell, I know I would, sure’s a bear sports a fur coat, her friend added.

Kate, too, was radiant in a slinky black sequined gown that was a perfect selection for her tall, slender body. Five feet eight and as shapely as a model, she was the perfect contrast to the shorter but stately Melanie. She had smoky gray eyes and pouty lips that gave her a very sultry Sophia Loren look. Her long raven-black hair was done up with sequins woven into it, which made her appear to shimmer festively as she moved. Even Sophia had never looked more stunning.

Jill, not to be outdone, had shopped for her gown at Bergdorf’s in Memphis. She and Jimmy Gee had gone there one afternoon while the others were busy with the preparations that accompanied Nashville’s most important event. Jimmy Gee had seen enough fancy dress balls during his stint in the air force to have gotten his fill of them, but he went along with the hullabaloo to please everyone else. The gown they finally selected for Jill was an off-the-shoulder number in a clingy red material that more than did justice to her slim figure. She had gone to the same hairdresser as Kate and had come away with an equally striking look. The makeup artist at the hair salon had added the finishing touches to make her the focus of a good many eyes.

Billy Ben had bought his mom a very fashionable high-necked dress in rust color and shoes to match—a perfect ensemble to complement her radiant red hair.

Billy Ben had gone all out for the occasion. He’d had his hair trimmed, and Melanie had manicured his fingernails. He had worked nearly an hour spit-shining his ostrich-knee boots.

You ain’t even ’bout to catch this country boy in none of them fancy patent leather fag slippers, he had growled.

He had spent another hunk of change on his outfit for the evening. He was sporting the latest fashion in western tuxedos from Tuxedo Junction, complete with the silver embroidered cummerbund and tie that Melanie had insisted he buy.

You look positively gorgeous in it, baby, and you won’t get another nomination for at least another year. Let’s splurge for this one, okay? she teased when he complained about how much money he’d spent. Her eastern Tennessee enthusiasm of course overwhelmed his Western Kansas conservatism.

Jimmy Gee’s military manner had taken charge of his selection, and he had opted for a more conservative look: a basic black tux with a red cummerbund and tie to complement Jill’s dress.

Tree Hiller was a handsome young man from the hills of South Carolina. He came equipped with a wide grin, a quick wit, and a resounding laugh; and he kept all of them in play most of the time. At six feet three, he was easy to spot in a crowd. He had come decked out in a western tux complete with sequined cummerbund and string tie. He could have passed as the poster man for the Grand Ole Opry.

Hey, man, we ain’t real sure we wanna go anywhere with you in that outfit. You look like a snake oil salesman at a rodeoers’ convention, Billy Ben said, chiding Tree as they waited at the limo for the ladies to come out of the restaurant where they all had only picked at a selection of appetizers.

Yeah, ain’t I the cutest thang you ever seen? Mel, sweet thang, would you try to see that he keeps his hot hands offa me tonight? he begged as the girls arrived.

You two look like a coupla them Hollywood gigolos if ya ask me, Jimmy Gee chimed in.

Nobody asked ya! Billy Ben and Tree replied at the same time.

The crowd milling around the lobby and the reception area was the who’s who of country music. It had just begun to spill over into the grand ballroom as Billy Ben and his group made their way inside. Everyone who was anyone in the music business was present. The greats, the near-greats, the gonnabes, the wannabes, and the never-will-bes shuffled here and there, talking, laughing, blustering, posturing, dealing and double-dealing, double-crossing, trading lies and generally carrying on the day-to-day carryings-on of the enigma called Music City USA. The room was awash with the reflected glitter from the lavish display of jewelry—some real, some fake, some owned, some rented, some borrowed—that adorned every neck, every wrist, every ear, an eyebrow or two, and God knows what other body parts, public and private, on men and women alike in the bustling assemblage of the music industry’s and Nashville’s elite.

Well, y’all, we didn’t come here just to stare and slobber, so let’s wade in and do some howdyin’ and shakin’, Tree said as he surveyed the gathering.

Taking Mel’s hand, Billy Ben ceremoniously cleared his throat and announced, Let’s venture out among ’em, Gang. It ain’t snowin’ inside tonight! He then added sheepishly, But y’all stick close to me now, ya hear?

We’ll be closer than a hog’s snout to a slop trough, Rowdy, Tree replied as the six of them waded into the crowd.

Y’all look to be rompin’ and stompin’ through high grass with the tall dogs, Jimmy Gee whispered to Billy Ben as they howdied and shook their way through the bustling throng.

Yeah, and just a few months ago, most of these people wouldn’t a pissed on me if I’d a been on fire. What a difference a little ol’ nomination makes, Billy Ben replied with a grunt.

Hey, Tree, ain’t that Terry Lasker over there? Billy Ben asked, pointing to a man that appeared to be a little high, judging from his slurred speech that could be heard above the murmur of the crowd.

Yeah, that’s Mr. Wonderful in the flesh. Who’s the filly with him? Tree responded.

Must be his new squeeze, I guess.

She’s a forty-two-dollar improvement over his last one; that’s for sure.

Sure ’nuff is! I only count two legs!

Yeah, and no wooly hair, either.

Oh yeah, did you get a good look at those legs?

Wonder if she has a bigger vocabulary?

"You mean bigger than ‘baaa’?"

‘Where’s my halter?’ kinda comes to my mind.

All right you two, that’s enough, Melanie interrupted. The man’s a snake, I’ll admit, but don’t get down on his level. That’s a whole ’nother world that you two don’t want to be slitherin’ around in.

Yeah, I thought you guys were once friends; what happened? Kate asked.

I really don’t think we ever were what you’d call friends. More like working acquaintances, I guess you might say. That is ’til one day I heard a song playin’ on the radio that me and him cowrote. When I tried to phone him to ask about it, he ducked my calls. I called BMI to see who the writers were on the song, and they told me there was only one writer. Guess who?

That song dropkicked his sorry ass right into the big time, Tree interjected, and now he won’t even recognize any of us peons any more. He’s a livin’, breathin’ example of a third-class ass with a first-class habit.

Hell, he probably can’t remember much of anyone or anything since he got on the nose candy, Billy Ben added.

Why didn’t you do something about it, Billy Ben? Jill inquired.

There was no way in hell I could prove I cowrote that song with him, so I just sucked it up, Billy Ben responded. Figured what goes around comes around sooner or later. It ain’t come sooner, but I’m still hopin’ that, if there’s any justice in this world, it’ll come sneakin’ up on him a little later. Leastways that’s what I’m hangin’ my betchas on.

Hey, sodbuster, you gonna dump us if you win tonight? Tree asked as he put a big arm around Billy Ben’s head and shoulder.

"Hell no, you big hillbilly; I’m gonna dump you before I win."

The socializing went on for what seemed like an eternity to Billy Ben. Finally the time for the ceremony arrived and everyone began to move toward the grand ballroom. The seating, which was amphitheater style, could accommodate as many as two thousand people. Billy Ben and his party were in the twelfth row—one of the rows reserved for nominees and their guests. Tree surveyed the room as they took their seats and then leaned across Kate and whispered to Billy Ben, Dang, son, this here room’s got more stars than the two-bit beer night at a Fourth of July strip-o-rama.

How would you know there are stars in a strip joint on the Fourth of July? Kate demanded.

Jimmy Gee told me, he snickered.

And stars there were. There were recording stars, movie stars, TV stars, and the stars of Nashville society visible in every direction, causing Billy Ben and the rest of his group to struggle with the overwhelming temptation to turn in their seats and gape openly at them. They were saved from that embarrassment as the lights dimmed and music began to flood the room. The elegant curtains parted, and a laser light shower engulfed Roger Kindle as he walked onto the stage to a tumultuous round of applause. The big moment had finally arrived.

Roger Kindle graciously accepted the accolades from the crowd before taking his place at the podium to begin the night’s ceremonies.

Billy Ben sat patiently through the first hour and a half, watching the award presentations and the endless thank-you speeches, before anxiety took hold of him.

If there was some way we could get outta here without lookin’ like damn fools, I’d say let’s read about it in the papers in the morning, he whispered to Tree and Melanie.

Hang tight, jayhawker, Tree answered, You gotta haul your sodbustin’ butt up there on that stage in a couple a minutes and get your ticket to the big time!

Billy Ben had never been so uncomfortable in his entire life. His teeth itched, his eyes felt as if they were burning holes in his eyelids, and his mouth had more cotton in it than an Alabama cotton gin. In addition, he was having hot and cold flashes at the same time, and he had the sensation that the room was about to take off into outer space. His seat was crowding him, making it impossible for him to sit still. The sweat, which he was sure had washed away his antiperspirant, had started flowing down both sides of his face and trickling down the undersides of his arms and into the waistband of his tuxedo pants. His legs were beginning to cramp, his shorts were sticking to his hide, and his pants had suddenly become too damned tight. To top it all off, his head was pounding like a bass drum at a high school football rally.

Hey, Jimmy Gee, he whispered as he leaned across Jill and raised his arm, do I stink?

Jimmy Gee turned toward him and sniffed. Yeah, clodbuster, you sure ’nuff do, like a cow pie in a pigsty! he responded, expending a tremendous effort to control his urge to laugh.

Thanks, pal. What would I do without you? Billy Ben shot back as Mel sent a sharp jab into his ribs.

Probably smell like a cow pie in a pigsty, Tree replied, snickering quietly.

Billy Ben had almost reached the limit of his patience before Roger Kindle finally announced over the hum of the crowd, And now it’s time for the presentation of the award for song of the year, and to present this year’s award, please help me to welcome that star of stars, the man who’s got more gold and platinum in his den than there is in Fort Knox. Ladies and gentlemen, let’s hear it for everybody’s favorite performer, Travis Randle!

The rafters shook, the floor trembled, and glasses shattered from the shrill cacophony emerging from the screaming fans as Travis charged onto the stage. The thunderous welcome for the newly anointed presidential nominee at the Democratic National Convention would have sounded decidedly reserved by comparison. It took him several minutes to calm his fans to the point that he could be heard.

The nominations for this year’s award for song of the year are … ‘Dusk to Dawn,’ Johnny Arnold and Linda Thomas; ‘When My Love Smiles at Me,’ Billy Ben Borden; ‘Anywhere with You,’ Sylvia Wilson; ‘My Get Up and Go Done Got Up and Went,’ Justin Brimley; ‘No Time for Crying,’ Melinda West and Ginny Deacon; and ‘The Divorce Two-Step,’ Bill Benton.

Billy Ben’s hair was tingling as if he had stuck his finger in a light socket. His jaws were clenched so tight you couldn’t have pried them open with a crowbar, and his knees were shaking like a pair of rubber bands in a wind tunnel as Travis fumbled with the envelope.

As his struggle to get it open reached a climax, he looked around the audience with a face-stretching smile. His eyes ceased their meandering as they fell on Billy Ben’s group. Then, in keeping with theatrical tradition, he waited another moment to let the tension reach the boiling point before announcing, And the winner is …

But wait; I’m getting way ahead of myself. This story really began some years before in a little berg in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains.

Chapter 3

M eade, Kansas—a sleepy little hamlet of some fifteen hundred or so souls, counting cats, dogs, and Harv Merewether’s pet donkey—is a typical western Kansas town situated slap-dab in the middle of the Kansas prairie southwest of Dodge City. It’s the location of the Dalton Gang Hideout, an attraction that brings a couple hundred people a year to Meade to take the walk through the secret escape tunnel that runs from the house to the barn.

As one would expect, not a whole lot went on in Meade. At that time, Highway 160, which runs east–west through the middle of town, was the main street. Its business district, comprising Main Street and a couple of side streets, was only about six blocks long and three blocks wide.

Life threw Billy Ben’s family a major curve when his father died in a farm accident in 1934, leaving them in dire straits. Dorothy however, possessed more than her share of that moxie that seems to come along with red hair. Whether it was a sympathy vote, her obvious intelligence, or the fact that every red-blooded male in town had his eye on this striking widow, she was elected to the office of Register of Deeds for Meade County in 1936—a job that paid $500 a month. She supplemented that by raising chickens, which she sold for fifty cents apiece. Her income, aided by the money the kids earned, enabled her to manage. However, there was not always enough money for new clothes for everyone when it came time to shop the Monkey Ward catalog for back-to-school things. A lot of items got handed down from boy to boy, and by the time they reached Billy Ben, they were usually showing some wear and tear.

Dorothy also took in boarders in the modest three-bedroom house she was able to buy with the proceeds from the $1,500 insurance policy her husband, Chic, had carried. It wasn’t a palace, but it was home to her and her five children. She had dressed the place up by planting a large flower bed along the front porch. A garden in the half-acre lot behind the house supplied the family with vegetables. An apple and peach tree on one side of the house kept them in fresh fruit, apple butter, and peach preserves. A weed-covered field on the other side hid a root cellar that became the boys’ hideout—no girls allowed! The house was tolerable in the summer because, being in Kansas, there was always a wind blowing that at least kept the hot air stirred up. But in winter, it was cold and drafty with nothing to heat it but a Franklin stove in the living room. The pipes often froze, and one of the boys would have to crawl under the house with a blowtorch to thaw them out.

All the older kids in the Borden family worked, and it was no different for Billy Ben from the time he was old enough to hold a hoe or a shovel. By the age of nine, he was doing a man’s work. John Bohling, an old German farmer, had taken a liking to him when he saw him stacking feed at Olson’s feed store one Saturday in May and asked him if he would like to work for him when he was out of school for the summer.

Pop Bohling, as Billy Ben began calling him, was a gritty, hardworking man who, with the help of his son Clarence, had been able to turn their two sections of land into a highly productive farm, where they raised wheat, corn, maize, and cattle. Of course, there were also several hogs in the barnyard to keep the family in pork and bacon. He wore false teeth some of the time, no teeth most of the time. Like most German men, he loved his beer. He had two outfits: his work clothes (bib overalls and a chambray shirt) and his dress clothes (gray twill pants and a gray cotton shirt). His shoes, both work and dress, were always black high-tops. Pop Bohling taught Billy Ben the value and importance of hard work by starting him out doing odd jobs around the farm that first summer. He taught him how to feed and milk the cows, slop the hogs, and clean out the barn. The second day there, Billy Ben learned to ride a horse. Mr. Bohling had a gentle old bay mare named Blaze that seemed to take an immediate liking to Billy Ben. A few months earlier, Mr. Bohling had bought a saddle for his granddaughter that fit Billy Ben to a T. Soon he and Blaze were riding fences, bringing in the milk cows, cutting calves at roundup time, and anything else that would keep Billy Ben up on Blaze’s back.

Helping Clarence maintain the farm machinery and whatever else needed doing were also part of Billy Ben’s daily chores. He quickly became a full-fledged farmhand. For these chores, he was paid a whopping dollar a day. By the time harvest time rolled around, John, in spite of his best efforts, had not been able to hire any harvest help. Since it would have been totally impossible for him and Clarence to manage the harvest alone, they put some blocks on the brake and clutch pedals of the farm pickup, taught Billy Ben to drive, and put him to work hauling the wheat from the combine to the granary. That’s when Billy Ben’s job got a lot harder, because he had to unload the wheat into the granary by himself. That’s also when he started earning five dollars a day.

By the time harvest was over, Billy Ben was as hard as a rock and as tough as a board. He stayed on the farm until it was time for school to start that fall. The Saturday before school was to start, Pop and Lula Bohling took him back to town with almost $300 in his overalls.

One Saturday, just before his fourteenth birthday, he helped Pop Bohling put the stock rack on the pickup and load up four steers to take to the cattle auction at Dodge City. After the auction, the two of them went into a little mom and pop restaurant on Front Street for a hamburger. Of course, Pop had to have his bottle of Falstaff and Billy Ben had to have his Pepsi with salt that made it fizz like Pop’s beer. The restaurant happened to be next door to a pawnshop, and when they headed back to the pickup, Billy Ben suddenly gasped and ran back to the shop’s window. There, right up front, was the thing he wanted most in the world—a guitar.

Can we go in and look at it? Billy Ben begged.

Guess it can’t hurt nothin’ to look, Pop responded with a grin.

The guitar had a number of scratches on it and was a little the worse for wear but it had a good sound when Billy Ben ran his thumb across the strings.

How much is it? Billy Ben asked.

How about ten dollars, and I’ll throw in some new strings and a book of instructions, the shopkeeper replied.

Billy Ben reached into his overall pocket and pulled out his billfold. His face dropped when he counted only eight dollars in it.

What do you want a guitar for, Billy Ben? Pop asked.

I’m gonna learn to play it ’cause I’m gonna be a songwriter! Billy Ben replied emphatically.

Well, in that case, I guess you’d better go ahead and get it, Pop responded as he handed Billy Ben two dollars.

And so began a young boy’s adventure into the world of songwriting.

One of Dorothy’s boarders worked at the same feed store where Billy Ben and Pop Bohling had met. He was also an amateur boxer and went by the name Hurricane Henry. Hurricane took a liking to Billy Ben and taught him the basics of boxing. He was really proud of Billy Ben’s prowess as a boxer, and that fall he put a sign in the feed store window announcing that Billy Ben could whip any kid in town under seventeen. For several afternoons, there was a line at the feed store. Billy Ben did whip his share of challengers, but he also got his clock cleaned a few times. By Christmas, the novelty had worn off and the sign had disappeared. Life had gone back to normal for the Borden family and their boarders. However, that summer and fall had been a serious learning experience for Billy Ben Borden.

From Pop Bohling, he’d learned the value of hard work and the importance of honesty, and he’d come to know that there is no hurdle too high and no goal unattainable if you put your mind to it and your heart in it. As he was fond of saying, It’s better to aim at the moon and pee on a stump than to aim at a stump and pee on your shoe!

From Hurricane he learned the joy of winning and the agony of losing. Hurricane would tell him, Sometimes you’re gonna get, and sometimes you’re gonna get got, but just remember that losing ain’t nothing to be ashamed of as long as you gave it everything you had. He ingrained in him the belief that humility is a winner’s greatest strength and that learning to deal with physical pain is his greatest weapon.

From his mom, he learned that no matter how many challenges one faces and disposes of, there’s always another one just around the corner. The motto she lived by was Hope for the best, expect the worst, and prepare for anything.

And from his big brother Jack, he learned that a sense of humor could get you through a lot of tough, even heartbreaking, times, and that life isn’t about how fast you can run or how high you can jump, but about how high you can bounce.

Billy Ben spent his weekends and summers working on the Bohling farm until he was a junior in high school. He was, by then, what some people would describe as a fairly good-looking young man. He had a strong, healthy physique and an even healthier attitude. Standing six feet tall, he had broad shoulders over a narrow waist. His jet-black hair and high cheekbones, thanks to his Indian ancestry, were crowned with very abundant eyebrows. His teeth were straight and even, set off by a gold cap, the result of Bobby Dean Hantla having pushed his head down on the water fountain when they were in the fourth grade. However, the cap didn’t seem to restrain his ready smile and his Western Kansas sense of humor.

Chapter 4

T he same year that Billy Ben went to work for Pop Bohling, Jack enlisted in the air force. He ended up dodging bullets and grenades launched at his helicopter over the rice paddies of Vietnam a year later. In the course of his two hundred–odd missions, he was shot down and rescued twice. The second oldest brother, Dean, enlisted in the navy in 1966 at the age of eighteen and was assigned to a torpedo boat stationed in the Gulf of Tonkin. Jack made it home from the war; Dean didn’t. Jack returned from ’Nam a bitter man, feeling, as did most of the men he had fought beside, that they had been sold out by unscrupulous politicians. He had seen good men, both American and Vietnamese, killed or maimed in an unwinnable war that no one seemed to be able to explain to the returning vet’s satisfaction. Tactical ineptitude and political blundering prolonged the war until 1973, when Henry Kissinger finally brokered an agreement that all the parties could grudgingly accept. It proved to be an unsavory conclusion and caused the United States to more or less back out of Southeast Asia, but at least it brought the boys home.

But this time there was no hero’s welcome, no ticker tape parades—nothing to express appreciation to these unsung heroes for the sacrifices they had made. Instead they were shunned and treated as outcasts by the very people for whom they had fought a war, creating a new phenomenon in American history. Unable to find jobs or housing, many of them joined the ranks of the homeless in the country, living in parks, on the streets, and in doorways—any shelter that would protect them from the elements. These events were the inspiration for Billy Ben’s first real attempt at songwriting at the age of seventeen. He could see the anguish in Jack’s eyes and feel, to some degree, his pain every time there was something about Vietnam vets on the news. The song was entitled Let’s Bring Our Heroes Home.

Let’s Bring Our Heroes Home

Someone once said that war is hell.

We learned that lesson very well

In the jungles of a place called Vietnam.

We sent our young men off to war

Not sure what they were going for,

To a steaming hell

And a fight they could not win.

Now let’s bring these heroes home.

They didn’t start that damned ol’ war.

Each one gave us all we asked,

And some a whole lot more.

A nation’s soul is crying now.

We’ve waited far too long

To heal the pain they’re feeling

And bring these heroes home.

We cannot hide a nation’s shame

By holding those who served to blame

For the blunders that some politicians made.

Reach out an understanding hand.

Put out the flags; strike up the band.

Let’s recognize

The price these heroes paid.

Chapter 5

B eing totally naive and completely ignorant of the way the game is played in the music world, Billy Ben went to a place in Dodge City one weekend where for twenty dollars a person could record a song. He then sent several copies to publishers listed in a copy of the Music City News his friend Charlie had brought home with him from a vacation trip he and his family had taken to Nashville. Most of the tapes were returned unopened. Others he never heard from, but several prompted responses offering to make his song into a hit if he would send them money. He selected the one that offered to do it for the least amount, that being one hundred dollars, and called the number.

We Make Hits, a sugary voice answered.

Hello, ma’am, is Mr. Augustus in?

May I tell him who’s callin’? she asked.

My name is Billy Ben Borden, and I’m callin’ about this letter I got from Mr. Augustus.

Hold on, please, she answered in her most professional voice.

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She then buzzed Mr. Aaron S. Augustus. (The S must have been for shyster).

You got a real winner on the line, she said when Augustus picked up the phone. Don’t leave anything in this hick’s pocket, now, okay?

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Aaron S. Augustus speaking, can I help you? he said in his most authoritative voice.

I hope so, Mr. Augustus. My name is Billy Ben Borden, and I got this letter from you folks about this song I wrote. You said you could record it if I’d send you a hundred dollars. Is that true?

Refresh my memory, Billy Ben. What was the name of your song again?

It’s called, ‘Let’s Bring These Heroes Home,’ sir. Billy Ben replied apprehensively.

Oh, sure, I remember that one—a great song, Billy Ben. A sure hit if I ever heard one. We’d be plumb proud to help you out with it. Oh, can you hold on for a minute, Billy Ben? I’ll be right back with you.

Sure thing, Mr. Augustus, he replied, excitement beginning to heat his blood almost to the boiling point.

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Wanda, come in here, quick, he yelled at the flashy blonde with the big rack, as he called her bosom. Wanda doubled as his current office girl and bed partner.

Look in the recycling bin and see if you can find this yokel’s ‘hit song,’ he said when she flounced through the door, popping her gum as she came.

Way ahead of you, snookums; got it in my hand, she replied.

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Sorry, Billy Ben, that was George Jonas calling to say he was looking for a heavy ballad, Augustus lied when he came back on the line. I told him I might have something for him, because I think your song would be right up his alley.

Do you really think so, Mr. Augustus?

Sure ’nuff, kid, but I don’t think we should take a chance with a one-hundred-dollar demo on this one. I think we should go with a full-blown studio production—backup singers and all. I think this could be a really big hit.

Golly, Mr. Augustus, I don’t know. What would that cost?

To really do it up right would run a thousand dollars, Billy Ben.

Darn, I don’t have that kinda money, Mr. Augustus, Billy Ben replied with a disheartened sigh.

Can’t you get it somewhere, Billy Ben? This is too hot an opportunity to pass up!

I’m sorry, Mr. Augustus; I don’t have any idea where I could get that kinda money.

Well, how much could you come up with? Augustus asked.

Well, I got about four hundred saved up, and maybe I could borrow another hundred, but that would be tops. Can’t we maybe do it a little cheaper?

Naw, son, this song is too good to get the cheap treatment. After a moment of silence, he continued, Tell you what I’m gonna do, Billy Ben … if you’ll sign the publishing over to me, I’ll put up the other five hundred. What do you say to that?

I’d say that would be great, Mr. Augustus. Of course Billy Ben had no idea what Augustus meant by signing over the publishing, and he didn’t care. He was going to have a song sung by George Jonas.

Okay, Billy Ben, here’s what I want you to do. Today’s Tuesday, right? You go to the bank and get a bank money order for the five hundred dollars and send it to me today. I’ll schedule the musicians and backup singers for this weekend, and we’ll have your hit demoed by the middle of next week. How’s that sound to you?

That sounds great, Mr. Augustus. I’ll go get the money order right now and get it in the mail to you. And thanks, Mr. Augustus. Thanks a bunch.

Chapter 6

A aron S. Augustus was a stereotype of the unscrupulous shysters that seemed to be a fixture around some of the restaurants and bars in Nashville. They would come there to prey on starry-eyed young wannabes chasing their dream of a career in the country music world. You’ll find these bloodsuckers hovering over them like buzzards over a carcass. Sometimes they would actually fight over these plums in the steady parade of potential victims of their greed and avarice that came to Music City in search of their big break. Augustus was a squat, fat man of five feet eight inches with a sallow complexion that he had