Walking through an alley, guitar case in hand, Webb was in a can-kicking mood. But there weren’t any cans on the pavement. There were lots of windswept pages from a copy of The Tennessean, Nashville’s daily newspaper. Pieces of bent and broken grocery carts. Even an abandoned couch, green and tattered. But no cans to kick. Not in this neighborhood when there was money to be made collecting cans and bottles for recycling.
Webb was furious and discouraged, a new combination for him, and that made him feel something else—helpless.
How was he going to move forward? He was in Nashville because he’d wanted to be where music was made. The deal his grandfather had arranged seemed solid because Gerald Dean did have good credentials. But once Gerald had learned there was only Webb—that Webb’s grandfather was dead—it seemed like he figured he could take advantage of someone young and alone in the city.
In four months, all Webb had really accomplished was to write the lyrics and music of a few songs that Gerald had said were worth recording along with the covers. And now Gerald was holding those songs hostage for a final payment of $1,500.
If he wrote a check for that amount, he would have only $107 left. He was living rent free, so he’d expected he could make his money last a while, at least until he got his green card and could work legally in Tennessee. It would be tough to be down to the last hundred. That wouldn’t last long enough for him to get a job— it wouldn’t even be enough to get him back to Canada. Busking was fun and brought in some money, but he couldn’t depend on it.
Obviously, Gerald Dean was trying to rip him off, taking the songs and essentially holding them hostage for the $1,500. But did Webb have a choice?
Maybe what really hurt was the producer’s reaction to “Rock the Boat.” Did Webb know so little—was he so untalented—that what he believed was good was just the opposite?
He looked again for something to kick. A can. A box. Anything.
Instead, he saw a sign on a pole: Hungry? Free dinner. All are welcome.
Webb snorted. That’ll be the day, he thought. Then he remembered. One hundred and seven dollars. That’s all he would have left after he wrote Gerald’s check.
Why not share a meal with a bunch of homeless people? The way he felt, he couldn’t get much lower.