Good Judgment: A Short Story
inspired by Sabrina Carpenter's 'Please Please Please' and Black people ruffling feathers in the Country music establishment
“Please, please, please!”
Cheri clasped her hands and batted her elongated lashes whilst awaiting Jim’s reply. Baby blue eye shadow and sweet pink blush were the only colours highlighting her flawless cocoa-cinnamon complexion.
Jim towered a whole foot above Cheri’s five-foot-four frame. His face betrayed none of the options he considered. A stickler for timing things just right, he knew a taxi would never work. They lived on the out-outskirts of Nashville. And how could he let her struggle with all her gear by driving herself back and forth?
The grandfather clock Cheri inherited from her grandmother chimed. Time was of the essence. Peering down at the cutest face he’d ever known, the pleading curve of her mouth affirmed Jim’s decision. His lips split into a grin.
“Darlin’, you don’t ever have to beg.”
Relief washed over Cheri’s face.
“Not for that kind of ride.”
“Booooooo!” she mocked, giving him two thumbs of playful disapproval as she moved to embrace him.
With arms locked around his waist, she spoke sincerely.
“I know it’s last minute, but this gig fell into my lap, and I have to go for it. It’ll let me show my versatility.” They rocked back and forth in their small living room. Her, barefoot in nothing but a robe and he, in overalls. “Did I mention I’ll get to sing one of my own songs and sell my album, too?” Her face lit up with child-like glee.
Jim’s large hands, scarred by honest work and righteous payback, docked on her ass to bring her closer.
“They’re going to love you. I know it.”
“I need this,” Cheri said.
He squeezed her impossibly tight. Turning plaintive, she looked up at Jim: “I wish you could be there, but Mason’s coming for his car tonight, right?”
Conflict tugged at his features. Mason was the most reliable of a small stable of clients, with the most exacting standards. Proving to Cheri that his classic car renovation business had enough juice to support them and her dreams meant that Jim had to make sacrifices sometimes.
His fingers gripped her chin as his eyes met hers. “I’m gonna make it up to you.”
His voice took on that smoky lilt that Cheri always found irresistible.
Jim’s lips began travelling up her neck and across the terrain of her face. Every brush of his lips was greeted with a mewling invitation for more. Her shimmering brown skin puckered under the tender brush of his mouth, and how he inhaled her scent. But when Jim reached for her mouth, Cheri drew back her head abruptly.
“Baby, I just did my makeup so nice. I custom-blended four or five lipsticks to get this shade. Not only do I not have time to do it again, I can’t remember what I used!” Her long fingernails tapped against his chest. “I promise you can mess it up when I get home,” she teased. “Now, let me finish getting dressed.”
Jim didn’t hear the promise. He was still stuck on ‘lipstick’. “What lipstick? It looks like you’re wearing Chapstick.”
Cheri rolled her eyes and playfully shook her head as she walked away from him. “You’re such a man!” The work that went into creating the perfect brown girl nude evaded him.
“The one who chose to love, honour, and cherish you!”
Cheri winked back at Jim before closing the bedroom door.
Halfway through his coffee, Jim’s elbows rested on the old-fashioned green Formica countertop. He stared out the window as the winter sky heralded the shimmering pinks of dusk. A two-hour round trip to the city on a Friday evening without traffic problems would take a miracle. Jim’s fingers cris-crossed his chest as he sent up a prayer.
Things would be easier for her by next year when they could finally afford to live properly in Nashville, or at least on its edge, Jim reasoned.
Time ticked as he sipped.
Cup empty, Jim began loading up the truck with Cheri’s equipment and other bags.
“Five minutes,” said the voice that accompanied the knock at the dressing room door.
“Thank you, five!” Cheri replied.
Excited and nervous, Cheri stared at herself in the mirror, fiddling for the umpteenth time with the blue bandana in her giant blonde wig and the hoop earrings large enough to be called bangles. She straightened the lapel of her denim shirt, buttoned up only to the bottom of her bosom. Her mouth twisted from second-guessing her decision not to imitate the ample bust of one of her idols. After all, she was going for pastiche, not cosplay. With that reassurance, Cheri grabbed her guitar and headed out onto the stage of the largest crowd she would play to date. It was only up from here, she hoped.
Cheri was well into her set when Jim snuck into the venue wearing an ivory-coloured Stetson, the brim drawn low to partially shield his face. The large venue was packed, but the Events Manager, Arlene, gave him a seat behind a small table of young guys near the back. Unlike him, they weren’t wearing hats, so he had an unobstructed view of the most talented and beautiful person in the room. Cheri had no expectation that he would make it.
When Jim told him the situation, Mason revealed his sentimental side. “We gotta show up for the people we love. The car can wait,” he said. “Your wife can’t.”
Jim thought about the end of the night when he’d walk up to Cheri and tell her what a star she was. Her smile, her joy, the light on her face—he couldn’t wait to be their witness. A witness to her ascendance as an artist, bringing back the soul of country music.
Jim and the rest of the crowd were having a grand old time. He sipped his whiskey and stomped his feet. The “9 to 5” number even had some people boot-scooting on the dance floor in front of the stage. His cheri amour added a little extra funk to this number, which raised the room’s energy.
Well, except for the snickering assholes in front of him. Downright disrespectful and barely paying attention; they were also screwing with Jim’s vibe. What the hell was so funny anyway?
Almost as if he felt Jim’s vibrating consternation, the pack leader spoke loud enough for Jim to hear.
“I feel bad for bringing you here. This place usually has great music, but I don’t know what happened tonight. This ain’t even the chick who did it last week. I didn’t come to hear no ni**er version of Dolly.”
The neckbeard of the group agreed. “That blonde Barbie wig does look kinda ridiculous.”
“A ni**er doll, if you will,” piped Original Flavor Asshole.
His boys hooted and hollered.
Rivers of blood rushed to Jim’s forehead, pumping loudly in his ears, tinting his alabaster skin with rage. He felt his head would explode all over anyone within three feet of him. His fists opened and closed, stretched and flexed against the sticky wood-grained table. He told himself repeatedly that he would not let his devil control the night. Not here. Not again. Not like at the State Fair.
To calm himself, Jim focused on the reason he was there. To support Cheri. He looked up at her at home on the stage, unaware of anything but the love of most of the crowd. Her voice soared, and with it, the audience’s adoration. Pride for her swelled inside Jim, de-escalating his blood pressure. His fisted hands consoled his denim-covered thighs as he settled back into Cheri’s performance of one of her original songs.
The leader of the Assholes rose from his table. “I’m going to take a leak, and hopefully, this coon shit’ll be done by the time I’m back,” he said, adjusting the buckle on his belt. “Time for some honkey tonk! That’s why we’re here, baby!”
Jim waited thirty seconds before trailing him. The devil on his shoulder may be a liar, but he’s never loved a woman like Cheri. And that’s the truth.
Cheri turned into a completely different person on stage, where nothing about her was shy. Blind with gratification and the glare of the stage lights, Cheri thanked the crowd before announcing her final number. Sounds of disappointment filled the room, though she swore she heard a few whistles of relief.
When she strummed the familiar melody of Dolly Parton’s most bittersweet farewell, the room turned nostalgic. Couples grabbed each other for a slow dance. Others rocked at their table, eyes shut, hands lovingly clasped together. Cheri’s dulcet tones and yodel flips held them rapt.
Her eyes were closed, too, until flashes of red and blue and the sound of walkie-talkies propelled her to open them.
She never stopped singing.
The unfolding drama distracted some of the crowd, and Cheri followed their gaze. Blues and Twos stood by the open door. The Events Manager pleaded with them to no avail. Being escorted out gently by the arm was a tall man in handcuffs. His hands were bruised and bloodied, his Stetson on the floor.
I will always love you flowed mellifluously from Cheri’s mouth, but please, please, please beat like a prayer in her chest.
Not again.
When the man turned his head her way, Cheri had her answer. The sight of his tragically handsome face, unmarred by whatever he had done, sent twin tears racing down her cheeks—one for her bruised ego, the other for her heartbreak.
“I love you!” Jim mouthed to her.
Those still paying attention to the main show applauded with verve as Cheri took a bow, wowed by the emotional close to her performance.
You know fiction is really not easily found on here, really nice to read - I have a short piece “I am here. Where are you?” please give it a read if you like it maybe you could give me a sub