About the Author: Elizabeth Zelvin is the author of the Bruce Kohler mystery series and the Mendoza Family Saga, Jewish historical fiction set in the 15th-16th centuries, as well as urban fantasy/mystery featuring Emerald Love aka Amy Greenstein and related stories. Her short fiction has appeared in Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, and Black Cat Mystery Magazine as well as anthologies and e-zines.
That night, I only came to listen. The Bluebird is legendary, with its ironclad “Shhhh!” rule and its history of discovering artists who go on to fill stadiums and win CMA awards. The TV show spread the legend some, but it hasn’t made the room any bigger or getting onto that hallowed stage any easier. In Nashville, aspiring songwriters would rather get into the Bluebird than into heaven—and in Tennessee, where they take heaven seriously, that says it all. I knew it wouldn’t feel like I was really home until I’d dropped by the Bluebird to check out the new talent and say hello to a few friends. So I was there the night a nobody broke the rules and grabbed that chance.
He was working as a busboy—a skinny kid with a silver belt buckle bigger than his ears, an incandescent grin, and a mellow old Martin that was probably older than he was. In Nashville, it makes perfect sense for a busboy to bring his valuable guitar to work with him.
It was open mic night. You have to get on the list. It takes patience and persistence, so the guy who got up there drunk was throwing away a lot of effort. Country music has had its share of alcoholics, but if you aren’t famous first, it’s a really bad idea. He staggered up to the mic with a longneck in his hand. He made less than thirty seconds worth of a fool of himself before they hustled him offstage and out the door.
Before they could announce the next songwriter on the list, the kid leaped onto the stage with two big strides in his scuffed cowboy boots.
“Hey, folks. My name’s Del.” And he began to sing.