Somebody Everybody Listens To Page 10

  “Aw, Chat doesn’t work here for the money. He’s a musician.”

  I swallowed hard. “You mean, like, for fun?”

  “Aw, naw. He plays professionally. He only works here on account of historical preservation. He’s all Mister ‘That bar is hand-carved. Hand-carved! This building is of historical and architectural significance!’ ” Riley did a perfect Chat imitation, and I couldn’t help but laugh.

  “But I still don’t get it. Why’s he here if he already has a job?”

  “This developer is lookin’ to buy this place. He plans to rip it right down and make condos, but Chat’s trying to get some artsyfartsies to buy it and ‘restore it to its original glory,’” said Riley, imitating Chat again. “He’s just here to make sure me and Mama don’t trash the place in the meantime. Oh, and whenever he talks about the developers, that big vein on his forehead pops right out. You should bring up the subject sometime so you can see it. I swear, it looks like a blue worm under his skin.”

  “I think I’ll pass,” I said, and reached into my pocket for the car key.

  “You live around here?” asked Riley.

  “You could say that,” I replied. I hesitated, wondering if I should confess the truth. Maybe if I told him my situation, he’d talk his mama into giving me a discount on a room. “Well, actually, I’ve been sleeping in my car,” I said, and watched Riley’s mouth drop open.

  “Really?” he asked. I nodded. “That’s awful.” I nodded again. Riley chewed his nail the way a dog bites at fleas. He was waiting for me to say something, but I kept my lips pressed together. Miss Stem explained to me once that in teaching, this was known as “wait time.” It’s when you give someone a chance to come up with the answer, and I was sure hoping Riley, booger T-shirt and all, would have a solution for me.

  “Hold on,” he said, his face brightening suddenly. He disappeared into the office but was back again in seconds. “Here,” he said, and handed me a key. “Mama locked the safe up, so I can’t get you your money, but you can stay for free.”

  “Seriously?” I asked. Riley nodded. “Be right back!” I said, and handed him my guitar. Quickly, before Riley changed his mind or Mrs. Farley discovered what we were up to and nixed the whole thing, I ran to the car to get my stuff.

  In record time, I was back and following Riley down a long, dingy hallway and up the stairs. He stopped at room 203. “Don’t tell nobody. Don’t let nobody see you,” he said, and unlocked the door. I felt like we were playing cops and robbers. “Definitely not Mama. She’d kill me,” he added.

  “You won’t even know I’m here,” I promised.

  The room was stifling, so hot hens would’ve laid hard-boiled eggs, as Granny Larky used to say, but there was a double bed and a TV and a bathroom. “See, we got everything you need,” said Riley generously. “There’s nobody on this floor tonight, so you can even watch TV if you want. Just keep it turned down low. If you need to go out, leave before eleven A.M. That’s when Mama usually wakes up.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “You need anything else?”

  “No, this is really, really nice of you, Riley. I appreciate it,” I said.

  He lingered awhile, but neither one of us could come up with anything to say. I was so tired I could barely keep my eyes open. “Well, don’t let the bedbugs bite your but-tocks,” he said finally, and laughed like it was the funniest joke in the world.

  After Riley was finally gone, I started up the shower then slipped off my clothes. The water was cool, and it felt good to scrub my body with the small, complimentary bar of soap. Every inch of me was squeaky-clean, but I still wasn’t ready to get out of the tub just yet, so I ran a bath and soaked for a while. The whole time I stared at the ceiling or played with the washcloth or watched the water drip off the ends of my fingers, I didn’t think about anything. It’s like my mind emptied itself of all worries.

  By the time I climbed into bed, it was nearly two. Outside there was the whisper of traffic on the highway. Next to me, the clock ticked off the minutes. And for the first time since I’d arrived in Nashville, I went to sleep with the good feeling that I was finally getting somewhere.

  taylor alison swift

  BORN: December 13, 1989; Wyomissing, Pennsylvania

  JOB: Swift’s first job was working after school as a house songwriter with Sony Publishing in downtown Nashville; she was fourteen at the time.

  BIG BREAK: Swift was singing at the famous Bluebird Cafe in Nashville when she caught the attention of Scott Borchetta. He was starting a new label, Big Machine Records, and he signed Swift. She was sixteen when her first album was released.

  LIFE EVENTS: Swift took up guitar as a preteen and began practicing several hours each day (until her fingers bled, literally). Her dedication to singing, playing, and songwriting prompted her parents to move the family from Pennsylvania to a suburb near Nashville.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  a place in this world

  JUST BEFORE LUNCHTIME ON FRIDAY, I headed to the bookstore. I’d read both books cover to cover and taken notes on all the important parts, and I wanted to get them back to Emerson. The free parking lot was full, so I pulled into a space on the street, and since it would only take a minute, I fed the meter a nickel then ran inside. Emerson was behind the counter, her curly hair piled on top of her head today, and she wore a pair of funky glasses and a navy sweater with a cluster of glittery beads around her neck. By far, she was the most fashionable girl I’ve ever seen, but in such a casual, effortless kind of way, nothing like Tercell with her trying-too-hard “outfits” and matchy-matchiness; a redneck with new money, Mama always said.

  “Hi, Emerson.” She glanced up from a newspaper, not recognizing me, I could tell. “It’s Retta Jones. From the other day.”

  “Oh, Retta. My head was a million miles away.” She hurried out from behind the counter to greet me. Her loose slacks were linen, stylishly wrinkled, and she wore flat strappy sandals, the kind Jesus always had on in those Sunday school bulletins.

  “I came to return these,” I said, lowering my voice and glancing around to make sure there weren’t any bossy-looking people nearby.

  “Oh, the coast is clear. Mrs. Scribner had a meeting today, which means she was going out to lunch with her girlfriends. Belle Meade divorcée. This store’s just a hobby. So how’d you like the books?”

  “They were great. Thank you,” I said, and handed them over to her.

  “There are lots more where these came from. In fact, we got a new one on songwriting and the—”

  “No, really, I can’t,” I said firmly. “I’m afraid I’ll mess them up or something, but thanks anyway.”

  “Well, if you change your mind, let me know. You took good care of these, I can see. So how is Nashville treating you? Well, I hope?”

  Other than the folks at the police department, I hadn’t told a single person about the mugging, not even Brenda. I’d intended to tell her, but decided against it because I knew she’d overreact. Emerson didn’t look like the dramatic type, however, so I decided to get it off my chest. “Actually, I was mugged,” I said.

  “No way,” she replied, hugging the books tightly and giving me a wide-eyed do-go-on look.

  “Yeah. It was only my second night in town. So far, I’ve had a busted oil pan, a parking ticket, and a mugging.”

  “Oh, my.” Emerson placed the books on a metal cart then folded her arms across her chest. “Well, I guess that means you’re done, then.”

  “Done? Oh, no, I’m not done. I mean, I just got here.”

  “No, no. I mean, bad things come in threes. And so your bad luck has run its course. Now you’re poised for something good. I predict marvelous things will happen for Retta Jones.”

  “Oh. Yeah. I sure hope so.”

  Emerson smiled at me, and I noticed her teeth again, all perfect and white. “So do you have an agent or manager?”

  I shook my head. “I’ve been too busy working and trying to get settled. I haven’t had
a chance to pound the pavement yet.”

  “Do you have a demo?”

  “Uh, no. Not yet,” I added. So lame.

  “Head shots?”

  My cheeks were beginning to burn. “It took a lot just to get here,” I said quietly, knowing a girl like Emerson would probably never understand. I could see by the clothes and the confidence that Emerson Foster’s parents had never been visited in the middle of the night by the repo man or had everything in the freezer go bad because the electricity was shut off again.

  Emerson took off her glasses and tucked them in her hair, like she was getting down to business. “Listen, I have a friend who owns a little clothing boutique up the street. Deandra’s her name. She tried to be a singer once, but it didn’t work out, mostly because she can’t sing. If you can handle her bitter-beyond-words attitude, I could introduce you. Maybe she would give you some pointers or whatever. She’s pretty well connected.”

  “Sure. That’d be great,” I said, although I didn’t much like the sound of a boutique. Clothing stores in Starling usually end with Mart or Less.

  Emerson checked her watch. “Can you come back around four? Mrs. Scribner will be back by then. She promised I could leave early today.”

  “Okay,” I said. “And thanks. You’re really nice to do this.” I turned to walk away, but Emerson called my name again. “Yes?” I answered.

  “Nashville really is a great town,” she said. “You could get mugged anywhere, you know.”

  “I know,” I said, and left.

  Up the street was a McDonald’s, so I went in, ordered a Happy Meal and a Dr Pepper, then headed to a nearby park. Even in the heat of summer, it was lush and green and filled with people. I stretched out on the grass and ate my fries and watched the fluffy white clouds float by. Originality. Chat’s words still haunted me, made me feel like I was trapped inside myself, like what I had to offer might never be enough.

  In my head I reeled off big-name singers: Johnny, the man in black; Gretchen, the proud redneck; Tanya, a true survivor; Taylor, the girl who lets you read her diary; Dolly, the mountain girl who never forgot where she came from; Miranda, the real deal; Emmylou, the smart folksinger with the angelic voice; Loretta, the coal miner’s daughter; Bocephus, the bad boy with a tragic past; Willie, the nasal crooner who strokes your soul; Garth, the sentimental cowboy; Randy, a living legend; George (Jones and Strait), more legends; Toby Keith, a man you don’t wanna mess with (unless you’re the fearless Dixie Chicks). The Dixie Chicks, mouthy and strong-willed and amazing.

  It is your own true voice that will carry you. Originality. Originality. Emerson was right about Nashville being a great town. Even with everything that’d happened, I could see it was a special place. But she was wrong about something else. Things would get even harder for me before they got better because country music isn’t a dream; it’s a business, and unless people know what kind of label to stick on you, you’ll never find a place in this world. You’ll just stay stuck in performer purgatory forever.

  “Were your parents a wreck when you announced your plans to come to Nashville?” Emerson asked as we made our way up the street. She lugged a huge canvas bag overloaded with books, but it didn’t slow her down any; I had to racewalk just to keep up.

  “Mama was a mess, not so much worried as she was mad.”

  “Mad?”

  “It’s complicated,” I said, not wanting to get into it. “All in all, they’re pretty supportive, I guess.”

  “I moved here for college, and I think my dad was delighted to have me out of the house. He denies it, of course, but every time I go back to North Carolina, he’s taken over more of my bedroom. I went home after spring semester, and he’d put his golf clubs in my closet, right on top of my shoes. I have a lot of shoes,” she explained, “not enough space in my tiny dorm for them all. Does your father play golf?” she asked, trying to make conversation, I could tell.

  “Um . . . no. He has a bad back,” I said, as if this were the only reason my hunting-fishing-beer-drinkin’ daddy didn’t play golf.

  “Well, you’re lucky. It’s all mine talks about. You’d think I’d know the lingo by now, but I wouldn’t know a birdie from a big dog.” I laughed even though I had no idea what she was talking about.

  “So where do you go to college?” I asked.

  “Vanderbilt,” Emerson replied. “I’m a junior. Almost,” she added. “That’s the Treasure Trunk up ahead,” she said, and pointed to a bright green building.

  Emerson pushed open the door, and I followed her inside. The floor was covered in plush chartreuse carpeting, and the ceiling was pale blue. Somebody had painted enormous insects all over the walls, mostly ants, and hanging from the ceiling were pretty paper lanterns. “Their theme this season is Picnic,” Emerson explained.

  “Oh,” I replied, and wondered if that meant they redecorated every three months. The Fashion Bug hadn’t been updated in years.

  Everywhere I looked there were cute clothes—T-shirts and patterned shorts and funky sandals (just like the ones Emerson was wearing) and sundresses and accessories, gold hoop earrings and chunky necklaces and wide belts with distinctive buckles, not to mention a whole rack of the cutest skirts I’d ever seen, each one appliquéd with a different design. I spotted one with musical notes in fat black rhinestones all along the hem.

  “Oh God. You again?” said the tall, lanky girl behind the counter. She had a hot-pink cell phone in one hand and a Diet Coke can in the other. Judging by the greeting, this was Deandra. I braced myself and followed Emerson to the counter.

  “Deandra, this is Retta. Retta, Deandra.”

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Greetings,” said Deandra, eyeing my Sundrop T-shirt and cutoffs. “I’ll call you back,” she said to whoever was on the phone and hung up. “I have something in the back for you, Em. A little party dress that is to die for. Hang on a sec and I’ll get it.”

  “No. I can’t spend a dime. I just wanted you to meet Retta. She recently moved to town, and I thought maybe you could give her some tips on the music business.”

  Deandra raised her long skinny arm and pointed to the door. “Go home. There. That’s my tip.”

  “I told you she was cynical.” Emerson rolled her eyes.

  “Cynical’s not the word.” Deandra sniffed. “The music business is a joke. Filled with sleazeballs and no talent. If it wasn’t for Auto Tune, half of Music City would have to pack up and go home.” She leaned her knobby elbows on the counter, and two clunky bracelets clattered up her arm. “The best thing you can do, honey, is go back to whatever little podunk town you came from before some record seducer eats you up, then regurgitates you all over Eighteenth Avenue.”

  “Deandra, stop!”

  “No. Seriously. Picture a fat drunk guy, weaving and wobbling and drooling. His fly is down. His hair plugs are falling out, and he hasn’t clipped those nasty nose hairs in weeks. Oh, and his back is hairy, and he has those fat stubby fingers with extra short, gnawed off nails.” It was a very graphic picture, and I found myself leaning in, listening hard for where this story was headed. “It’s two A.M., and he’s drunk and craving a chili dog,” she went on. “You are that chili dog, okay? Sweet and tender with big buns.” She glanced at my hips, and I felt my face go red.

  “Anyway, he gobbles you up, right?” Deandra continued. “Because that’s what disgusting drunks do at two A.M. Then. His stomach begins to roll like thunder. He starts sweating a bit. His mouth waters. All of a sudden he spews that poor chili dog—you—all over some sidewalk on Eighteenth Avenue.” She came around the counter. “Now. There you are. Vomit on the sidewalk,” she said, and gestured to the floor. “The next morning people will see you there, and they’ll hold their noses and sidestep you until some poor street cleaner comes along and clears you away for good. End of story.”

  Abruptly, she turned away from me and focused on Emerson again. “So, are you going to that summer-solstice party tonight?” she asked brightly.

>   “No, I have to study,” Emerson replied, and glanced at me apologetically. “No fun for moi for the rest of the summer, and you needn’t bother holding party dresses for me either. I’m turning over a new leaf. No shopping.”

  “Yeah, and I’m giving up Diet Coke,” said Deandra. She reached over the counter for the can, took a swig, then stifled a belch. “Celeste’s sister is making mango martinis, and I plan to dance my ass off. And hook up with Josh,” she said.

  “As in Luellen’s Josh?” Emerson asked.

  “Hah. Not Luellen’s Josh anymore,” she said, and smiled. It was an All My Children villainess grin if I’d ever seen one. She looked at me again. “I do feel for you, you know. All high-hopes about the whole music business thing. It’s pathetic, really. Girls like you pour into Nashville every year. Personally, I’d rather throw myself down a flight of stairs than go through that again.”

  “Well, if you’re not careful, Luellen might push you down the stairs,” I said. It just came out. Maybe it was because she was so condescending. Or maybe because she’d compared me to a wiener. Or because I felt bad for Luellen, whoever she was.

  A strange sound came out of the back of Emerson’s throat, and she coughed into her hand. “Well, I guess we’d better run, Deandra. I have a big test on Monday and a mountain of laundry.” Within seconds, we were out the door and heading toward the bookstore again.

  “I’m so sorry,” Emerson and I said at the same time.

  “No, I am! I should’ve never introduced you,” Emerson insisted. “She’s a dream crusher. Don’t listen to a thing she says.”

  “Well, I shouldn’t have made that comment about the stairs. I have a bad temper at times.”

  “To start with, the music business was her big dream for about five minutes. She wasn’t serious about it, and the second that fantasy didn’t pan out, her daddy bought her a store.”