Somebody Everybody Listens To Page 15

  LIFE EVENTS: In spite of his enviable success, Strait’s life hasn’t been without personal sadness. In 1986, his thirteen-year-old daughter, Jennifer, was killed in a car accident.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  ocean front property

  LEAVING HOME WAS HARDER THIS TIME for lots of reasons. Number one, I was worried about Daddy, of course. And Mama, too. What if King Asshole, as Daddy liked to call him, was some sort of creep? Or, what if Mama realized her mistake and wanted Daddy back, but it was too late? And then there was the problem with Riley. When I was loading up my car, I found the card he’d given me the night of my Mockingbird performance, and what was in his note was almost as disturbing as what was on his gross T-shirts:

  Dear Retta,

  I have thought about telling you this to your face but I think a note is WAY better!!!!!!! That way you will always have it to keep no matter what!!!!!!!!!!!!! I love you like crazy pretty lady!!!!!!!!!! Please love me back!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !

  Your friend (AND maybe more ?????!!!!!!!),

  Riley

  PS—good luck tonight!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  PSS—I know you will kick ass!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  PSSS—I’ll be waiting for your answer!!!!!!!!!!!

  For obvious reasons, I didn’t go back to the Jackson Hotel. It wasn’t so much what Riley said. I could tell all along he had a crush, but the exclamation points made me want to run for cover, like I was being shot at with a BB gun or pelted by those Red Hots he was always eating. Instead, I went straight to Ricky’s, all prepared to explain my housing situation, but I didn’t even have to; Ricky had already anticipated (and solved) the problem. In exchange for new brakes, a friend of his installed a shower in the bathroom, and since he hardly ever used his office anyway, he’d cleared it out. There was nothing left except an old black and white TV with tinfoil on the antenna, a mini-fridge, and the sofa where Shanay had slept off all those drunken stupors. I was welcome to stay at the Auto Den for free as long as I wanted.

  Since arriving, I’ve scrubbed every inch of the place: I washed the windows inside and out; swept the stale cement floors and mopped them; took everything off the shelves, dusted, put everything back; unscrewed the light fixtures, emptied the dead bugs out, washed the light fixtures, and screwed them in again. I even found the spare cans of paint and repaired the chipped letters on the front of the cinder-block building. Now instead of ICKY DEA AU DEN, it says RICKY DEAN’S AUTO DEN. Ricky just stood there, holding the ladder and wiping the sweat off his bald head while I finished the final touches.

  “I hate to complain with you workin’ so hard, Retta, but you got to slow down.”

  “What’re you talking about? I’ve hardly started,” I replied.

  “Retta, alls you’re supposed to do is answer the phone and make appointments. And what about the singing? You ain’t sang nothin’ since you got here.”

  Ricky was right, my nerves had been so jittery I couldn’t sit still. I’d think up all kinds of lyrics in my head, but I couldn’t stop moving long enough to write them down, much less compose a tune. I finally had a good-paying job, a roof over my head, a car to drive, and no September 1 deadline, but I was still holding myself back somehow. “I’m scared, Ricky,” I confessed without looking at him.

  “Scared a what? I got a alarm system on the shop that’d keep all the bullion in Fort Knox safe.”

  “No, I don’t mean for my safety.” (Ricky did have all kinds of alarms on the place to protect his cars and expensive equipment, especially in this seedy neighborhood.)

  “Then what are you scared of?”

  “Nashville doesn’t need another girl singer. I’m just one more fish in the barrel, waiting to be shot at.” Chat came to mind when I said this.

  “Well, Retta, I hate to tell you, but if you keep on cleaning like this, you’re gonna give me another heart attack. Just watching you makes my blood pressure go up.”

  I climbed down off the ladder, and Ricky and I went back inside where it was cool. The phones were quiet after lunch, so instead of scrubbing the mold off the ceiling, like I’d planned, I hung my Emmylou Harris poster above the sofa then worked on “Home” some more.

  By the end of the day, I was ready to play it for Ricky. He sat in my desk chair, and I pulled up a stool, strummed a few chords to warm up.

  “I wrote this one when I was home,” I explained. “It just came to me all of a sudden, but it took a while to get the music just right. I want you to be honest, tell me exactly what you think, okay?”

  Ricky nodded and wiped his hands on the red grease rag.

  The pull of home will always be here.

  Running fast or moving slow.

  It’s the place to get away from, the place I long to go.

  I can hear it in the treetops, feel it whispering against my skin.

  It’s the air I breathe, the way I am.

  Home is my beginning and my end.

  It’s the frogs croakin’ on a summer night

  It’s Mama’s good cookin’ and the front porch light

  It’s Daddy’s old pickup, his jokes, and warm embrace

  It’s church on Sunday morning, that Old Rugged Cross

  It’s knowing no matter where I go, at home I’m found, not lost

  The pull of home will always be here.

  Running fast or moving slow.

  It’s the place to get away from, the place I long to go.

  I can hear it in the treetops, feel it whispering against my skin.

  It’s the air I breathe, the way I am.

  Home is my beginning and my end.

  It’s my best friend’s historic Camaro, our parties on Baker’s Point

  It’s snapping turtles and waterskiing

  It’s going away but never really leaving

  It’s me and Bobby McGee, a love affair that’ll never be

  But, most of all . . . and I know this one thing for sure.

  The pull of home will always be here.

  Running fast or moving slow.

  It’s the place to get away from, the place I long to go.

  I can hear it in the treetops, feel it whispering against my skin.

  It’s the air I breathe, the way I am.

  Home is my beginning and my end.

  Ricky swiped his eyes with the sleeve of his coveralls. “Well, it sucks,” he said.

  “Really?” I asked, trying not to feel disappointed. I’d wanted him to be honest, after all.

  “And if you’ll buy that, I got some oceanfront property in Arizona.”

  “So you liked it, then?”

  He grinned at me, and his gold teeth sparkled slightly in the afternoon light. “Nashville does need you. It just don’t know it yet.”

  After Ricky went home for the night, I took a nice, cool shower then headed over to the Mockingbird. The whole way there I thought about that bull of Mr. Shackleford’s, Bernie, with the nose ring. When I was little, Daddy took me out to his farm so I could get a look at him closeup, and I remember something Mr. Shackleford said about the ring’s purpose. He said when a creature’s that much bigger than you, you got to find a way to make it do what you want without getting trampled to death.

  “Hidy,” the bouncer said. I handed him the other free ticket Ricky had given me and headed inside to watch the showcase. Lindy Lovelace was practically exploding onstage. She had a five-piece band and the gold sequins on her tight dress made her look like a Roman candle.

  The place was packed with important-looking people, not the usual rumpled crowd of writers and singers and musicians. I stood in the back and scanned the room—it was easy to stare openly since everyone’s eyes were locked on Lindy—and I noticed Dixon, the perfumey stage guy. He was stapling stuff to the bulletin board.

  When Lindy’s song was over, I went over to say hello. “I’m Retta,” I said, extending my hand. Networking, I reminded myself.
“I performed here—”

  “Fourth of July weekend,” he filled in. “Saturday night, right?” I nodded. “You were good, too, but you haven’t been around for a while. She’s got her first record deal,” he said, and nodded toward the stage. His smell was different tonight, still strong, but this one didn’t make my eyes water. “Some A-and-R guy spotted her the night you sang, signed her the very next day.”

  “Wow, that’s pretty incredible,” I said. “She’s good.”

  “Eh, she’s got the package thing going, I guess. And she’ll rocket up the charts. That type usually does, for a while at least. Doesn’t make my heart beat any faster, though,” he said, and moved closer to me, clearly invading my personal space now. “Give me a little sweat, some jitters, and a rich timbre, and I’m hooked.” Something about the way he smiled let me know he said this to all the sweaty, imperfect girls who show up at the Mockingbird.

  “Is this you?” I asked, and pointed to a sign he’d posted—DIXON’S DEMOS.

  “Yeah. I just bought a new computer. Figured I’d find a way to offset the cost. It’s a damn good recording for a computer. Not studio quality, obviously, but it’s still something you can hand out. Why? You interested?”

  I glanced down at my hundred-dollar boots, wished suddenly I had that money back. Even with my job at Ricky’s, I had to be careful. After taxes, it wasn’t all that much.

  “I can always work out a payment plan if cash is tight. Every singer needs a demo.” He pulled a business card from his back pocket.

  I glanced up, noticed the bartender was motioning Dixon over her way. “I think she wants you,” I said, and nodded toward the bar.

  “Well, she’ll have to stand in line, I guess. Think about that demo and call me,” he said, then did that silly phone signal with his hand as he walked away.

  I looked at the bulletin board. There were two open-mike nights coming up, so I signed up for both (I’d have to save room in my budget for tickets). There were also plenty of places offering demo services, but most of them were way more expensive than Dixon’s hundred-dollar offer. The price ranged from forty to two hundred dollars per hour for professional studios. And I knew from all those days in the Starling High School library that the demo process could take days. Weeks even. Besides that, there were all these different stages for making a demo that I didn’t even understand—laying down tracks and scratch vocals and mixing. And you needed professionals to help you do this stuff, and musicians. Like most things in Nashville, it was overwhelming. I glanced at Dixon’s card again then stuffed it in my back pocket.

  After Lindy’s showcase was over, the room buzzed like a hive. Music people clinked glasses and chatted noisily. I squeezed to the center of the crowd, tried to work up the confidence to introduce myself to someone, but courage evaded me. Besides, what would I say? Hi, I’m Retta Lee Jones, no demo, no head shots, not even a business card, but I sure can sing, so you should give me a record deal. I knew better than to make a bad, or worse, stupid first impression.

  Instead, I went looking for Dixon. I would set up that appointment for a demo, but just to be on the safe side, there’d be no payment plan. It was better not to owe people anything when you could avoid it. Maybe I’d even get a second job just so I could afford the necessary handouts and business cards. Having something to give people would make approaching them easier. I searched everywhere (except the men’s room, of course), but Dixon had disappeared.

  “Retta, I’m flattered, but I cain’t be your manager,” said Ricky the next morning when he arrived at the Auto Den. “Alls I know about the country music business is it’s full a sharks and you got to be careful. You thank anybody’s gonna take me seriously in this getup?” he asked, and looked down at his greasy coveralls.

  “I just think if he knew that I had somebody like you around, he wouldn’t be as likely to mess with me. My gut feeling is he’s not to be trusted. He’s really good-looking and friendly and all, it’s just—”

  “Don’t ignore your instincts, Retta. They’s something telling you not to trust him, so don’t. Tell you what. You call him up, get yourself an appointment. I’ll go as your friend, not your manager. Hell, maybe I’ll cut a demo myself,” he said and laughed.

  “Okay,” I said, and dialed the number. When Dixon answered on the third ring, I made an appointment for Saturday morning at ten o’clock. Dixon’s apartment. I didn’t tell him Ricky was coming with me—it was probably better to let that part be a surprise.

  The night before the session, I was a train wreck. I’d lie down on that smelly old sofa only to get back up again and pace the floor some more. I’d go to the mini-fridge, inspect it for something appealing, then shut the door. Dried out bologna and sticky leftover ribs weren’t exactly appetizing. I settled myself on the sofa again. It was mostly dark in the room, except for the outside security light which shone through an old sheet I’d duct-taped to the window. The blue-tinted light illuminated a few dark patches of mold on the ceiling, and without blinking, I stared at them until I couldn’t hold my eyes open another second.

  At the crack of dawn the next morning, I tried to channel my nervous energy. Instead of cleaning something, I warmed up my voice just the way Miss Stem taught us in choir. Next, I rehearsed my song several times. I sang it with my eyes open. I sang it with my eyes closed. As usual, it sounded better with my eyes closed. After I’d finished, I took a shower and did some deep breathing exercises to soothe my nerves.

  Finally, it was time to go, so I pulled my hair back into a ponytail, tugged on my faded jeans and T-shirt and boots, and headed over to Ricky’s house, which was only a couple of miles up the road. He’d suggested we ride together—in the tow truck. He said there was nothing more intimidating than a tow truck.

  Dixon’s apartment complex was elegant—pretty shrubs and flowers and a low stone wall along the periphery, just like the one I ran over in Belle Meade. As we drove around in search of Building G, Ricky talked nonstop about NASCAR. He was trying to calm my nerves, I could tell, but it wasn’t helping. We scuffed up three flights of stairs and stood in front of Apartment 12. According to a Post-it note, the doorbell was busted, so I knocked lightly, and Ricky stood off to the side, concealed somewhat by the shadows.

  “Retta!” Dixon said like I was a long-lost friend he wasn’t expecting. A cloud of Polo nearly knocked me over, and Dixon leaned in to kiss my cheek, Hollywood style. Just as he did, Ricky stepped out. To his credit, Dixon made a rather quick recovery by being overly glad to see Ricky, too.

  “Ricky Dean,” said Ricky firmly. He stuck out his hand, and I could tell by the pained expression on Dixon’s face, Ricky’d squeezed him too hard. “I’m a friend a Retta’s. Heard you was making demos. If it’s okay, I’d like to watch and learn how it’s done. You never know, one day I might want to make a demo.”

  “Oh, well . . . well . . . sure,” said Dixon. “Come on in.” Ricky and I sat on his sectional sofa, which was about as big as my whole living room back home, and watched while Dixon blew out several scented candles. Ricky looked at me and shook his head.

  The setup was simple. There was just me, my guitar, Dixon’s computer, and a microphone plugged into the USB outlet. I had my doubts about a demo made in someone’s gardenia-scented apartment, but for a hundred dollars, I couldn’t expect much more. Dixon was chilly, not at all happy that I’d brought along my bodyguard, but I didn’t much care. I was here to get a demo, not a date. And I wasn’t about to be anybody’s puked-up hot dog.

  We did a couple of practice rounds, and on the third try, I closed my eyes and thought about home. With Ricky Dean sitting nearby and Dixon choking me with his hazardous fumes, I tried my best to sound like somebody everybody listens to.

  carrie marie underwood

  BORN: March 10, 1983; Muskogee, Oklahoma

  JOB: While attending Northeastern State University in Tahlequah, Oklahoma, Underwood wrote for the school newspaper and produced a student-run television show.

  BIG BR
EAK: American Idol winner, 2005

  LIFE EVENTS: Golden ticket to Hollywood in hand, Underwood took her first-ever airplane ride.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  crazy dreams

  ON MONDAY MORNING, I stopped by Music Biz, a store that offers duplicated CDs for cheap. I burned thirty copies of “Home” by Retta Lee Jones and purchased some jewel cases and labels. On each label I wrote my name and phone number; underneath that, I printed in all caps: NO AUTO-TUNE OR PITCH CORRECTION USED ON THIS PROJECT. If anybody actually took the time to listen to my demo, at least they’d know it was the real me singing.

  Next, I headed to the post office. I thought about mailing a CD to Mama and Daddy, but that was complicated. Where would I send it, after all? Instead, I mailed one to Brenda, told her to listen to it while sitting out on Baker’s Point, and I sent one to Riley with a note explaining why I’d left so quickly and thanking him for all his help during my first few days in Nashville. I decided it was best not to mention his card.

  There was a rush of people this early in the morning, and I was nearly to the counter when I ducked out of line and headed back to the supply station. Quickly, before I lost my nerve, I grabbed a blank envelope off the rack, stuffed my demo inside, then addressed it to Chat Snyder c/o the Jackson Hotel.

  Two days later Brenda called. “Retta, I love it!” she squealed into the phone. “I couldn’t wait for Baker’s Point. Mama called me at work to say I’d gotten a package from you, so I went home on my lunch break and picked it up. It’s so good, and it’s a real CD! Your voice is on a CD!”

  “Brenda, it’s not that big a deal. If you have a computer, you can make a CD,” I pointed out.

  “Well, sure, I could make a CD, but it would sound like cats mating. I just want you to know, Retta, that I’m proud of you. I really am, and I know you’re gonna make it. I mean, I always felt it in my gut, but after hearing you on my new subwoofers, I know for sure. I’m gonna stop by Bluebell’s on my way home from work and play it for Estelle. She’ll get a charge out of it, don’t you think? And, I’ve already played it for all the nurses in the break room this afternoon. They all say you’re gonna be a big star, too. Tonight, I’ll sit on Baker’s Point and listen to it, just like you asked, but I couldn’t wait. I hope you don’t mind.”