Somebody Everybody Listens To (11 page)

“Yeah, but it was under the seat. It must've fallen out of my purse or something.”

“Listen, Retta, I don't have but a minute. I'm at work, and I'm supposed to be giving Mr. Ragsdale a sponge bath. You can imagine how thrilled I am at the prospect of that. Anyway, I've got major dirt.”

“What?”

“Tercell came home yesterday. She didn't even last a week up in New York City. Her daddy was so mad he threatened to sell her Cadillac just to pay for the tuition money he wasted. Can you believe it?”

So Tercell wasn't in some skyscraper having the time of her life, after all. “No. Well, yes. I mean, she's a terrible singer.”

“I'll call you later when I can talk. There's more, but Mr. Ragsdale's hollering for me now. Wish me luck,” she said, and hung up.

For some reason, Tercell wimping out in NYC made me more determined than ever to stay put in Nashville, no matter what. I climbed out of the car and tried to think what to do. I could call Ricky, get him to tow me back to the shop, but then I'd have to work there another week to pay for it. I could walk to the Auto Den, but it'd probably take a whole day to get there, and then Goggy's car would wind up getting towed anyway.
Think, Retta. Think!

All of a sudden I remembered how Granny Larky always kept a spare key duct taped under her front bumper. My granddaddy had terrible dementia at the end, and he was always losing everything—car keys, wallets, remotes. Maybe Goggy did the same thing. They were sisters, after all, and it was worth a try.

The streets were busy now—people were dressed up and clicking up and down the sidewalks in their nice work shoes and skirts and suits—and they were
all
trying not to notice me. I crawled under the car, and there it was, a thick piece of sticky gray tape with a key-shaped lump underneath.

EVEN AFTER JUST A FEW NIGHTS IN MY CAR, I had a routine down. When I first got to work, I'd slip off to the bathroom, wash my face and hands, and brush my teeth. Later on, when Ricky was out on one of his towing calls, I'd take what Mama referred to as a birdbath—stand at the cereal-bowl-size sink and wash all the parts I could get to, then dry myself off with a wad of paper towels. By some miracle, Ricky started bringing jelly doughnuts to work, and I'd managed to scrape together some change for a water bottle, which I simply refi lled whenever it was empty. Thankfully, Ricky offered to pay for lunch most of the time, so around noon, I'd head up to Hog Heaven for two pulled pork specials (Shanay hadn't shown up since that first day).

Nights were the worst. By then, lunch had worn off, and I was starving and hot and sweaty and tired and defeated from my long day. And Ricky almost always worked real late. I'd offer to stay, but he wouldn't let me, kept saying how I needed to go out and enjoy myself, learn my way around Nashville, look for a real job, and he was right, of course, except if I drove around too much, I'd run out of gas. Instead of making any progress to speak of, I'd park on a nearby street and wait until I could see that the tow truck was gone. Or, I'd drive a half mile up the road to Sam Hill's Market and wash my hair in the public restroom sink, which was way bigger than the one at Ricky Dean's.

Late in the day, Sam Hill's was always filled with testosterone—sunburned construction guys, beer-belly truckers, and other rugged types like Daddy, all of them just getting off work and dying for that quart of Budweiser. For the ride home, they'd buy bags of salted peanuts and beef jerky and cartons of Marlboros, too. None of them seemed to notice how long I took in the bathroom or the fact that my hair was soaking wet when I came out.

When Ricky was
finally
gone for the night, I parked in the very back row of his lot. Goggy's car fit right in with all the other old, broken-down rattletraps, so I didn't worry too much about anybody noticing me. Luckily, there was a flashlight in the glove box. The batteries were already getting low—the yellow light was so dim I could hardly see—but it was enough to read by. I was still hoping to return the books I'd borrowed from Emerson, but right now I couldn't afford to waste the gas. Besides that, I was grateful to have them. Both were filled with interesting facts and helpful hints. And right now, I needed all the help I could get. I was especially obsessed with one point in
Making It or Breaking It: The Road to Success in Music City.
It was on page 27, and I'd read the line over and over, copied it down in big, bold letters on the cover of my songwriting journal:
It is your own true voice that will carry you.

Once my eyes got tired, I'd scoot the seat back and strum my guitar and sing for a while, not too loud for fear someone might hear me and call the police, the last thing I needed. Singing helped take my mind off all the serial-killer worries lurking in my brain. A lot of bad stuff could happen to a girl with no money who lived alone in a big city—
in her car
—and I imagined every terrifying possibility in nitty-gritty detail. If my music career didn't work out, maybe I'd go to Hollywood and write slasher movie scripts.

On that rainy Sunday morning (turns out tow truck drivers work seven days a week), I woke up determined to realign the stars over my head, but by lunchtime (or no-lunchtime since Ricky was out on a call), I felt defeated again. Just trying to eat and wash and
not
look like I was living in my car took up all my energy, and even though I was right smack in Nashville, the Grand Ole Opry and the Country Music Hall of Fame and the Mockingbird Cafe had never seemed so far away.

That same evening I was sitting on a side street, half asleep in my car and waiting for Ricky to head home when some woman appeared out of nowhere and banged on the hood. “Are you a drug dealer or a cop?” she asked, scaring me so bad I jumped and hit my head on the roof.

“Neither,” I replied, and rubbed the lump that was forming.

“Well, you been sitting here three days, and I been saying to myself, ‘That girl's up to no good.' You get on out of here. This is a private street. If you're a drug dealer, you don't belong. If you're an undercover cop, you're not undercover no more.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “And if you're
homeless
, you can find someplace else,” she said, like this was the worst evil of the three.

I didn't bother replying. I started Goggy's car and gunned it down the street. When I was far enough away, I flung her a bird out the window, and I could see in the rearview mirror she flipped two right back at me.

I drove for a long while with the windows rolled all the way down. Secretly, I was hoping my bad luck would fly right out, find its way back to those juvenile delinquents who'd stolen my money.
Maybe they'd get hit by a car! Or a bus!
The wind tangled my hair, made my eyes burn, but I didn't care. Ready to confess every hardship, I dialed Mama and Daddy's number, but there was no answer. Prepared to ask Brenda for a loan, I tried her, too, but she didn't pick up. The gas gauge hovered just below a quarter of a tank, but I kept on going. FRANKLIN CITY LIMITS the sign read. Strip malls and gas stations and restaurants lined the double-wide highway. “Help me!” I shouted at the sky. “Come on! Give me a sign or something!” All at once I saw it, a run-down hotel with an enormous marquee out front—SINGER WANTED. I slammed on the brakes. It was a sign, after all.

I looked tired and pale, especially for summer, and my dark roots were beginning to show, an unfortunate thing since there was no money in the budget for Miss Clairol no. 9 golden blonde. Right before graduation, Brenda talked me into letting her color my hair, said it would give me a hint of Kellie Pickler sexy, but it was a decision I now regretted since there was no way I could maintain the look. I rummaged through my bag for a clean T-shirt then crouched down in the seat and changed quickly.

Just as I was about to get out of the car, I thought of Mama. Even with no money, she always manages to look nice—fresh lipstick, a hint of blush, hair perfectly fixed. She's the prettiest woman in Starling, Tennessee, no doubt about it.

I grabbed my makeup bag off the backseat. It was the first time I'd unzipped it in I don't know how long (unlike Brenda and Mama, I hardly ever wear anything other than ChapStick). Right on top was a small white box with my name on it. Inside was pair of earrings. They were made of clear white stones, and they sparkled, like real diamonds almost. No note. No card. Just the earrings. And no telling where Mama got the money for them either, but I appreciated the gesture all the same. There was also a new tube of lipstick—Vertigo, it was called. I twisted up the wedge of color and decided if I worked at Maybelline in the lipstick-naming department, I'd have called it Ryman Red instead.

Maybe it was ridiculous to wear dangly earrings and bright red lipstick with faded jeans and a T-shirt, but I hoped it would come off as stylish somehow, like Emerson. I glanced at my feet. The flip-flops had to go. Down on Broadway, I'd seen a pair of sky blue boots in a shop window. No telling how much they cost, but I'd get a pair first thing (when I had the money). In Nashville, the way you look is nearly as important as the way you sound.

The shabby lobby was dark and stuffy, and it smelled like mold and stale beer. Clearly there was no air-conditioning. Just a box fan that roared as if it were about to blast off into outer space. “Can I help you?” an overweight boy behind the counter shouted over the racket. He was red-faced from the sticky heat, and his dark hair clung to his forehead.

“I came to see about the singing job? The one on the sign out front. Is it still available?”

He swiped at a roll of perspiration running down his cheek. “Uh, yeah, it's still available,” he said, and snickered, like I was making a joke.

“When are the auditions? You haven't already had them, have you?”

“You're kidding, right?” he asked, although he wasn't laughing anymore.

“No. I'm not kidding. Why would I be kidding?”

“Hold on a minute,” he said, and held up a stubby finger at me. “Mama!” he bellowed. “Ma-
ma
! There's a girl interested in the singing job!”

Several awkward minutes later a woman the size of a school bus came lumbering out. I could smell her onion-and-gum-disease breath from a few feet away, and it made me swear I'd floss regularly from now on. She had dark eyes and crazy eyebrows that pointed out in every direction. Her hair was shoe-polish black but with a wide stripe of gray right down the middle (mind you, I was in no position to judge roots). “So sing,” she said all hateful, and wiped the corners of her mouth with her sleeve.

“Now?” I asked.

“Naw. Next week,” she replied. The boy laughed again, uncomfortably.

I glanced around, but the lobby was empty. An old Reba tune called “You're Gonna Be” popped into my head, a song I hadn't even thought of in ages.
You're gonna fly with every dream you chase . . .
I began, a cappella, of course, since my guitar was in Goggy's car.

“You're hired,” the woman blurted before the second verse.

“I am?” I asked.

“Yep,” she replied. “You can start tomorrow night. Eight o'clock. Pay's twenty-five dollars, plus whatever tips you get.”

“Thank you,” I said, still not sure. Something wasn't right. In downtown Nashville, there were probably twenty singers vying for every four-hour slot, but here there was nobody, just me. I thought about Ricky's warning that night he towed my car. I thought about the muggers and the police officer's crime statistics. Maybe this woman and her son planned to take advantage of me, too, in ways I was too naive to predict.

But then I took the job anyway because beggars can't be choosers, and I'd been given a sign.