Somebody Everybody Listens To (16 page)

Chat was always lurking. Watching. Listening. Scowling. Rolling his eyes. One night I sang that old Jeanne Pruett song “Satin Sheets,” and he burst out laughing. I ignored him, tried to keep in mind what Riley said—
He's just testing you, Retta. It's people that can take harsh criticism that'll make it in this business
. More and more, however, I found myself wanting to ask him questions: Why was “Satin Sheets” funny? Why did he give me that frown after the first stanza of “Sweet Dreams”? Or raise an eyebrow when I sang “Grazing Days” (a song I'd written about Mr. Shackleford's cows)? But I was too afraid to ask.

 

Each day, just before eleven, I'd hop in the shower then slip off to the grocery store. I'd taken to buying cottage cheese and canned peaches and melba toast. They were cheap and healthy (not fried, thankfully), and they came in small packages—no wasting food. I'd sit in a park not far from the hotel and eat, then go for a walk and try to squeeze out new song ideas. Other days, I'd call Brenda when she was on her lunch hour or talk to Mama just before her “story” came on. Daddy was back at Movers and Shakers, but just barely. He was doing light filing in the office or washing trucks or emptying the garbage. Mama said it was disgraceful, him working odd jobs like some silly high school boy. As usual, I bit my lip, didn't tell her what I thought was
really
disgraceful, that she was watching TV instead of getting a job herself.

One rainy afternoon, I pulled out my map and decided to see if I could find the Mockingbird Cafe. I'd been nagging myself for days to stop by and sign up for an open-mike night. The showcases were a much bigger deal, of course—A&R guys, booking agents, and even the occasional country star showed up at these events—but it was extremely difficult to get into a showcase, or so I'd read. In fact, you had to be somewhat “established” in Nashville, but open-mike nights were for anybody with enough nerve to climb onstage. Maybe I was getting ahead of myself. Maybe I needed more time and practice at the Jackson Hotel. Chat would probably think so, but my days in Nashville were starting to remind me of those cartoon time lapses—pages of the calendar flew off one right after the other. Before I turned around twice, I'd be handing over Goggy's car key, a thought that sent me into a panic. Yes, it was time to brave the Mockingbird.

It was dark and dreary inside, and not a soul in sight. Too early in the day, I knew. “Hello,” I called out, and glanced over at the modest stage. It wasn't very big, just a couple of steps up, a single stool, and a microphone. “Hello?” I called out again.

“Sorry, I was in the back. Up to my elbows in piecrusts. We're not serving yet. Dinner only during the week. Lunch and dinner on weekends,” a woman said, and wiped her hands on a towel. Her hair was pulled back in a tight, skinny ponytail, and she looked about Mama's age, except not so well preserved.

“I was hoping to sign up for an open-mike night,” I explained.

“Oh, sure. The sheet's right there,” she said, and pointed to a bulletin board that was overloaded with announcements, everything from
Will babysit
to
Steel guitar player wanted
. “Our schedule's full tonight and tomorrow night, but I think there's openings on Saturday. It'll be packed in here. Lots of tourists. Holiday weekend and all,” she explained.

“Holiday?” I asked.

“Sunday's the Fourth,” she said. I stared at her. “I know, hard to believe, isn't it? Summer always flies by.”

“Yes, it does,” I said, and studied the two time slots that were left, tried to decide which one I wanted: six-thirty or ten. Finally, I decided on ten and wrote my name and cell phone number in the blank.

 

The closer I got to the Mockingbird open-mike night, the more antsy I became. I practiced my guitar till my fingers were sore. I sang in front of the mirror and analyzed every move, every note. I went back and forth between singing a familiar classic or doing one of my own songs. Finally, I picked two originals from my journal. If the mood was somber, I'd perform one I'd written about Daddy; if the crowd was rowdy, I'd do a funny, upbeat one I'd written about me and Brenda in her Camaro.

My biggest problem was what to wear, so bright and early on Saturday morning I went to the Laundromat and washed everything I owned. When I got back to the hotel, Riley tracked down an iron so I could press it all. The jeans were fine, but my T-shirts were limp with dark stains around the neck and under the arms, so I decided to head to the Target just up the road. Maybe I could find something on sale.
It's an investment
, I told myself.
Image can make you or break you
. More than likely, it would break me.

I could get one plain white T-shirt in the women's department for $12.99, or I could get a package of three T-shirts (technically, undershirts) for $3.99 in the boys' department. I went with the boys' department, paid for the shirts, then sprinted toward Goggy's car. On a roll now, I sped toward Broadway and that pair of blue boots I'd seen in a shop window.
Looking is for free,
I told myself.

It was still fairly quiet on Broadway—a few hair-of-the-dog types drinking Bloody Marys and a handful of tourists. The bands were playing, but there was no real energy behind their performances yet.

The sky-blue boots were still in the window, one of them anyway. Its mate was likely tucked in a box somewhere. I pushed open the door, and a bell jingled. The salesgirl looked up from behind the counter. “I just want to look real quick,” I said.

“Oh, take your time,” she replied, and sipped her coffee.

There were three prices, each with a slash through it—
;
; and
. “How much?” I asked, and held up the boot.

“They're down to a hundred, but they're size tens.”

“Can I try them on?” I asked. She looked at me skeptically. “Clown feet,” I explained. She laughed and went to get the mate.

The boots were anything but comfortable, but they looked
so
good, even with my cutoffs.

“The more you wear them, the better they feel. It's a cowboy-boot thing,” the salesgirl said, and played with her nose ring (Bernie, Mr. Shackleford's Red Angus bull, wore one just like it, except bigger, of course).

“A hundred dollars is a really good price, right?” I asked.

“Definitely. The only reason these haven't sold is . . . well, they're big. No offense. That and a lot of people want basic colors like black or brown. We might've even gotten these by accident. That happens once in a while. The wrong shipment comes in or whatever. Personally, I like the blue, though. They make a statement.”

“Yeah. They do,” I agreed, studying my reflection in the dusty mirror. “Did that hurt?” I asked. “Your nose, I mean.

“In a
major
way, but it was totally worth it. I'd always wanted a nose ring. Why? Are you thinking of having your septum pierced? 'Cause, if so, I know a great guy who—”

“No, no. I was just curious.” My eyes shifted back to the boots again. “I'll take them,” I said, and winced slightly.

 

That night when I was dressed and ready to go, I buzzed Riley so he could meet me at the back exit. For some reason he'd made a big deal about walking me out to the car. We were in the far corner of the parking lot, and Goggy's old Chevy was wedged between a rusted-out van (in its heyday, the hotel provided shuttle service to downtown Franklin) and a clump of overgrown prickle bushes, my designated hiding/parking spot. “Well, wish me luck,” I said, and tugged open the door.

“Wait,” said Riley. I turned around, and he grinned at me. His teeth had been brushed, no Red Hot stains, and he was wearing a new T-shirt, black with a glow-in-the-dark skull on the front. Glittery red blood oozed from one of its nostrils. “Here,” he said, and handed me an envelope. “Don't open it now.”

“Okay. Thanks,” I said, and slid across the front seat. “Your mama's fine with me not performing tonight, right?”

“I told her you had diarrhea,” he said, and laughed. “Besides, what can she say? She ain't paying you.”

“True. Thanks a lot, Riley. Bye,” I said, and shut the door. As I drove away, I glanced at Riley in the rearview mirror, and I could've sworn I saw him blow me a kiss.

At each red light, I studied myself in the mirror—Ryman Red lipstick, mascara, more blush than I was used to, and Mama's earrings. I'd even spent time on my hair, blown it out nice and straight, parted it on the side so my dark roots wouldn't show. But it was the boots that pulled everything together. My faded jeans seemed stylish now, and the new white T-shirt was crisp and bright, and I'd rolled up the sleeves to show off my arms. Brenda always said I had nice deltoids, like I worked out with a personal trainer or something, but really it was from all those years of carrying heavy trays at Bluebell's. Everything was perfect, except for the awful churning in my stomach. Hopefully, Riley hadn't jinxed me with that diarrhea lie.

I slung Goggy's car into the Mockingbird parking lot, which was practically overflowing already. Music wafted through the cool night air, and I could hear the people inside clapping enthusiastically for some lucky singer.
Original
, I reminded myself, and got out of the car.
My own voice
. I climbed the porch steps, handed the bouncer my free (thanks to Ricky Dean) ticket, and went inside.

I flipped open my phone to check the time. It was only eight-thirty, but already my nerves were tangled up like a string of Christmas lights. There were two messages, I noticed, but instead of listening to them, I scrolled down the caller-ID list: Mama and Daddy's number twice. I'd call them after the show, or maybe tomorrow if it was too late. “Excuse me. Excuse me,” I said, squeezing my way through the crowd.

I settled into a spot not far from the stage and watched act after act: a mother-daughter duo, clearly imitating the Judds, right down to the hair and makeup and matching T-shirts with their Native American names—Niabi “fawn” and Wuti “woman”; a young girl, fourteen or so, with a voice so overwhelmingly powerful I thought bar glasses might start crashing to the floor; an older Willie Nelson type with a pretty song to match his pretty voice (and hair extensions); and several other respectable but nondescript singers who bled one into the other.

“Can I get you anything?” a waitress shouted in my ear.

“Just a glass of water if you don't mind. I'm singing later,” I explained.

“Sure thing,” she replied. My phone vibrated in my pocket, but I hit the off button and scanned the audience. There were no famous country artists in the crowd, but I wondered if maybe there were bigwig executives. Somehow I'd have to figure out the players in this game, find a way to meet them.
Networking
it was called.