Everybody Knows Your Name (25 page)

Catherine hits the tuner on the car radio. “Preaching!” She hits it again. “Songs about being on a pontoon—what the hell is a pontoon? Songs that were popular when I got my first period! Is that all there is?” she yells.

It's still early morning, and the peacefulness of the outside world is a weird contrast to Catherine's manic energy.

She hits the tuner on the radio once again, and it lands on a station playing classical. “This is supposed to make babies smarter if they listen to it in your womb,” she says, finally taking the rental car out of park and backing it out of the station lot.

“Are you pregnant?” I ask.

She laughs. “Okay, okay, I can appreciate a black sense of humor.”

We pull onto the road, and Catherine sighs as she makes the turn. “All right, let's go try to get your lover boy hayseed out of the pokey so he can have his shot.” We drive in silence for a few minutes before she glances over at me. “Why couldn't you do it?”

“Do what?”

“It,” she says, like I should know what she means. Then I understand she means the show, its world, all that.

I reply, “I've noticed you wear this same perfume all the time—it's maybe oranges . . . and something metal?”

She gives me a look. “The top notes are mandarin and red clay.”

“Okay. Well, you seem to have it on every day. Have you ever thought of switching up perfumes?”

“Are you avoiding my question to insult my signature fragrance? This perfume is me. When I've tested others in Sephora, they've given me a full-blown headache.”

“See, the same reason you can't live with other perfumes is the same reason I couldn't do the show. It gave me a headache, but, like, in my soul.” I turn up my hands. “I know
soul
is a very dramatic word to use here. But I don't have a better one for it.”

At this, Catherine half rolls her eyes, but not in a hostile way. It's more like,
Well, what are you going to do
. I can sense a truce settling between us. She leans forward and takes in Ron and Judy's diner, which I passed the night before, looking thoughtful. “In a Podunk like this, things are even more out of our control because we're not from here. You need the help of a local to get a favor like we need. Back in Hollywood, I would know somebody who knows somebody. Now, if we knew somebody . . .”

I look out the window and see a car ahead of us with a Graceland bumper sticker. I stare at the illustrated guitar on it. A second later I lean forward, slap the dashboard, and say, “I think I know somebody!” And the great thing about a small town is that he can't be far away.

When I wake in a stiff orange jumpsuit that smells like a chemical spill, I'm more than confused. My face feels sunburned, and I'm sore right down to my bones. I stretch my neck both ways until it pops.

How long have I been asleep? There are no clocks, no windows, just the always-on overhead fluorescents of the jail's holding tank. Did I nod off for minutes or hours? Hard to tell when nothing here changes. You've got your blank cinder block walls, a row of gray steel cell doors, and hard molded plastic benches with ridges so you can't lie down. It's been a couple of years since I was last in this room, when they picked me up for public intox. It's not a room I ever thought I'd see again, and to find myself here now fills me with exhaustion. I want to pull Mom's move and just sleep through all the trouble.

I meet eyes with a bearded dude on the bench across from me. I guess something did change in this room—he wasn't there when I fell asleep.

His gap-toothed grin is kind of a mess, but at least it breaks me out of the Twilight Zone, unfreezes time.

“Have a good nap, sleeping beauty?” He chuckles. “I never could sleep sitting up. Have to stretch out.”

The prisoner next to him, Parker, who was here when they brought me in, leans over. “Kid got pepper sprayed, Dale. I'll give you one guess who did it.”

“Greggs.” Bearded dude, aka Dale, nods sagely. “That boy is a pepper-spraying fool. Does not miss a chance. He's got mental issues . . . and that's coming from me.” He lifts his eyebrows to mean that's really something.

The first few hours here, I tried to get answers from the guards about how long they would keep me. But no one seemed to be able to tell me anything. In here, you're not a person. When that door closes, you're basically subhuman, even if you only ran a stop sign.

Earlier I tried to make my one phone call. They gave me the special number to dial out on a pay phone with a hilariously short cord, but I couldn't get a dial tone. I tried to explain this to a guard, but he just shrugged.

“Do you know what time it is?” My voice comes out raspy, and my throat feels like a coal chute. Even if I do get out, I don't know that I can sing.

“Midmorning sometime? Not sure. I think I came in 'round two,” Dale says.

“Shit, Dale,” says Parker, a sentimental look crossing his face. “You just got out two days ago, and I got out last month. Here we are, together again.”

Dale pretends to raise a toast with an invisible mug in his hand. “They should give us our own key!”

They do seem at home here, but I don't know how they can stand it, living like this. After a few hours, I already feel like I'm going crazy.

The only available entertainment is a poem blown up and posted on the wall, written by an eighth-grade girl who won a contest. (By the way, worst prize
ever
.)

The poem's entitled “I Am Meth” or “Yo Soy Meth,” if you want to read the Spanish version beside it. I became familiar with both about a hundred times before I fell asleep.

I am the thief who steals your dreams.

I am the end of your plans and schemes,

the life of the party turns out to be death.

I'm not your friend.

Yo soy meth.

I guess it's better than the poems I was writing in eighth grade, but her message doesn't seem to be getting through all that clear to Dale and Parker.

Parker gestures to me. “Get this: Ford here is Cody Buckley's brother.”

“Is that right?” Now Dale is staring incredulously, making me feel even worse. I tip my head back and take in the ceiling. Because if Dale thinks you messed up, then you probably really, really, really messed up. “Aren't you supposed to be playing some show today for a million dollars or something? Or is Cody full of shit as usual?”

“No, it was true,” I mumble.

I think of Mom, Dad, and Cody in Texas. Here I was trying to do something right for a change, and I find myself locked up just like them. Maybe there is such a thing as fate. Maybe family does stick together after all.

Dale shakes his head, genuinely disturbed. “Now this ain't right! We finally get our own celebrity, and what do we do? Lock him up with a bunch of drug addicts. That's a damn embarrassment, is what it is. I don't know what this town is coming to.”

The outer door buzzes, and a well-rested Steve saunters in, sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup. He ignores us, turning to the female guard working the counter. “Morning, Janet.” She doesn't appear all that thrilled to see him. “You're looking real nice this morning. Looking like that, I wouldn't mind if you locked me up, y'know?” He winks, and if I didn't hate him so much, I'd feel bad for him. The guy has got worse than no game.

“It's too early in the day to start this harassment nonsense,” says Janet.

“C'mon now, I'm messing with you. I just came by to see my prisoner.” Now Steve decides to make eye contact, and he puts his foot up on my bench. “How was your night, Ford? I know it's not the four-star accommodations you've grown accustomed to. So if you have any complaints, I want you to feel free to write them down . . . and shove them up your ass.”

I don't reply. The reality of it is the show is in a few hours, and I have no idea how I'm going to get out of here.

Then it dawns on me. I'm not getting out.

It's pretty simple: I didn't build up enough speed to escape the gravity of my old life.

“What? Don't want to talk anymore, Buckley? Where are your Hollywood friends? Or maybe the truth is, they don't give a shit about a piece of trailer trash like you. You know they laugh at you behind your back, at your dumb accent, your cluelessness. And now that your fifteen minutes are over, you can kiss that little groupie you brought with you good-bye.”

“You don't talk about her.” I know he's baiting me, but hearing him talk about Magnolia with that gross look on his face, I just don't care anymore. What else do I have to lose? I start to get up. Without permission, that's a big no-no in here.

Steve snaps into a combat stance with a look on his face like I gave him a present.

“Hey, Steve!” Dale yells, sternly signaling for me to sit. “Why don't you tell Ford about how you moved to New Jersey to play for the minor leagues after high school—remember that? I do. Oh yeah, you made a real big deal how you weren't gonna waste your life in this town like the rest of us losers. How long were you gone again? Three weeks?”

“I think it was two.” Parker laughs.

Steve stiffens; his eyes dart away from mine. “You think I care what a couple of tweaker burnouts think?”

Dale adds, “Or maybe tell him about when Kelly Dawes left you for Cody Buckley. Not such a great year for you, huh? What happened there? You two were always the big couple. Some girls just don't like poseurs.”

“Shut your mouth.” Steve pushes Dale down on the bench, putting his elbow into his throat. Janet and another guard rush over to separate them.

“Why you down here, Greggs?” asks Janet. She pulls him aside. “You just get all my prisoners riled up. Don't you have someplace to—”

The phone rings behind the counter. She makes sure that Steve is done with his Hulk routine, and then she goes to answer it.

“I've got a town full of West Coast queers that need to be sent on their way,” Steve says. “Looks like I need to make it clear to them that there isn't going to be a show here today.” He's still doing the superior thing, but I can tell his confidence is shaken.

Janet is saying, “Okay, got it. Yes, got it,” into the phone while looking at me. She hangs up the phone. “I wouldn't do that just yet,” she tells Steve. “That was Sheriff Dawson. Mr. Buckley's warrants have been dropped.”

“What?” I say.

“Looks like you're free to go.”

Is she saying I can leave, like, now? “I can go?” I say, pointing at myself like a goon. The other guard motions for me to stand up, nodding toward the metal door leading to the outer booking room. They mean me.

Steve is in disbelief. “No. No way. I have him on multiple charges.”

“He'll pay a fine for the brake light. You can take the rest of it up with the sheriff—he says he wants to talk to you anyway.” Janet smiles to stick in the knife. “Didn't say why.”

I stand up, feeling like I'm coming out of a dense fog. I say, “You guys take care,” to Dale and Parker, meaning it, hoping they can. Then I walk to the outer door. Janet hits the buzzer.

As a guard pushes the inner door open for me, I look back at Steve. “I really hope you can make the show. I'd be happy to sign autographs for your girlfriend or whoever you have that's special in your life.”

“You'll blow it, Buckley.” Steve almost spits at me. “You're a born loser.”

“Yeah, I was, but maybe I grew out of it.”

Dale starts clapping, and a startled Parker wakes from a nap (I didn't even realize he'd fallen asleep) to join in. “Whoo! Win this one for the losers, bro!” Dale yells before he seems to throw up a little bit.

Minutes later I'm back in my clothes. I step through another door into the morning sunshine of reception, and just like that, I'm a human again. First I see the girl at the front desk, not looking up from her book. And then I see a tired-looking Leander in one of the chairs.

I'm so happy to see him, I don't know what to say.

He grins, standing, shaking his head, and letting out a deep breath of relief. “Boy, I swear this is the
last
time I'm coming to get you out of this joint. Who do you think you are? John Dillinger?”

He walks forward and puts his arms around me, even though we've never been the hugging types.

“Last time, I promise,” I say. I think he's going to release me, but he holds the embrace, and I realize I'm choking back tears, but I don't know why. “I thought I was going to let you down.”

“You wouldn't do that.” He pats my back, and we separate. He nods, looking away awkwardly because it's not natural for him to show emotion.

“How'd you get me out?” I wipe my eye with the back of my hand.

“Called in a favor. I used to give guitar lessons to one of the policemen over in Ouida when he was a kid. Also, it turns out the mayor here wasn't too thrilled about having Calumet's big moment screwed up because of an overenthusiastic cop.” He nods again, this time toward the door. “Your girl was ready to break you out. With dynamite if she had to.” His eyes crinkle. “She's just outside.”

That's all I need to hear. I'm out the door.

Magnolia's sitting on the front of her car while Catherine paces, barking orders into her phone. But as soon as Magnolia realizes it's me coming out, she runs and throws her arms and legs around me, almost knocking me over.

“I'm sorry, baby,” I say, kissing her. “And thank you.”

She holds my hair back with her hands to take a look at me. “Are you on any other wanted lists? Just so I can mentally prepare.”

I smile. The happiness of being out and her being here for me is almost too much. “I don't think so. I think that's it.”

“Because if I'm being honest, I don't think I'm cut out to be an inmate's girlfriend. It's too stressful.”

Catherine hangs up her call and comes over to us, also checking out my face. “I always thought your just-rolled-out-of-bed look weirdly worked, but this spent-the-night-in-a-Dumpster look—we're going to have to fix that.”

“I'll powder my nose,” I say, my voice still sounding so scratchy and thin.

“Oh God, that voice.” Catherine gawks at me in horror. “Can you sing? Tell me you can sing.”

“I guess we'll find out.”

“Oh, you're going to sing. We're going to get you prettied up with more makeup than Jared Leto, and we're going to get some honey, lemon, and ginger down your throat, and they're going to be sorry they messed with my guy. Because for the next twenty-four hours, I am the emperor of this town, and if anyone even looks at you funny, I will have their head
on a spike
on top of that water tower.”

She walks toward a production van. “Now I've got to deal with this ancient ruin they're calling a stage. Get everyone to sign something saying it's not our fault if they die under a collapsed pile of rubble.” She puts her hand over her heart, seeming moved by herself. “Riding over with your girlfriend is my finale-day gift to you. But don't make any stops. Don't do anything moronic. Just get there.” She hops in the van, slams the door, and is already back on the phone as they drive off.

Leander has come outside. He sticks out his hand and says, “I'm gonna go close up the shop, but you know I'll see you at the show.” We shake, and then he's off.

Magnolia and I have to let go of each other's hands to get in on separate sides of her car.

“I need to make a stop,” I tell her.