Somebody Everybody Listens To (14 page)

After they were gone, I packed up and headed toward the bar, where Chat was stacking up freshly washed glasses. “Hey, Chat?” I asked, feeling brave.

“Ye-
es
,” he replied. He's the only person I know who can make a plain old yes sound sarcastic, but he can.

“Have you seen Mrs. Farley? She owes me for three nights, and I was hoping to get my money before I leave. She promised a free meal, too, now that I think about it.”

“Well, good luck with all that,” said Chat. He smirked and wiped the rim of a wineglass.

“What do you mean
good luck
?”

“I'm busy.”

“Is there something I should know?”

He let out a long, irritated sigh. “You should know that what Mrs. Farley says and what she does are two different things entirely. Now run along,” he said, and shooed me away with his bar towel. I turned to go and heard Chat rattle off what sounded like a grocery list—
milk toast, vanilla ice cream, white bread
.

“What?” I asked.

“If I were a music critic, that would be my description of your performance tonight. Bland. Uninteresting. Predictable.”

“Who are you? Simon Cowell?” I asked. “They were old people! Of course they wanted to hear the music that's familiar to them. It reminds them of when they were young.”

“Very good,” he said, and applauded. “That philosophy will get you a permanent gig at the Roadway Inn in East Jesus, Tennessee.”

“Vanilla ice cream happens to come from an
exotic
part of the world!” I shouted on my way out. I recalled Daddy telling me this once when we were having Blizzards at the Dairy Queen, but for the life of me, I couldn't remember which exotic place he'd said.

Out in the lobby, Riley was perched on a stool behind the front desk, eating Red Hots. As soon as he saw me coming, he hopped down. “Those old people liked your show,” he said, and smiled at me with pink teeth. “You should've heard them talking on the way out the door. They want you to start early from now on. Six o'clock, I think.”

“I know. They told me. Where's your mama, Riley? I need to ask her about something.” I'd had enough of sleeping in Goggy's car and eating tuna fish out of a can. And if Mrs. Farley would pay me the money she owed, I could afford to stay here for the night without depleting my cash supply too much. I could get a shower, curl up in a bed.

“Chat get you all worked up?” Riley asked. I rolled my eyes toward the ceiling. “I wouldn't worry too much about him if I was you. He's just a bacon strip. Every singer we've ever had, he's tortured them.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, a bacon strip is when your underwear gets—”

“I don't mean that! I mean about Chat torturing singers.”

“He says awful things about their music, insults the way they look. I asked him one time why he was such a anus, and you know what he said?”

“What?” I replied wearily.

“He says it's people that can take harsh criticism that'll make it in this business. He's just testing you out. That and he's all the time pissed off anyway.”

“
Why
is he pissed?”

“Because we'll probably be closed up before the end of the year.”

“Really?” I asked. Riley nodded. “So why wouldn't he just get a bartending job someplace else? Things aren't exactly booming here,” I pointed out.

“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.

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
.