Somebody Everybody Listens To (15 page)

Emerson checked her watch. “Can you come back around four? Mrs. Scribner will be back by then. She promised I could leave early today.”

“Okay,” I said. “And thanks. You're really nice to do this.” I turned to walk away, but Emerson called my name again. “Yes?” I answered.

“Nashville really is a great town,” she said. “You could get mugged anywhere, you know.”

“I know,” I said, and left.

Up the street was a McDonald's, so I went in, ordered a Happy Meal and a Dr Pepper, then headed to a nearby park. Even in the heat of summer, it was lush and green and filled with people. I stretched out on the grass and ate my fries and watched the fluffy white clouds float by.
Originality
. Chat's words still haunted me, made me feel like I was trapped inside myself, like what I had to offer might never be enough.

In my head I reeled off big-name singers: Johnny, the man in black; Gretchen, the proud redneck; Tanya, a true survivor; Taylor, the girl who lets you read her diary; Dolly, the mountain girl who never forgot where she came from; Miranda, the real deal; Emmylou, the smart folksinger with the angelic voice; Loretta, the coal miner's daughter; Bocephus, the bad boy with a tragic past; Willie, the nasal crooner who strokes your soul; Garth, the sentimental cowboy; Randy, a living legend; George (Jones and Strait), more legends; Toby Keith, a man you don't wanna mess with (unless you're the fearless Dixie Chicks). The Dixie Chicks, mouthy and strong-willed and amazing.

It is your own true voice that will carry you. Originality. Originality.
Emerson was right about Nashville being a great town. Even with everything that'd happened, I could see it was a special place. But she was wrong about something else. Things would get even harder for me before they got better because country music isn't a dream; it's a business, and unless people know what kind of label to stick on you, you'll never find a place in this world. You'll just stay stuck in performer purgatory forever.

 

“Were your parents a wreck when you announced your plans to come to Nashville?” Emerson asked as we made our way up the street. She lugged a huge canvas bag overloaded with books, but it didn't slow her down any; I had to racewalk just to keep up.

“Mama was a mess, not so much worried as she was mad.”

“Mad?”

“It's complicated,” I said, not wanting to get into it. “All in all, they're pretty supportive, I guess.”

“I moved here for college, and I think my dad was delighted to have me out of the house. He denies it, of course, but every time I go back to North Carolina, he's taken over more of my bedroom. I went home after spring semester, and he'd put his golf clubs in my closet,
right
on top of my shoes. I have a
lot
of shoes,” she explained, “not enough space in my tiny dorm for them all. Does your father play golf?” she asked, trying to make conversation, I could tell.

“Um . . . no. He has a bad back,” I said, as if this were the only reason my hunting-fishing-beer-drinkin' daddy didn't play golf.

“Well, you're lucky. It's all mine talks about. You'd think I'd know the lingo by now, but I wouldn't know a
birdie
from a
big dog
.” I laughed even though I had no idea what she was talking about.

“So where do you go to college?” I asked.

“Vanderbilt,” Emerson replied. “I'm a junior. Almost,” she added. “That's the Treasure Trunk up ahead,” she said, and pointed to a bright green building.

Emerson pushed open the door, and I followed her inside. The floor was covered in plush chartreuse carpeting, and the ceiling was pale blue. Somebody had painted enormous insects all over the walls, mostly ants, and hanging from the ceiling were pretty paper lanterns. “Their theme this season is
Picnic
,” Emerson explained.

“Oh,” I replied, and wondered if that meant they redecorated every three months. The Fashion Bug hadn't been updated in years.

Everywhere I looked there were cute clothes—T-shirts and patterned shorts and funky sandals (just like the ones Emerson was wearing) and sundresses and accessories, gold hoop earrings and chunky necklaces and wide belts with distinctive buckles, not to mention a whole rack of the cutest skirts I'd ever seen, each one appliquéd with a different design. I spotted one with musical notes in fat black rhinestones all along the hem.

“Oh
God
. You again?” said the tall, lanky girl behind the counter. She had a hot-pink cell phone in one hand and a Diet Coke can in the other. Judging by the greeting, this was Deandra. I braced myself and followed Emerson to the counter.

“Deandra, this is Retta. Retta, Deandra.”

“Hi,” I said.

“Greetings,” said Deandra, eyeing my Sundrop T-shirt and cutoffs. “I'll call you back,” she said to whoever was on the phone and hung up. “I have something in the back for you, Em. A little party dress that is to die for. Hang on a sec and I'll get it.”

“No. I can't spend a dime. I just wanted you to meet Retta. She recently moved to town, and I thought maybe you could give her some tips on the music business.”

Deandra raised her long skinny arm and pointed to the door. “Go home. There. That's my tip.”

“I told you she was cynical.” Emerson rolled her eyes.

“Cynical's not the word.” Deandra sniffed. “The music business is a joke. Filled with sleazeballs and no talent. If it wasn't for Auto Tune, half of Music City would have to pack up and go home.” She leaned her knobby elbows on the counter, and two clunky bracelets clattered up her arm. “The best thing you can do, honey, is go back to whatever little podunk town you came from before some record
seducer
eats you up, then regurgitates you all over Eighteenth Avenue.”

“Deandra,
stop
!”

“No. Seriously. Picture a fat drunk guy, weaving and wobbling and drooling. His fly is down. His hair plugs are falling out, and he hasn't clipped those nasty nose hairs in weeks. Oh, and his back is hairy, and he has those fat stubby fingers with extra short, gnawed off nails.” It was a very graphic picture, and I found myself leaning in, listening hard for where this story was headed. “It's two A.M., and he's drunk and craving a chili dog,” she went on. “
You
are that chili dog, okay? Sweet and tender with big buns.” She glanced at my hips, and I felt my face go red.

“Anyway, he gobbles you up, right?” Deandra continued. “Because that's what disgusting drunks
do
at two A.M.
Then.
His stomach begins to roll like thunder. He starts sweating a bit. His mouth waters. All of a sudden he spews that poor chili dog—
you
—all over some sidewalk on Eighteenth Avenue.” She came around the counter. “
Now.
There you are. Vomit on the sidewalk,” she said, and gestured to the floor. “The next morning people will see you there, and they'll hold their noses and sidestep you until some poor street cleaner comes along and clears you away for good. End of story.”

Abruptly, she turned away from me and focused on Emerson again. “So, are you going to that summer-solstice party tonight?” she asked brightly.

“No, I have to study,” Emerson replied, and glanced at me apologetically. “No fun for
moi
for the rest of the summer, and you needn't bother holding party dresses for me either. I'm turning over a new leaf. No shopping.”

“Yeah, and I'm giving up Diet Coke,” said Deandra. She reached over the counter for the can, took a swig, then stifled a belch. “Celeste's sister is making mango martinis, and I plan to dance my ass off.
And
hook up with Josh,” she said.

“As in Luellen's Josh?” Emerson asked.

“Hah. Not Luellen's Josh anymore,” she said, and smiled. It was an
All My Children
villainess grin if I'd ever seen one. She looked at me again. “I do feel for you, you know. All high-hopes about the whole music business thing. It's pathetic, really. Girls like you pour into Nashville every year. Personally, I'd rather throw myself down a flight of stairs than go through that again.”

“Well, if you're not careful, Luellen might push you down the stairs,” I said. It just came out. Maybe it was because she was so condescending. Or maybe because she'd compared me to a wiener. Or because I felt bad for Luellen, whoever she was.

A strange sound came out of the back of Emerson's throat, and she coughed into her hand. “Well, I guess we'd better run, Deandra. I have a big test on Monday and a mountain of laundry.” Within seconds, we were out the door and heading toward the bookstore again.

“I'm
so
sorry,” Emerson and I said at the same time.

“No,
I
am! I should've never introduced you,” Emerson insisted. “She's a dream crusher. Don't listen to a thing she says.”

“Well, I shouldn't have made that comment about the stairs. I have a bad temper at times.”

“To start with, the music business was her big dream for about five minutes. She wasn't serious about it, and the second that fantasy didn't pan out, her daddy bought her a store.”

“Bought it? You mean the Treasure Trunk Boutique belongs to her?” Emerson nodded. “How old is she?” I asked.

“Twenty-two last month. She comes from a very powerful family, one of the richest in Nasvhille, in fact.”

“Please tell me her daddy doesn't own a record label, too.”

“No, I think he manages some hedge fund,” said Emerson.

“As in
shrubs
?” I asked.

Emerson burst out laughing—threw her head back and opened her mouth wide. “You're so funny, Retta. We should go out sometime, after my summer classes end, that is.”

“I'd like that,” I replied, still wondering what a hedge fund was. We were standing in front of Goggy's car now.

“Is this your car?”

“Actually, it belongs to my great-aunt. I'm just borrowing it for the summer.”

“Well, then I take back what I said earlier about you being poised for something good,” Emerson said, and pointed. I turned around, saw the ticket flapping under the wiper blade, remembered then that I'd only fed the meter a nickel.
To save money,
or so I thought. “Retta, I'm so sorry. I should've warned you. They're relentless on this street.”

I snatched up the slip of paper and examined it. “Look,” I said, and handed it to Emerson. Where the citation would normally go, someone had drawn a smiley face and written
Next time feed the meter!

FOR THE NEXT TWO WEEKS, I slipped around the Jackson Hotel like some kind of spy, or else I stayed tucked up in my sweltering room, playing and singing and songwriting. Riley was like my personal bellboy. I swear, the second I felt hungry or the slightest bit thirsty, he was tapping on my door, offering up a Sundrop or a plate of something fried, asking if there was anything else I needed. He even dragged his old box fan up to my room to cool things off a little.

The hotel might have been on the verge of shutting its doors, but it was no fault of Riley's. His mother was the one to blame. I'd never seen such a lazy manager. Mostly, she just slept and scuffed around in slippers and barked orders at Riley. Except for one part-time maid, there was no custodial staff, so Riley cleaned the rooms himself, ran the front desk, answered phones, picked up trash in the parking lot, all the while eating enough Red Hots to choke a horse. I offered to help him in exchange for my free stay, but he shook his head firmly. “Mama would have a hissy fit if she knew you were living here. You just got to keep outta sight when she's awake,” he warned.

And so I did.

The Gold Watchers were turning out to be loyal fans, especially once we switched the performance times—six to ten instead of eight to midnight. Night after night, they came. Sometimes there were only a handful of them; other nights they brought friends. I found they didn't mind when I put a Retta twist on the classics or did a short set of original songs. Mrs. Farley never paid me, which was infuriating, but I decided not to push the issue. For now, the free room was way more valuable, and the Gold Watchers tipped. I had enough to get by on.