Somebody Everybody Listens To (12 page)

EVERY SINGER HAS PRETTY MUCH THE SAME THING IN MIND: get a gig somewhere, do a kick-ass job singing and performing, win the serious attention of some A&R guy (that stands for artist and repertoire) at a major label, and land a record deal. As good as that sounds, you're not even close to making it big yet. You still have to cut that debut album, have at least one song hit the charts and rocket its way to the top. In other words, you need a hit record right off the bat. And if you plan on spending your life in the country music business, you have to keep doing this over and over and over again because these days every singer, no matter how good, is disposable.

The Jackson Hotel didn't look like much of a launching pad for a music career, but you never can tell where a person might get “discovered,” as they say. You could talk to five hundred different singers and musicians and songwriters about their big breaks, and every one of them would have a different story, each with a background as unlikely and hard-luck and pitiful as the next. I was always hiding out in the Starling High School library and reading up on the singers who'd come before me: all that history made me see that my chance of making it was just as good as anybody else's. This is what I told myself back then anyway. Now that I was actually here, things seemed much more complicated and vague.

I left Ricky's shop a little early and stopped off at Sam Hill's Market to wash my hair. I think the checkout guy is onto me, although he didn't say anything. He just shook his head grimly as I walked out the door (without buying a thing, of course). All the way to Franklin, I stuck my head out the car window so my hair would air-dry, and by the time I pulled into the hotel parking lot, it was a rat's nest of tangles. Rather than waste too much time brushing it out, I swooped it up into a messy ponytail so my pretty earrings would show. I carefully applied my Ryman Red lipstick. All in all, the whole plain T-shirt, faded jeans, sparkly earrings, red lipstick thing wasn't a bad look, except for the flip-flops, obviously, and the gray stains under the arms, but there was nothing I could do about that.

Since it was a little too early to go inside, I decided to call and check on Daddy.

“Hello,” Mama said flatly. Mama is not one to hide her feelings when answering the phone. Everybody in town can gauge her mood with one
hello
.

“Hey, Mama.”

“Hi, Retta.” Her voice brightened somewhat. “Is everything okay?”

“Everything's fine. I'm just calling to check on Daddy. How is he?”

“Better.” Her voice flattened out again.

“I got a singing job,” I said, trying to change the subject. “It's at a hotel in Franklin, which is just outside Nashville. I'm doing my first performance tonight.”

“Well, that's good. I don't know about the hotel part, though. It's not the trashy sort, is it?”

“Is that you, Retta?” Daddy had picked up the other phone.

“Hey, Daddy!”

“Hi, Ree Ree! How are you?”

“I'm fine, Daddy. How's your back?”

“Oh, I'll be good as new and lifting sofas over my head in no time.”

“It's the sofas that probably knocked your back out in the first place,” I reminded him.

“A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do. So how's my girl? Any luck yet?” The line clicked; Mama had hung up.

“I got a singing job. It's at a hotel in Franklin. Not too far from Nashville. It's twenty-five dollars a night, plus tips. I can't talk but a minute. I just wanted to let you and Mama know I'm okay.”

“Well, I'm glad, Ree Ree. We sure miss you, though.”

“I miss y'all, too,” I said. “Can I talk to Mama again? I wanna thank her for something.”

“Oh, she's pulling down the driveway right this minute. That woman can't sit still five seconds. Every time I turn around, she's off on another errand. I swear, they ought to charge her rent over there at the Dollar King.”

“Well, nice of her to say bye. She basically just hung up on me.”

“She's been in a sour mood ever since you left.”

“Daddy, she's been in a sour mood since I was born.”

“Nope. Just since you grew up.”

“I have to go,” I said, irritable now and wishing I hadn't called.

At eight P.M. on the nose, I climbed onto the stage. For such a run-down hotel, the lounge was kind of nice, in a dated sort of way—parquet floors, thick velvet curtains, a decent microphone, and old-fashioned stage lights, too, which the bartender adjusted while I tuned my guitar. “Thank you,” I said, but he didn't answer. “Thank you,” I said again, this time into the mike. He looked at me and pressed his thin lips together then strode back toward the bar without a word.

By nine, there were still no patrons, and I wondered whether or not I should start. I was getting paid to sing, after all. The bartender was hunched over a table, wiping it down as if somebody was about to have surgery on it. His hair was stick straight and silver—pretty silver, like Emmylou's, and tied back in a ponytail. He must've felt me staring because he stood upright then and frowned at me. “Go ahead and sing,” he said.

“Are you sure?”

He tucked the bar towel into the waistband of his trousers and folded his arms across his starched white shirt. “Yes. I
am
sure,” he replied. For a second he just stood there, studying me.

“I'm Retta,” I said, and smiled at him.

“Chat,” the man replied.

“Chat?” I repeated.

“That's what I said. Are you anemic?” he asked.

“Is there an echo in here? Yes, I said anemic. You know, low blood.”

“I'm pretty sure I don't have low blood,” I replied.

“Well, you look pasty under these lights. You need some rouge,” he said, frowning. “And you're all wrinkled, like you've been sleeping in your car or something.” I blinked at him, and he chuckled. “You're
not
sleeping in your car, I presume.”

Right then I wanted to jump off that stage and sling Chat around by his long silver ponytail, but I needed the twenty-five dollars, and I needed this singing job, and if it meant I'd have to put up with Chat, well then I would.

I started with a few of my old favorites, “I Can't Stop Loving You” and “Georgia On My Mind” and “Jolene” and “Tennessee Flat Top Box.” Every one of these songs made me think of Daddy. He loved Don Gibson and Ray Charles and Dolly and Johnny Cash. Chat was silent at the end of each number, and the room echoed with emptiness. The manager and her son hadn't even bothered to show up.

I did my best to forget Chat was in the room, but every time I looked up from my guitar, he was watching and scowling. Normally, when I sing, people tear up, like Shelton at graduation, or they tap their feet to the beat or they smile and nod and clap along like I'm the best singer they've ever heard. I wasn't at
all
used to this kind of blah response, and it made me nervous.

 

At midnight, my shift was over—not a single tip, not a single customer, but I packed up my guitar with a satisfied feeling, like maybe there was hope for me yet. True, there was no audience, but I was used to singing to myself. Down by the river, there was never any audience, just me and the grasshoppers. At least tonight I was actually performing in Nashville. And by the end of the night, I'd almost forgotten that Chat was there.

“You think you're real good, don't you?” he said just as I was headed out the door. “You been singing for small town folks who don't expect much—churches, talent shows, and the like. Getting away with using other people's songs, the tone of their voices.” I frowned at him. “That's right,” he went on. “I noticed Dolly and Loretta and Patsy. I've been listening to this music all my life. And every one of those women you're impersonating, well, I've heard 'em live, in little places like this many long years ago.”

“I idolize those singers,” I said defensively.

“I bet you do, but you'll be sleeping in your car permanently unless you scrape together some originality.”

Just then, the hotel manager's son burst into the room. “Here's your twenty-five dollars,” he said, all out of breath. “Mama wants to know if you're coming back or not.”

Chat smirked at me. “Yes, I'm coming back,” I replied firmly. “Big jerk,” I mumbled under my breath, and banged out the door.

On the way back to Ricky's shop, I stopped off for five dollars' worth of gas then headed into the twenty-four-hour Kroger for a few groceries—a banana, an apple, a small container of tuna fish, a can opener, some cinnamon-raisin bread for tomorrow's breakfast, a Sundrop, and some fresh batteries for the flashlight.

Ricky's parking lot was darker than usual. One of the outside security lights had burned out, probably a good thing, since my bladder was ready to burst. At least in the pitch black no one would see me. I got out of Goggy's car and headed toward the bushes. The Jackson Hotel might not be very fancy, but surely it would be better than squatting in weeds and sleeping in a car. Maybe once I established myself there, they'd give me a discount on a hotel room, a weekly rate or something. Maybe if I did a really good job they'd let me stay for free even.

Carefully, I rinsed my hands under the outdoor spigot then headed back to Goggy's car. The tuna was oily, not exactly appetizing, but I scooped it up with the plastic fork I'd somehow remembered to swipe from the Kroger salad bar and ate every bite. I also polished off the apple and banana, but I was still hungry for something else—one of Mama's BLTs or the apple pie over at Bluebell's. Faye always served it up warm, so that by the time Estelle or I got it to the customer's table, the ice cream was dribbling down the sides. The very thought of it made my heart ache.

Even though the message light wasn't blinking, I checked my phone.
Twice.
No missed calls. Mama hadn't bothered to call back. Maybe it was Chat's criticism coming back to haunt me, but I was feeling insecure all of a sudden, like maybe nobody really even cared that I'd gone. I decided to call Brenda.

Her cell phone rang and rang, and I was just about to hang up when I heard a guy (not Wayne) say hello.

“Sorry, I've got the wrong number,” I said. There was giggling in the background.

“Give me the phone! Retta?” It was Brenda's voice.

“Who was that?”

“Hold on a sec.” There was lots of rustling around. The phone clattered to the floor, then a door slammed. “Okay, I can talk now,” Brenda whispered. I could tell she was lighting a cigarette. She took a drag then exhaled. “That was Bobby. And guess what?” she whisper-squealed. “They broke up!”

“Who broke up?”

“What do you mean,
who
? Tercell and Bobby, of course.”

“Why was he answering your phone?”

“He was all down in the dumps, so Wayne asked him to come waterskiing with us. Now we're playing poker in Wayne's basement. You know, to take his mind off things. Till you get home and cheer him up for good, that is. God, the four of us would have such a good time. Y'all are perfect for one another, Retta.”

I was quiet. I could just see them down in Wayne's basement—the poker table littered with junk food, Brenda and Wayne teasing one another, and good-looking Bobby with those broad shoulders and big hands. I thought about the dream I'd had. It was all there, this other life, just waiting for me to give up on music and come home.

“What's the matter, Retta? Is everything okay? I thought you'd be thrilled to death to hear about Bobby and Tercell.”