Somebody Everybody Listens To (22 page)

Ricky swiped his eyes with the sleeve of his coveralls. “Well, it sucks,” he said.

“Really?” I asked, trying not to feel disappointed. I'd wanted him to be honest, after all.

“And if you'll buy that, I got some oceanfront property in Arizona.”

“So you liked it, then?”

He grinned at me, and his gold teeth sparkled slightly in the afternoon light. “Nashville does need you. It just don't know it yet.”

 

After Ricky went home for the night, I took a nice, cool shower then headed over to the Mockingbird. The whole way there I thought about that bull of Mr. Shackleford's, Bernie, with the nose ring. When I was little, Daddy took me out to his farm so I could get a look at him closeup, and I remember something Mr. Shackleford said about the ring's purpose. He said when a creature's that much bigger than you, you got to find a way to make it do what you want without getting trampled to death.

“Hidy,” the bouncer said. I handed him the other free ticket Ricky had given me and headed inside to watch the showcase. Lindy Lovelace was practically exploding onstage. She had a five-piece band and the gold sequins on her tight dress made her look like a Roman candle.

The place was packed with important-looking people, not the usual rumpled crowd of writers and singers and musicians. I stood in the back and scanned the room—it was easy to stare openly since everyone's eyes were locked on Lindy—and I noticed Dixon, the perfumey stage guy. He was stapling stuff to the bulletin board.

When Lindy's song was over, I went over to say hello. “I'm Retta,” I said, extending my hand.
Networking,
I reminded myself. “I performed here—”

“Fourth of July weekend,” he filled in. “Saturday night, right?” I nodded. “You were good, too, but you haven't been around for a while. She's got her first record deal,” he said, and nodded toward the stage. His smell was different tonight, still strong, but this one didn't make my eyes water. “Some A-and-R guy spotted her the night you sang, signed her the very next day.”

“Wow, that's pretty incredible,” I said. “She's good.”

“Eh, she's got the package thing going, I guess. And she'll rocket up the charts. That type usually does, for a while at least. Doesn't make my heart beat any faster, though,” he said, and moved closer to me, clearly invading my personal space now. “Give me a little sweat, some jitters, and a rich timbre, and I'm hooked.” Something about the way he smiled let me know he said this to all the sweaty, imperfect girls who show up at the Mockingbird.

“Is this you?” I asked, and pointed to a sign he'd posted—DIXON'S DEMOS.

“Yeah. I just bought a new computer. Figured I'd find a way to offset the cost. It's a damn good recording for a computer. Not studio quality, obviously, but it's still something you can hand out. Why? You interested?”

I glanced down at my hundred-dollar boots, wished suddenly I had that money back. Even with my job at Ricky's, I had to be careful. After taxes, it wasn't all that much.

“I can always work out a payment plan if cash is tight. Every singer needs a demo.” He pulled a business card from his back pocket.

I glanced up, noticed the bartender was motioning Dixon over her way. “I think she wants you,” I said, and nodded toward the bar.

“Well, she'll have to stand in line, I guess. Think about that demo and call me,” he said, then did that silly phone signal with his hand as he walked away.

I looked at the bulletin board. There were two open-mike nights coming up, so I signed up for both (I'd have to save room in my budget for tickets). There were also plenty of places offering demo services, but most of them were way more expensive than Dixon's hundred-dollar offer. The price ranged from forty to two hundred dollars per hour for professional studios. And I knew from all those days in the Starling High School library that the demo process could take days. Weeks even. Besides that, there were all these different stages for making a demo that I didn't even understand—laying down tracks and scratch vocals and mixing. And you needed professionals to help you do this stuff, and musicians. Like most things in Nashville, it was overwhelming. I glanced at Dixon's card again then stuffed it in my back pocket.

 

After Lindy's showcase was over, the room buzzed like a hive. Music people clinked glasses and chatted noisily. I squeezed to the center of the crowd, tried to work up the confidence to introduce myself to someone, but courage evaded me. Besides, what would I say?
Hi, I'm Retta Lee Jones, no demo, no head shots, not even a business card, but I sure can sing, so you should give me a record deal
. I knew better than to make a bad, or worse,
stupid
first impression.

Instead, I went looking for Dixon. I would set up that appointment for a demo, but just to be on the safe side, there'd be no payment plan. It was better not to owe people anything when you could avoid it. Maybe I'd even get a second job just so I could afford the necessary handouts and business cards. Having something to give people would make approaching them easier. I searched everywhere (except the men's room, of course), but Dixon had disappeared.

 

“Retta, I'm flattered, but I cain't be your manager,” said Ricky the next morning when he arrived at the Auto Den. “Alls I know about the country music business is it's full a sharks and you got to be careful. You thank anybody's gonna take me seriously in this getup?” he asked, and looked down at his greasy coveralls.

“I just think if he knew that I had somebody like you around, he wouldn't be as likely to mess with me. My gut feeling is he's not to be trusted. He's really good-looking and friendly and all, it's just—”

“Don't ignore your instincts, Retta. They's something telling you not to trust him, so don't. Tell you what. You call him up, get yourself an appointment. I'll go as your friend, not your manager. Hell, maybe I'll cut a demo myself,” he said and laughed.

“Okay,” I said, and dialed the number. When Dixon answered on the third ring, I made an appointment for Saturday morning at ten o'clock. Dixon's apartment. I didn't tell him Ricky was coming with me—it was probably better to let that part be a surprise.

 

The night before the session, I was a train wreck. I'd lie down on that smelly old sofa only to get back up again and pace the floor some more. I'd go to the mini-fridge, inspect it for something appealing, then shut the door. Dried out bologna and sticky leftover ribs weren't exactly appetizing. I settled myself on the sofa again. It was mostly dark in the room, except for the outside security light which shone through an old sheet I'd duct-taped to the window. The blue-tinted light illuminated a few dark patches of mold on the ceiling, and without blinking, I stared at them until I couldn't hold my eyes open another second.

 

At the crack of dawn the next morning, I tried to channel my nervous energy. Instead of cleaning something, I warmed up my voice just the way Miss Stem taught us in choir. Next, I rehearsed my song several times. I sang it with my eyes open. I sang it with my eyes closed. As usual, it sounded better with my eyes closed. After I'd finished, I took a shower and did some deep breathing exercises to soothe my nerves.

Finally, it was time to go, so I pulled my hair back into a ponytail, tugged on my faded jeans and T-shirt and boots, and headed over to Ricky's house, which was only a couple of miles up the road. He'd suggested we ride together—
in the tow truck
. He said there was nothing more intimidating than a tow truck.

Dixon's apartment complex was elegant—pretty shrubs and flowers and a low stone wall along the periphery, just like the one I ran over in Belle Meade. As we drove around in search of Building G, Ricky talked nonstop about NASCAR. He was trying to calm my nerves, I could tell, but it wasn't helping. We scuffed up three flights of stairs and stood in front of Apartment 12. According to a Post-it note, the doorbell was busted, so I knocked lightly, and Ricky stood off to the side, concealed somewhat by the shadows.

“Retta!” Dixon said like I was a long-lost friend he wasn't expecting. A cloud of Polo nearly knocked me over, and Dixon leaned in to kiss my cheek, Hollywood style. Just as he did, Ricky stepped out. To his credit, Dixon made a rather quick recovery by being overly glad to see Ricky, too.

“Ricky Dean,” said Ricky firmly. He stuck out his hand, and I could tell by the pained expression on Dixon's face, Ricky'd squeezed him too hard. “I'm a friend a Retta's. Heard you was making demos. If it's okay, I'd like to watch and learn how it's done. You never know, one day I might want to make a demo.”

“Oh, well . . . well . . . sure,” said Dixon. “Come on in.” Ricky and I sat on his sectional sofa, which was about as big as my whole living room back home, and watched while Dixon blew out several scented candles. Ricky looked at me and shook his head.

The setup was simple. There was just me, my guitar, Dixon's computer, and a microphone plugged into the USB outlet. I had my doubts about a demo made in someone's gardenia-scented apartment, but for a hundred dollars, I couldn't expect much more. Dixon was chilly, not at all happy that I'd brought along my bodyguard, but I didn't much care. I was here to get a demo, not a date. And I wasn't about to be anybody's puked-up hot dog.

We did a couple of practice rounds, and on the third try, I closed my eyes and thought about home. With Ricky Dean sitting nearby and Dixon choking me with his hazardous fumes, I tried my best to sound like somebody everybody listens to.

ON MONDAY MORNING, I stopped by Music Biz, a store that offers duplicated CDs for cheap. I burned thirty copies of “Home” by Retta Lee Jones and purchased some jewel cases and labels. On each label I wrote my name and phone number; underneath that, I printed in all caps: NO AUTO-TUNE OR PITCH CORRECTION USED ON THIS PROJECT. If anybody actually took the time to listen to my demo, at least they'd know it was the real me singing.

Next, I headed to the post office. I thought about mailing a CD to Mama and Daddy, but that was complicated. Where would I send it, after all? Instead, I mailed one to Brenda, told her to listen to it while sitting out on Baker's Point, and I sent one to Riley with a note explaining why I'd left so quickly and thanking him for all his help during my first few days in Nashville. I decided it was best not to mention his card.

There was a rush of people this early in the morning, and I was nearly to the counter when I ducked out of line and headed back to the supply station. Quickly, before I lost my nerve, I grabbed a blank envelope off the rack, stuffed my demo inside, then addressed it to Chat Snyder c/o the Jackson Hotel.

 

Two days later Brenda called. “Retta, I love it!” she squealed into the phone. “I couldn't wait for Baker's Point. Mama called me at work to say I'd gotten a package from you, so I went home on my lunch break and picked it up. It's so good, and it's a
real
CD! Your voice is on a CD!”

“Brenda, it's not that big a deal. If you have a computer, you can make a CD,” I pointed out.

“Well, sure, I could make a CD, but it would sound like cats mating. I just want you to know, Retta, that I'm proud of you. I really am, and I know you're gonna make it. I mean, I always felt it in my gut, but after hearing you on my new subwoofers, I know for sure. I'm gonna stop by Bluebell's on my way home from work and play it for Estelle. She'll get a charge out of it, don't you think? And, I've already played it for all the nurses in the break room this afternoon. They all say you're gonna be a big star, too. Tonight, I'll sit on Baker's Point and listen to it, just like you asked, but I couldn't wait. I hope you don't mind.”

“Of course I don't mind. I'm glad there's at least one person who likes it.”

“Oh, and before I forget. I'm putting together a little care package for you, so be on the lookout. I probably won't get it out till the end of the week sometime.”

“Brenda, you don't—”

“Shut
up
. I'm sending you a care package, so don't even bother telling me not to. What's your address?” she asked. I rattled it off.