Somebody Everybody Listens To (8 page)

“Nineteen eighty-seven. And it's not even mine.”

“Aw, that sucks,” he said sympathetically.

I swallowed the crying lump in my throat and tried not to think about how this time tomorrow I'd probably be headed back to Starling, with just enough money left to pay for the gas home—
if
I was lucky.

“You ain't from around here, I can tell.”

“No, sir. I'm from Starling, Tennessee.”

“Woo-ee. Starling, Tennessee. I been there. Used to go down there fishing all the time. It's a pretty place. Let me guess, you come to town to be a big star,” he said, crouching down to look underneath.

“I'm a singer,” I replied.

He stood up again and shined his flashlight on me. “So sang something, then,” he said like a dare, and grinned. I could see the edges of his teeth were lined with gold. “I'll give you a discount if you do.”

“Yeah, right.” He was only trying to cheer me up, I could tell, but I was in no mood for it.

“Sang somethin' and I'll predict your future.”

“You're serious?” I asked. “About the discount, I mean?”

“I'll knock fifteen dollars off the towing price.” I blinked at him. “Okay, make it fifty dollars then,” he said.

“You'd really take fifty dollars off the price?” He screwed up his face like he was thinking on it then nodded.

“You have to belt it out, though. No wimpy shy-girl singing.” I glanced around, but there was nobody in sight. The Belle Meade joggers were probably showered by now, leisurely digesting their gourmet dinners. My stomach growled noisily. “Okay,” I agreed.

Tow-Truck Driver Dude sat down on the wall and pointed his industrial strength flashlight at me. “Hurry up before I git another call,” he said.

I closed my eyes, but all I could picture was Baker's Point and Brenda's old Camaro and her Bic lighter with its torchlike flame. Then it hit me: I was in Nashville. The Opry was only a few miles away, and for all I knew, Whispering Bill Anderson lived in this very neighborhood. Probably a lot of country stars and industry bigwigs did.

In my very finest Tammy Wynette voice, I sang “Stand by Your Man,” put a teardrop in every note, just the way Tammy always had.

When I finished, Tow-Truck Guy just sat there rubbing his goateed chin and studying me. Finally, he said, “Well, your car ain't for shit, but you shore can sang.”

“Thank you,” I replied.

“How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

“You finish school?”

“Yessir. I just graduated.”

“Good. I wisht I had.” He stood up, and I heard his knees creak. “Now, you set right over there and stay outta my way. I'll have you hauled out of here in no time. Name's Ricky Dean, by the way. I'd shake your hand, but I'm covered in grease.”

“That's okay,” I said, and held my hand out anyway, but he refused to shake it.

 

I rode shotgun in Ricky's tow truck. The garage was in a little town called Fessler, just a few miles from Belle Meade but
very
different—no mansions or joggers, just a few stray cats and some beat-up-looking houses, one with its colored Christmas lights still shining brightly. Ricky's garage was constructed of cinder blocks, and even in the darkness, I could tell the paint was peeling. RICKY DEAN'S AUTO DEN looked like ICKY DEA AU DEN. He seemed like a good mechanic, though. In no time, he'd patched up the oil pan and checked all the hoses and belts to make sure I hadn't damaged anything else.

“Looks like you're in good shape long as you stay away from them stone walls,” he teased. “That car's old, but it ain't half bad.”

“So how much do I owe you?” I braced myself.

“How much you got?” he asked, and cracked his thick knuckles.

Daddy would've had a stroke if he'd heard my reply, but for some reason, I told Ricky the truth. Either he'd take every dime I had or feel sorry for me and give me another discount. “Around five hundred dollars, but I got a parking ticket on Music Row today. When I pay that, it'll be forty-five dollars less than what I've got now,” I explained.

“That's downright pathetic luck. You know that, right?” I nodded. “Nashville's a rough town, and I'm gonna make a suggestion. Don't never tell nobody how much money you got, hear? For every starving young sanger, they's twenty crooks waitin' to take her money. Oh, they'll promise you fame and fortune, but really alls most of them want is a easy way to make a few bucks or get a date. I'll tell you what I used to tell my son—when he was still listening, that is. If it sounds too good to be true—”

“It probably is,” I filled in for him. Daddy said the same thing all the time.

“Exactly. Don't be nobody's fool. Ain't everbody nice as Ricky Dean.”

“Okay,” I agreed. In the darkness I'd guessed he was around Daddy's age, but in the lights of his shop, I could tell he was a good bit older. I wondered about his son, but I didn't ask.

Ricky ran a hand over his bald head and left a streak of grease behind. “I'm guessin' you're lookin' for a job, right?”

“I just got to town today, so I haven't had a chance to look yet.”

“You know, the girl that usually works for me broke her ankle at Fan Fair.”

“You mean the Country Music Festival?”

“Oh, whatever the hell they're calling it this week. Fan Fair. Country Music Festival. Anyway, she broke her ankle.”

“That's terrible,” I replied.

“It ain't that terrible. She comes in here irritable as hell and hungover about half the time. She's a mess, really. You know, you could answer phones for me the next few days while she's out. Alls you got to do is say ‘Ricky Dean's Auto Den' and make appointments. Stuff like that. It ain't rocket science, even though Shanay tries to act like it is.

“Shanay's the regular girl,” he explained. “Tell you what, you work for me a few days, and I won't charge you nothin' for fixing this geriatric car.”

It was a generous offer, I knew, but not at all what I had in mind for the new Nashville me. For years I'd stood over that sizzling griddle at Bluebell's and fantasized about getting one of those hostessing jobs in a fancy restaurant. I'd get to dress up and lead all these famous stars and their managers and publicists and such to a table. Of course, that was only until one of them took an interest in me and found out I could sing. Then the rest, as they say, would be history.

Ricky Dean's Auto Den didn't seem like a place for making history, but I didn't have much choice. “I really appreciate your offer. I'd be happy to work for you,” I replied. Ricky beamed at me with his gold-edged teeth. I could tell it made him proud to do something nice for somebody, probably a rare thing for a guy with a tow truck. He scribbled out directions to a clean (and cheap) motel up the road and instructed me to be at work the next morning by eight.

After I'd checked in at the Southern Belle Motel and taken the world's fastest shower (I kept thinking about that scene from
Psycho
), I called Mama. It was late, but she's always up till midnight.

“Hell-
o
,” she said. Her tone was flat. In fact, she didn't sound at all happy or relieved to hear from me, but I ignored this.

“Hey, Mama. Guess what? I got a job, and I already made fifty dollars singing,” I blurted. It was a slight exaggeration, but I wanted to make her proud. Besides that, I wanted to have
lots
to talk about so I could keep her on the phone. Being all by myself in a dank motel room was giving me the creeps.

“So you're safe?” Mama asked.

“Yes, ma'am,” I replied, praying it was true. “How's Daddy's back?”

“He passed out on the job today.”

“What?”

“Ended up at the Percy County Hospital's emergency room.”

“Is he okay?”

“Well, of course he's o-
kay
.” She said this all irritated, as if Daddy'd thrown his back out just so he could ruin her day.

“Let me talk to him,” I said.

“You can't. He's on pain medicine now and dead to the world.”

“Mama, don't say stuff like that!”

“Oh, Retta, calm down. It's just an expression.”

I held my tongue, kept hoping Mama would say something else. Like,
You go on and pursue your dreams, Retta Lee, and don't feel one bit guilty about leaving us.
But she didn't. She just sat on the line stone silent, and I felt guilty as hell because Mama wouldn't do anything nice for Daddy. She'd just bark orders at him or huff real loud every time he needed her to get something for him, and then, as payback, Daddy would turn the TV up too loud or get crumbs in the clean sheets. With me gone, Mama would probably start sleeping in my room, the gap between them just getting wider and wider.

“Well, there's no point sitting here if we're not gonna talk,” Mama said finally. “And this call is probably costing a fortune.”

“Okay,” I said, even though Brenda had us on one of those friends and family plans where you could call Alaska and talk all night and it wouldn't cost a dime. “Tell Daddy I hope he feels better,” I said. She wouldn't do this, of course.

“Good night, Retta,” Mama said curtly, and hung up.

For a while I lay in bed and watched the headlights flicker through the drawn blinds and cast eerie shadows on the wall. Inside my head, I heard Hank Williams's mournful voice—
I've never seen a night so long when time goes crawling by
. . . I pictured him as a skinny little boy down in Alabama, selling peanuts and shining shoes just to scrape together enough money to get by. Maybe all those hard times gave him more stories to tell. Maybe my hard times would give me stories, too.

WHEN MY EYES POPPED OPEN, I had no idea where I was, at least not at first. For a while I lay there in that saggy motel bed with its flat pillows and slightly mildewed mustard-colored blanket and tried to get back to the dream I was having—me and Bobby were down at Baker's Point, and he was just about to kiss me—but it was no use. I was fully awake now, with a long and unpredictable day ahead.

In no time I'd packed up all my stuff and checked twice under the bed to make sure I wasn't leaving anything behind. After all, I wouldn't be back. The Southern Belle Motel was cheap by Nashville prices, but it was still too expensive for me. I tried not to think about where I'd sleep tonight or the next night or the one after that.

The Auto Den parking lot was fi lled with junky old cars, a couple of rusted-out trailers, the kind used for hauling, and metal barrels overflowing with trash. By eight-thirty, Ricky Dean still hadn't shown up, and my sugar (doughnut) and caffeine (Sundrop) breakfast was already wearing off. Besides that, it was starting to heat up, and I regretted wearing jeans instead of shorts. I leaned my head against the warm seat and thought about Bobby again, let my mind wander off into maybe-if-I'd-stayed-in-Starling dreamland
.
Just then Ricky Dean came rumbling through the parking lot in his mammoth tow truck and jolted me back to reality.

After a quick tour of the place, Ricky showed me how to work the phone (which only had two lines, mind you) and went over the appointment book. “Thangs like a regular oil change or a tune-up should be scheduled in the mornings, that way the vehicle owner gets the car back after work,” he explained. “Any major body stuff, they need to speak to me directly. If it's a towing call, tell them a hour's wait and find out where they're at. Get a cell number, too. Sometimes I get there quicker, but don't say that. Just let them thank a hour.”

“Okay,” I said, feeling confident I could remember everything. After all, I was used to taking picky orders at Bluebell's. These instructions were simple by comparison.

“Oh, and if you get a yeller, press this button here. It'll record ever-thang they say.”

“What?”

“You know, the cussing type. Happens all the time. Some jerk gets mad because his car was towed and calls up to raise hell. Anyway, alls you got to do is say ‘I'm recording you now' and hit the button. Usually, they just hang up.”

“You're not serious,” I replied, thinking Ricky was teasing me again.