Somebody Everybody Listens To

by Suzanne Supplee

  “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.

  “Listen, Retta, my break ended five minutes ago, so I can’t talk long, but what’s going on? Are you playing anyplace?”

  “I have an open-mike night at the Mockingbird this weekend and another one a couple of weeks after that. What’s up with you? You and Wayne engaged yet?” Any day now I expected Wayne to give Brenda a ring.

  “No, not hardly, but I do have to tell you about something that happened.” Brenda lowered her voice. “I worked the night shift a few days ago, and I was in the break room, and this doctor was sitting there. He’d been on call all night, so I think he was right punchy. Anyway, he starts talking to me, asking, like, what I want to do with my life and stuff. I mean, half the time the nurses around here think they’re too good to talk to me, but a doctor? Forget it!”

  “Was he trying to pick you up?” I asked.

  “Well, that’s what I thought at first. But then he said he’d been watching me and that I worked real hard, had a good bedside manner with the patients. This is all true, of course. I mean, after I finish nursing school, I hope to get a job here, so I’m not stupid. I’m trying to make a good impression. Anyway, he asked me if I was going to medical school. Medical school! Can you believe it? I laughed when he said it, then explained how I was enrolled for the fall over at Milldale Community College, that I hoped to get into their RN program, blah-blah-blah. And do you know what he said?”

  “What?”

  “He said, ‘I think you should aim higher. This little town could use some homegrown doctors.’ Then he slurped down the rest of his coffee and left. I looked all over, but I haven’t seen him since, then somebody told me he was just moonlighting here, you know, visiting from another hospital. It’s so weird, Retta, because I kinda feel like that moment was meant to be, you know?”

  I sat there trying to imagine Brenda in a lab coat. I could see the lab coat, but I could also see the purple eye shadow and kohl-lined lids and a stinky cigarette dangling out of her mouth.

  “Retta, why aren’t you saying anything? You don’t think I could do it, do you?”

  “No, I definitely think you could do it. I mean, if it’s really what you want. I’ve just never heard you talk about this before. I’m surprised is all.”

  “Me, too, but I’m meeting with some adviser over at MCC to find out what the prerequisites—” Brenda stopped midsentence, whispered something I couldn’t hear.

  “Brenda?”

  “Oh, yes, Grandma,” said Brenda way too loudly. “Okay. Uh-huh. Of course I’ll pick up your nitroglycerine tablets on the way home,” she said, and hung up.

  The Auto Den had quieted down. Ricky had gone out on a towing call, and I sat at my desk and stared at the phone. Chat would’ve gotten the CD by now. Probably, he’d laughed and tossed it into the garbage can. Or worse, he’d listened to it, laughed, then tossed it into the garbage can. I couldn’t stop thinking about the way I’d imagined Brenda in that lab coat, like a little kid playing dress-up, which now that I think about it, is probably how Chat saw me while I was singing at the Jackson. He’d laughed when I did “Satin Sheets” because I’d been ridiculous to think I could pull off such a song. “Singing over your head,” Miss Stem called it. And then there were all those silly imitations. The thought of them made me turn red now.

  I stood up, wrung my hands together, paced around the room. “Voice.” I said the word out loud, thinking I could hang on to it somehow. But it was slippery, like the mossy rocks down by the river. “It is your own true voice that will carry you.” I sat down at my desk again, scratched the quote on a notepad. The chair squeaked something awful, so I got up, went to look for the WD- 40. But instead of greasing the chair, I picked up the phone.

  “Jackson Hotel Bar.” It was Chat’s grouchy voice, and my heart pounded so hard I could see it thumping through my thin T-shirt.

  “Hi, Chat. It’s Retta. I assume you got my CD.”

  “Ye-ees,” he replied, then silence. Nothing.

  “Well, I’m doing an open-mike night this Friday at the Mockingbird. I’m on at nine-thirty. I’m singing that new song. You know, the one I sent you. It’s original, and . . . well, I was hoping you might come”—I hesitated—“so you could pick me apart like buzzards on roadkill.”

  What happened next felt like a miracle: Chat laughed at my joke.

  On Friday night, I sat at the edge of the stage, waiting for my turn to go on. I’d arrived at six-thirty so that I could see every performer, study his or her song. I wanted to figure out who was original and who wasn’t. Which singers made the room buzz a little and who left us all flat. So far, things were flat, at least as far as I was concerned anyway. Every time the door opened, my eyes darted over, and my stomach clutched up, but still no Chat.

  Dixon kept his distance, mumbled a polite hello as I climbed onto the stage, then turned his back so he could schmooze some well-endowed girl in a halter top. “Good evening,” I said, testing the mike. “I’m Retta Jones, and I grew up in a tiny town called Starling, Tennessee. Y’all ever heard of it?” Glasses clinked. Crickets chirped. “That’s exactly what I thought,” I said, and laughed. “I spent my whole life trying to get out of Starling, Tennessee, and I’ll probably spend the rest of my life writing songs that take me back there. Funny how that works, right?” Down in the front row, a few heads nodded. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the door open, but I didn’t glance over. If by some miracle it was Chat, I no longer wanted to know.

  I strummed the opening, smiled at an older lady planted at center stage; she was taking notes, I noticed. She smiled back, pen poised midair. Deliberately, I dragged things out a little, made them anticipate the beginning of my song. I breathed in, closed my eyes, and smelled the river. It seemed to churn right through me. “The pull of home will always be here. Running fast or moving slow,” I began. “It’s the place to get away from, the place I long to go. I can hear it in the treetops, feel it whispering against my skin. It’s the air I breathe, the way I am. Home is my beginning and my end . . .”

  When my song was over and the applause had died down, I hopped offstage. Dixon called out after me, but I ignored him and squeezed through the crowd. I hung around for a little while. Drank a Sundrop. Listened to a couple other artists. A few people came up and said they liked my song, and I thanked them politely. It was nice to hear, of course, but right then there was only one person’s approval I wanted, and he hadn’t bothered to come.

  Every afternoon the following week, I headed to Music Row. I walked into lobbies (or got buzzed in) and handed out my demo. I went to Music Biz and burned more copies. I smiled at secretaries and asked if I could stop back to speak with someone from A&R, but they all shook their heads politely, informed me that everybody was busy. One afternoon around five o’clock, I pulled out my guitar and started busking. I made twenty dollars.

  Brenda’s care package had arrived and in it there were piles of bright blue jewel cases, all of them painstakingly decorated with red and white beads that spelled out RETTA JONES. According to her note, she’d glued everything on with Liquid Nails, so the cases were sturdy enough to mail if I needed to, and Wayne had even helped, thanks to a homemade fudge bribe.

  The day I got the box, I waited until Ricky left then I sat on Shanay’s old sofa and bawled my eyes out. Nothing was going right, and besides all that, I was a terrible friend. Brenda did everything she could to support my crazy dreams, and instead of returning the favor, I dwelled on her bad makeup techniques and cigarette addiction. She hadn’t mentioned medical school once since our conversation, and
I was sure my lack of enthusiasm was to blame.

  I stopped my blubbering and dialed her number. “Hey, Retta,” she said. “Did you get the box?”

  “I did, and they’re beautiful, and you’re not allowed to do another nice thing for me because I’m a terrible friend.” I was crying again.

  “Retta, what’s the matter?”

  “I think you’d be a great doctor, Brenda,” I sobbed. “I’d go to you any day, unless you’re a gynecologist, because that would just be weird, but otherwise, I can’t think of another person I’d rather have taking care of me, so if you decide to do those classes or whatever, I’m behind you all the way.”

  “Retta, you don’t think I know that? Who do you think gave me the confidence to apply for this job at the hospital, huh? You did,” she answered. “And who said I should think about MCC for nursing school? You picked up the brochure for me that day Miss Stem took y’all over there for a concert or something. What’s the matter with you, Retta?”

  “I’m just . . . I guess I’m just tired.” I glanced around at the dreary room. No matter how hard I cleaned, it got dusty instantly with all Ricky’s buffing and sanding and repair work. And other than my Emmylou poster, there wasn’t a hint of me. It was just a place to sleep. “Listen, Brenda, I didn’t call to talk about me, okay? I called because I want you to know you have my full support with this medical school thing.”

  “Retta, I know that. Now stop it, lame ass. You’re a great friend.”

  Brenda talked awhile longer, filled me in on all the Starling gossip. Tercell and Bobby were speaking finally. Just barely, though, and Bobby swore up and down he’d never get back together with her. Wayne had taken a maintenance job over at MCC, and if they happened to get married, Brenda would get a discount on the tuition. Brenda ran into Mama at the Dollar King, but Mama turned away, acted like she didn’t see her. Miss Stem was dating the new assistant principal. And Bernie was dead. Mr. Shackleford had to get a backhoe in to dispose of the body.

  The news about Bernie sent me right over the edge again. He was a Red Angus bull. With a ring through his nose. But I was crying so hard I couldn’t even say “bye” when we hung up.

  brooks & dunn

  a.k.a. Leon Eric “Kix” Brooks III and

  Ronnie Gene Dunn

  BORN: Brooks—May 12, 1955; Shreveport, Louisiana; Dunn—June 1, 1953; Coleman, Texas

  JOB: Brooks—performed in various clubs in Maine and Alaska before heading to Nashville in 1979; Dunn—performed with the house band at the popular club Duke’s Country in Tulsa, Oklahoma.

  BIG BREAK: Tim DuBois of Arista Records paired the two talents, and they released their first single, “Brand New Man,” which rocketed to number one in 1991.

  LIFE EVENTS: Dunn studied theology at Abilene (Texas) Christian College; Brooks founded a winery in Arrington, Tennessee. In the summer of 2009, the duo decided to “call it a day.” Brooks & Dunn were done.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  hard workin’ man

  GERRY HOUSE WAS DOING HIS MORNING-DRIVE SHOW ON THE RADIO; Ricky was out on a towing call (rush hour is always a busy time for him); and I was sitting on the floor in a pile of paperwork. My latest project was to sort through old receipts and come up with a client list. As it turned out Ricky’d had a lot of clients over the years, and from what I could tell, some of them still owed him money. When my phone rang, I assumed it was Brenda. She was meeting with her MCC adviser today, and I picked it up without even glancing at the caller ID.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Hi there, Miss New & Noted.”

  “Excuse me?” I replied.

  “It’s Emerson Foster from the bookstore,” she explained quickly.

  “Emerson! Well, hey,” I said, surprised but glad to hear her voice.

  “I just called to congratulate you on this morning’s article.”

  “Article?”

  “The one in Nashville Listens. About you. Oh my. You haven’t seen it?”

  “No,” I replied, and tried to think why on earth there’d be an article about me in a Nashville newspaper. The mugging! I remembered suddenly. They must’ve caught those rotten kids!

  “Oh, Retta, this is big news. Judy Dickenson does a column in Nashville Listens, and she wrote all about your performance at the Mockingbird in this week’s article. You’re a New & Noted.”

  “I’m a what?”

  She said the words slowly. “A New. And. Noted.”

  “What does that mean exactly?”

  “Judy Dickenson is . . . oh, well, she’s just so picky. She goes to all the Nashville hot spots and is always talking about how country music is going to hell and nobody is authentically country anymore, and it’s all too packaged and perfect. You should hear her rail on the major stars, especially the younger ones who make it really big really fast. She completely detests them. But, every now and then, she writes about somebody she thinks is worth listening to, and when she does, New & Noted is in bold letters at the top of her column. And a lot of people read it. I mean, I do, and I’m not even into country music that much.”

  “So what does the article say?”

  “Uh, let’s see . . . she says . . . ‘Lately, I’d rather clean out the lint screen on my dryer than go hear another country-my-ass singer, but on Friday night, I was pleasantly surprised when Retta Jones climbed onstage.’ The next part goes into detail about your outfit.”

  “Skip that,” I said. “What does she say about my song? My voice?” My heart was flopping around like a fish out of water.

  “Okay, she says, um . . . ‘Unlike many of today’s young performers, she actually sings on pitch and stays on key.’ The next part is in parentheses. It says, ‘I never thought I’d see the day when this was a big deal, but that’s another article.’”

  “Is there anything else?”

  “It says, ‘This girl will make a mark of her very own. You heard it here first. Judy Dickenson.’ She always ends her New & Noted column with ‘you heard it here first,’” Emerson explained.

  Judy Dickenson must have been that woman in the front row. She’d smiled at me. I could see her clearly now—red glasses perched on the end of her nose, wild hair, pen scribbling furiously. “So can I get one of these papers at your bookstore?”

  “Sure, we have a whole pile of them. They come out twice a week—Wednesdays and Fridays. You should definitely photocopy the article, include it with your publicity materials.”

  “Yeah, okay,” I said, even though I had no publicity materials.

  “Tell you what, come by the store this evening around six. I’ll set aside a stack for you, then maybe we can go celebrate.”

  “Sure, I’d love to.” Just then Ricky pulled up out front, and the noise was deafening. Something was wrong with the muffler on his tow truck (he was always so busy taking care of everyone else’s vehicles he neglected his own), and it sounded like gunfire every time he revved the engine.

  “What’s that?” Emerson asked.

  “Oh, it’s nothing. I’ll explain later. See you at six,” I said, and hung up.

  For the rest of the day, I floated around on a cloud of happiness (and Meguiar’s Ultimate Compound). Ricky was restoring an antique car for his brother as a surprise fiftieth birthday present, and he’d spent countless hours buffing out the paint. I was dying to tell Ricky about the article, but I decided it would be more fun to wait until tomorrow when I could show it to him instead.

  Around five I put away the bulky files and index cards and went to get ready. “Well, at least you clean up right good,” Ricky said when I emerged from “my room,” as we now called it. “I reckon I’ll have to run myself through the car wash before I go home.” He held up his filthy hands and grinned at me.

  “But I thought you were done with the really dirty part of the restoration,” I said, glancing around at the big mess he’d made. Again. Dirty rags were everywhere, the floor was coated with oil stains, and the windows were cloudy with compound debris. The result w
as beautiful, however, a shiny black prize of a car with silver stripes along the sides, flashy Cragar mag wheels, whitewall tires, dark tinted windows, and a catalytic converter that made the engine purr like a kitten. Ricky lovingly called it the Redneck Rider.

  “Aw, I decided to degrease the engine one more time. Now the inside looks just as nice as the outside.”

  I glanced under the hood. “Looks good,” I said.

  “So you got big plans tonight?” Ricky asked.

  “I’m meeting this girl who works at a bookstore. I met her my first day in Nashville. She’s a student at Vanderbilt.”

  “Must be pretty smart if she goes there.”

  “Yep, she is. She’s nice. Seems down-to-earth.”

  “That’s important.” Ricky scrubbed his hands at the sink and hummed Lynyrd Skynyrd under his breath, and for a second I just stood there, listening to him and feeling grateful. If it wasn’t for Ricky helping me out in Belle Meade that night and offering me a job, there wouldn’t have been any Mockingbird performances or a lady writing an article about me.

  “Hey, Ricky,” I said.

  “Uh-huh?” He didn’t turn around.

  “I really appreciate all you’ve done for me.”

  “Aw, hon, I ain’t done nothin’. I appreciate all your hard work around this place. I feel bad I keep on messin’ it up. Now that the Redneck Rider is fixed, maybe I’ll be neater around here.” He tugged a paper towel off the roll and wiped his thick hands. In spite of his vigorous scrubbing, I could see they were still stained with grease—hard-workin’-man-hands, same as Daddy’s.