Somebody Everybody Listens To (10 page)

In the front seat of Goggy's car, I brushed my hair and tucked it back into a ponytail, then carefully studied the map. The lines were squiggly and confusing, so I went over the route in black ink, folded the unruly rectangle into a small, neat square so that only the sections I needed were visible. Determined to be smarter and wiser and luckier, I took a deep breath and started the car. In no time, I made it to Broadway. Or, nearly to Broadway. Everything was completely jammed, and a lot of areas were blocked off. I took a detour down one of the side streets and searched for a parking space. A giant Mercedes was pulling out, so I switched on my blinker and waited, then pulled into the spot. It was after six o'clock, which meant I wouldn't have to worry about feeding the meter, although just to be sure, I read the sign carefully,
twice
.

There was music. Even a few blocks from Broadway, I could hear it—the
thump-thump
of base, the occasional screech of feedback, and people. Lots and lots of people. Eagerly, I hurried toward the action, but stopped suddenly when I rounded the corner.

Its barn-red color jumped out at me, and I just stood there with my mouth hanging open. It looked like a dream or a movie-set facade. Certainly, it didn't seem real. They'd
all
performed at the Ryman Auditorium—Dolly and Porter and Tammy and Emmylou and Loretta and Buck and Hank and Johnny and Patsy and way more than I could name off the top of my head. And now here I was, right smack in front of it. Suddenly I had the urge to squeal like it was Christmas morning, do the I'm-so-happy-I-could-pee-all-over-myself dance in the street. Instead, I pinched myself—at least I'd have a bruise to remember this by.

I climbed the front steps and tried the door, but the place was locked up tight. They still did all kinds of shows at the Ryman, but either there wasn't anything scheduled for tonight, or it was too early and the performances hadn't started yet. I glanced around to make sure nobody was watching, then quickly kissed the warm bricks. “Please let some of your magic rub off on me,” I whispered.

Up the street, I took a left onto Broadway and headed toward the noisy bars and shops. It was a big mob scene: heavily made-up women hanging on the arms of rough-looking men; tourists snapping pictures; drunks weaving and wobbling; and a few washed-up types busking on street corners. I walked and gawked and probably looked like I'd just tumbled off the turnip truck. Two boys leaned against a storefront, smoking cigarettes, their eyes lingering on me. I clutched my purse and hurried past them. “We ain't gonna bother you or nothing!” one of them shouted. “Yeah, we was just checking out your nice ass,” the other chimed in. “Badonkadonk!” he added, then they both laughed.

On every block, there were bars, each with a live band performing inside, and through the smudged windows and flashing Budweiser signs, I could see the men onstage. All men, I noticed with disappointment. They played steel guitars and banjos and fiddles.
The Nashville sound,
I thought to myself, but the crowds were raucous, not always listening. The legendary Tootsie's Orchid Lounge was surrounded by a group of foreign tourists; I couldn't get close enough to touch her famous purple bricks.

“You lost?” someone asked. I glanced around, and a snaggletoothed man grinned at me. He leaned in so close I could smell his sour breath, see the yellow tint to his eyes. I shook my head and hurried across the street. The whole scene reminded me of the county fair. Daddy'd get all excited about taking me when I was little, but the truth was I didn't like the push of the crowd or the slapped-together rides or the smell of sweat and cheaters. It disappointed me to think it, but I was having pretty much the same reaction to Broadway.

At Jumpin' Joe's Bar and Grill, a fairly new-looking place with a giant guitar-shaped sign out front, there was a woman was onstage—the first and only female singer I'd seen tonight. I couldn't get a look at her face, but from the back, she was pretty—long blond hair and cute fitted jeans, a sequined halter top. She was singing her heart out—Mary Chapin Carpenter's “I Feel Lucky”—and she was good, too, but behind her the fiddle player made lewd gestures with his bow.

It seemed crazy to make it this far and not get a glimpse of the Music Festival, so I attempted one last push toward the River Front. Supposedly, there was a large grassy spot, and you could sit and listen to the A-list singers for free. To me this fell into the if-it-sounds-too-good-to-be-true category, but I decided to give it a try. I squeezed and bumped and nudged, but nobody would budge, not even an inch. “Where you going, honey?” a guy behind me shouted. He was just inches away, and I could feel him hovering over me. “I think I'm in love,” he said, and his buddies chortled. Just then there was a giant shove forward. Cold beer sloshed all down my back.

“Hey! Watch it!” I warned (although I didn't turn around when I said this).

“Don't worry, I'm
watching
it, baby,” he said in a way that made my skin crawl.

Wet and smelling like a barroom floor, I slipped out of the crowd and decided to find Goggy's car. I could always come back to Broadway during the day when the place didn't feel so seedy, maybe talk one of the bar owners into letting me audition for a civilized time slot. After all, these places were open seven days a week, and I'd read that bands were coming and going constantly, a shift change every four hours for hardly any money: ten A.M.- two P.M.; two P.M.-six P.M.; six P.M.-ten P.M.; and ten P.M.-two A.M. Maybe the crowds (and the fiddle players) would be better behaved earlier in the day. Maybe the beer sloshers would be at home, sleeping it off.

I buckled my seat belt and started the engine, tried to focus my attention on a lodging plan for the night. Given the crush of people downtown, it seemed wiser to hit the interstate. Surely, if I got twenty or thirty minutes outside the city limits, there'd be something. After several detours and roadblocks and unexpected twists and turns, I ended up on Demonbreun Street, and according to the map, I could make a left and hit I-40.

At the red light, my mind wandered:
I've got to call Brenda—I need to shower and rinse out my shirt—I'm starving—I've got to find someplace to eat; hunger is such a pain in the butt—I have to get an early start tomorrow so I can make it to Ricky Dean's on time—I need new flip-flops and a real job
. . . Somebody honked, and I snapped to attention again. The driver behind me was gesticulating wildly, her face contorted into a big angry knot, and I realized the light had gone from red to green to yellow. There was oncoming traffic, so instead of turning left like I'd planned, I gunned it straight ahead. Within a matter of seconds, I was on Music Row again.

Unlike downtown Nashville, Music Row was empty this time of night, and the streets were clean and quiet—no gold-jewelry guys or secretaries or traffic cops. I parked and got out. For over an hour, I walked around and imagined my future here. Miss Stem always said you had to visualize what you wanted in life, so I studied the buildings, memorized addresses, and
visualized.
I could see myself being invited through those stalwart doors with their impressive bronze letters, and once inside, I'd settle into a comfortable chair and tell all the bigwigs my funny little story about how I got a parking ticket my very first day in Nashville, and we'd just laugh while I signed that lucrative recording contract with a shiny gold pen.

My head was veering off in the fancy tour bus direction when something stirred behind me, shaking me out of my dream. Footsteps. I turned around, opened my mouth to say hi—they were just kids, after all—but when I saw their faces, my heart clenched. Two grim boys. Thirteen or fourteen at the most. Shaggy hair. Army fatigues. Could've been brothers or maybe just friends who dressed alike.

“Get her,” one of them said. My knees buckled slightly.

“No,
you
. I did it last time,” the other one snapped.

Just then a third boy appeared out of nowhere. Violently, he broke through their adolescent barricade, shoved them aside, and charged toward me. His thin, strong fingers caught the strap of my purse and wrenched it off my shoulder.

Inspired now, the other boys followed suit—a hard yank of my hair, a brutal shove to the ground. My ribs crunched against the sidewalk, and somebody kicked me then laughed and took off. Until the air was no longer tainted with their bad intentions, I lay perfectly still on that rough concrete. My breathing was fast and heavy, my palms were bloody, and my head pounded in a way I didn't recognize, like it might explode. Suddenly I thought about Tercell. She was probably all dressed up and in some swanky skyscraper restaurant right this very minute—the Southern belle toast of New York City by now. I rolled over and blinked up at the Nashville sky. It was still blue, but threaded with shades of pink and gold, and the moon was out.

The irony wasn't lost on me when a police cruiser drove by not ten minutes after the boys had escaped with my purse and my money and the last picture taken of me and Granny Larky, and worst of all, the new cell phone Brenda had given me. Since I smelled like stale beer, I figured this officer would give me a sobriety test just like the Belle Meade officer had, but he didn't. Instead, he blinked at me with sad, concerned eyes and said I should come to the station to fill out a report, maybe go over some photos so they could get a description of the “perps,” as he called them.

“Sure,” I said, and slipped into the passenger's seat. He introduced himself as Officer Mulligan and gave the dispatcher a few mysterious codes I didn't understand.

The police station wasn't far away, but it was crowded, and the bright fluorescent lights and noisy walkie-talkies made my headache worse. Officer Mulligan must've felt sorry for me, though, because I didn't have to wait. Thankfully, he hurried me into a tiny conference room, and a nice lady named Dee Dee took down my descriptions.

The whole time I answered questions and stared at the mug shots, I kept thinking about my future. A parking ticket was nothing. A busted oil pan, as it turned out, was no big deal. But a stolen purse and wallet and cell phone was likely to be the pinprick in my big-dream bubble.

When all the paperwork was finished, Officer Mulligan drove me back to my car. “Are you sure you don't need medical attention?” he asked for what had to be the tenth time.

“Oh, no. I'm fine,” I said. “Just a few bruises.” It was dark now, except for the faint streetlights and distant halo of the Nashville skyline. The thought of the long night ahead made my stomach tighten with fear.

We got out of the patrol car, and I chewed a hangnail. “They steal your keys, too?” Officer Mulligan asked.

“Uh, actually, I have a spare set in the glove box,” I lied. “If you could just pop the lock—”

“No problem,” he said.

In the few minutes it took him to open the door, Officer Mulligan filled me in on Nashville crime rates. Music City wasn't New York or Los Angeles, but it had its share of troubles. Not exactly what I wanted to hear.

“Well, you be careful now,” said Officer Mulligan. He held out his hand, and I shook it.

“Thanks for everything,” I said. His car radio squawked.

“That's me. I gotta go. Don't hang around here now. You go on home and get some rest.”

After Officer Mulligan was gone, I stretched out across the front seat and closed my eyes. Like pennies in a mason jar, his disturbing statistics rattled around in my head. “Please don't let those boys come back,” I prayed, and rechecked the locks.

 

It took a minute for me to realize I was
not
standing over the griddle at Bluebell's. The sun blazed through the thick windows and the black vinyl seats felt like asphalt in August. Passersby were staring. Not like
stopping and staring
, but walking by Goggy's old car and noticing me lying inside and averting their eyes quickly. And someone's cell phone kept ringing. I sat up and cranked the window down all the way then realized the noise was coming from under the seat. I shrieked and rolled onto the floorboard. “Hello,” I said before remembering I had to press the button. “Hello,” I tried again.

“So you just go to Nashville and forget all about your best friend?”

“Oh my God. Brenda. Oh, thankyouthankyou,” I said, so relieved I felt like crying.

“Well, it's good to hear your voice, too.”

“I don't mean that. I mean—God, where do I even start? I thought the cell phone was gone and—” I stopped myself. If I told Brenda about the mugging, she'd blab, then Daddy would hear about it and panic, probably drive to Nashville and haul my butt home. As badly as I was dying to tell her what happened, I didn't.

“So you thought you lost the cell phone?” Brenda asked.