Free Somebody Everybody Listens To by Suzanne Supplee

Kidman on June 25, 2006.
    CHAPTER NINE

    shine
    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.”
    â€œOkay,” 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.
    â€œOh, and if you get a yeller, press this button here. It’ll record ever-thang they say.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou 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.”
    â€œYou’re not serious,” I replied, thinking Ricky was teasing me again.
    â€œOh, I’m serious as a heart attack. And I ought to know about heart attacks. Had one a few years back, right over there,” he said, and pointed to a grease spot on the dirty cement floor. “Liked to died, too. Ever since, I turned over a new leaf, as they say. I ain’t the same Ricky Dean I once was.” I wondered what he meant, but decided it was probably rude to ask. Besides that, the phone interrupted us.
    â€œRicky Dean’s Auto Den,” I answered.
    â€œWell, good morning,” the woman replied. I was relieved to hear a friendly voice instead of a yeller.
    â€œWhat can I do for you today, ma’am?”
    Ricky gave me a thumbs-up, then slid under a Ford Focus.
    Â 
    Just before noon, Ricky left to go out on a towing call. The phones had been crazy most of the morning, but they’d gone quiet suddenly, probably because most people were eating lunch right about now. As if on cue, my stomach growled. I tugged open the bottom drawer of Shanay’s desk, hoping to find something to snack on, but other than a few salt packets, there was nothing even remotely edible.
    I stood up and stretched then paced around the dingy room and thought about all the things I should be doing today—pounding the sidewalks down on Music Row or