Somebody Everybody Listens To by Suzanne Supplee

two and a half hours from here.”
    â€œYou’re kidding, right?”
    â€œNo, I’m really a singer.”
    â€œI mean about the name of your town. Star -ling?” She laughed.
    â€œOh, no, I mean, yes, that’s really the name of my hometown. I never even thought about that before . . . you know, about the star part.”
    â€œSounds like you made it up. But I believe you,” she added quickly. Her steady, smart gaze was making me feel all squirmy. “So, what drives you?”
    â€œI drove myself,” I said.
    â€œNo no. I mean what drives you? I’m especially fascinated by what motivates people, you know. Why they pursue certain things. For some, it’s financial gain, the external rewards. For others, it’s more, you know, intrinsic.”
    â€œIt’s—well, it’s hard to say,” I replied, and laughed uncomfortably.
    â€œGod. Sorry. I get way too serious. Are you sure you don’t want these?” she asked, and held up the books again. “What is it Cicero said? ‘A room without books is like a body without a soul.’ Or something like that.”
    â€œBooks aren’t really in my budget right now,” I confessed, and noticed her outfit—navy-and-white-striped slacks with the cutest little brown buttons at the waist and a built-in belt tied in a perfect bow. The cuffs were wide, and her bright red toenails peeked out from the edges of her sandals. Her fitted white T-shirt looked nothing like my baggy gray one. It hugged her shape nicely and set off those adorable pants.
    All at once I was dying to get out the door. My faded cutoffs had ragged edges, and my flip-flops were two summers old, not to mention I’d been sweating my butt off in a hot car (according to Goggy, the a/c hadn’t worked since ’96). I probably smelled, too.
    â€œI don’t know what drives me either, and it’s making me a little crazy these days,” she went on. “I’d like to be intrinsically motivated, follow my bliss and all, but I’m a product of this saturated American culture. In our society we often have to choose one or the other, it seems. Very few have the privilege of both intrinsic and extrinsic satisfaction, at least in their professional lives.”
    I nodded and tried to follow what she was saying.
    â€œSo you’re probably doing the whole Country Music Festival thing this week, right?” she asked, switching gears.
    â€œCountry Music Festival?”
    â€œYou know what it is, of course.”
    â€œYeah, definitely,” I said, trying not to let the panic show on my face.
    I’d followed the event closely my whole entire life, but this year, of all years, I’d forgotten about the Country Music Festival, the one that draws thousands of fans to Music City every summer, the one people buy tickets for a whole year in advance, the one that fills every hotel and motel for miles around. Suddenly a parking ticket seemed like the least of my worries .
    â€œI’m Emerson Foster,” she said, and extended her smooth hand.
    â€œRetta Jones,” I replied, and wondered if I’d just stabbed her with my daggerlike hangnails. “Do y’all sell street maps?”
    â€œNo, but the Kwik Sak probably carries them. It’s about a half mile up the road.”
    â€œOkay, thanks. It was nice to meet you,” I said, and inched toward the door.
    â€œHey, why don’t you just take these?” she said, and held up the books.
    â€œReally, I can’t.”
    â€œI don’t mean purchase them. You can read them and return them when you’re finished.”
    â€œBut this isn’t a library,” I said, wondering if I’d somehow missed that important detail, too.
    â€œNo, not technically, but it’s fine as long as you take care of them. Just a second,” she said, and headed toward the register. I watched while she bagged them up and stuffed in some