On The Road in Minnesota- Part III

 ...and finally,           

            Back at the hotel, I wondered if either of them could read music. It turned out they could, and very well at that, which was the first pleasant surprise of the trip. Our rehearsal was great, though I’d never heard my charts played with quite that instrumentation. Both young men were consummate musicians, and when we discovered we could  improvise together, my hopes began to rise for the possibility of a really good show. Awesome.

            Well, it was opening night, there was no blizzard, the musicians were good and it was Saturday, so maybe I’d actually have an audience. My first show was at 9pm, and I went over to the club around 8:30 to see what was what. The stripper was plugging away with her dog, and the bar was full, but so far nobody was in the club except a very bored cocktail waitress. Frankie and Ray showed up just after I did, and while they were tuning up, I noticed a door in the wall between the two venues. It was right in front of the stage where I’d be singing.

            “What’s that for?” I asked the waitress.

            “To get to the bar.”

            I thought about it.

            “You mean, while the show is on?”

            She looked at me like I had two heads.

            “Yeah, if they want drinks,” she explained carefully.

            I wondered how that would work. Every time the door opened, the music from the juke box, and of course the stripper and her dog, would be revealed to the audience in my show. Not good. Not good at all. That was, of course, assuming anybody actually showed up. Frankie came over to me.

            “It’s almost nine,” he said. “We can start.”

            “Frankie, there’s nobody here.”

            He laughed. “Don’t worry. There will be.”

            We started our set and almost immediately a couple entered and the waitress sat them at one of the two front tables. She took their order and proceeded to the door by the stage and opened it. Suddenly I was singing with Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton, except that unfortunately we weren’t singing the same song. The waitress took her time closing the door. I went on with my number. I was almost finished when she came through with the drinks. Kenny and Dolly had already finished and Loretta Lynn had taken their place. The door closed, but not before I noticed a few heads at the bar turn toward my sound. Two more couples came in and were seated, so I now had an audience of six. I can work with that. I was indulging in the afore mentioned snappy patter when the waitress again opened the door to go get drinks. Vaughn Monroe singing “Ghost Riders In The Sky” filled the room. The stripper was astride her dog.  The audience giggled nervously. I smiled.

            “It’s okay. I’m used to it. I have a dog of my own.”

            Not, perhaps in the best taste, but it got a laugh. A big one. It happened just as the door was closing, so the patrons at the bar heard it and I guess it caught their attention. Before the next song was over, somebody had propped the door open and turned off the juke box and spotlight, leaving the stripper in the dark with her dog, taking a much-needed break. Frankie and Ray started jamming a rendition of “Ghost Riders”, and I got everybody to sing the only phrase in that song that everybody knows: “Ghost riders in the sky.” They loved it! For the rest of the show those two boys and I improvised, encouraging audience participation whenever we could and keeping the music light and up-tempo, and we were a hit! All the seats in the club were soon taken, and the bar was full, too, and most stayed for the second show. When it was over and I was back at the Hotel Cigarette, I decided it might not be such a bad week after all. Exhausted, I fell into bed, (did I mention the iron bedstead? Very Dickensonian.) and dreamed of Vaughn Monroe.

            The rest of the week was pretty much the same. I became a favorite with the regulars, and the stripper took to bringing a paperback to read while she was on the break I provided, so everyone was happy. On my last night, which was New Year’s Eve, they threw me a going away party.

            “You were really great,” said the sad-eyed bartender. “I hope you come back.”

            “Thanks! I had a very nice time,” I told him. “Your son is very talented. It was a real pleasure working with him and Ray.”

            “Best accordion player between here and Milwaukie,” he reminded me, and this time I agreed.

            New Year’s Day dawned gray and snowy. Having had a minimum of sleep and lots to drink, I climbed on the bus ready to snore through the trip to the airport.

            Not to be. There, in the front seat, was the stripper and her huge dog. I could tell she was waiting for me to sit nearby so we could chat all the way to Minneapolis, and since she was the only other person on the bus besides the driver, I decided it would be rude to do anything else. I sat across the aisle from her and prepared to listen to her life story. It turned out to be pretty interesting, especially the part about the stuffed dog, but that’s for another time. When I finally got home to my apartment, I decided it hadn’t been such a bad gig after all.

On The Road In Minnesota- Part II

Okay, here's what happened next:

             After unpacking, feeding the dog and checking the mattress for bedbugs, (surprisingly there were none.), I set out to visit the nightclub where I would be working for the next six nights. I thought of asking the woman behind the desk if she knew where it was, but I didn’t want to interrupt her nicotine fix, so I stepped out into the snowy street to look for it myself. I didn’t have far to look. Three doors down from the hotel I saw a white plastic sign with the name of the club and beneath that, my own name. In Chicago, I’d seen the same type of sign advertising the weekly specials at my dry cleaner’s. A window with a strand of blinking colored lights around the edges and a single flush door were set into a stucco wall, the whole thing painted, amazingly, dark lime green, causing me to doubt my own eyes and sanity. Music could be heard from within, mainly because the street was silent and deserted without. Opening the door, I found I had a choice: on my left was the entrance to the nightclub, which was closed, and to the right was a bar, open for business, with several seasoned drinkers and an elderly, sad-eyed bartender. At the end of the room was a tiny stage where a woman performed a strip tease to whatever was playing on the juke box. She had an enormous stuffed dog to help her out with this. Since the space had originally been one room, each venue was long and narrow, and both were equally dark, except for the small spotlight on the stripper and some indirect lighting from behind the bar.     

            “Help you?” asked the barman.

            “I’m the singer you hired for the week. Phoebe Otis.”

            He eyed me suspiciously.

            “You’re Phoebe Otis? You’re the singer from Chicago?”

            “That’s me,” I answered, wondering where this line of questioning was going.

            “We thought you were black,” he said.

            Keep in mind this was the early seventies. The term “African American” had not yet reached the Rochester, Minnesota ‘hood.

            “Did you?” I responded, wondering how they got that from my 8x10.

            “Your name. It sounds like you’re black.”

            “Nope,” I said.

            “Oh,” he said. “Well, Frankie and Ray aren’t here yet. Can I get you something to drink?”        

            “Do you have any coffee?”

            I soon had a mug before me. “Who are Frankie and Ray?”

            “They’re the band. Frankie’s my son. Best accordion player between here and Milwaukie.”

            Accordion. Wonderful.

            “What does Ray play?” I asked cautiously.

            “Guitar. They’re really good. You’ll love them.”

            A new song came on the juke box and I turned to watch the stripper.

            Frankie and Ray arrived ten minutes later. From school. Because they were both still in their senior year of high school. Kids.

            “Hi, Guys,” I said, shaking their offered hands. “Great to meet you. We can rehearse whenever you say.”

            “Awesome!” they chorused.

`           “Okay.” I paused, waiting for them to name a time. Finally I said, “How about tomorrow? Maybe around one at the club?”

            “Awesome!”

On The Road In Minnesota-Part I

Hello, Loyal Readers!
I'm going to try something different on you. The next few blogs will be the serialized version of the story I'm currently working on. It's a true story, for the most part, and, I hope, an amusing one. You be the judge and let me know...

On The Road In Minnesota   Part I

   Here’s a story for everyone who thinks show business is glamorous. I used to sing for a living, and often found myself on the road at holiday time. One year, I was booked into Rochester, Minnesota the week between Christmas and New Year’s. Those of you who are not traveling cabaret singers wouldn’t know this, but the week between Christmas and New Year’s is the single worst week of the year for an entertainer. Most just take it off, but I needed the money, so there I was on a journey from Chicago to Rochester, Minnesota, noted for being the location of the Mayo Clinic, and very little else. Great. My audiences would probably consist of worried and grieving relatives of patients with life-threatening medical conditions. Just the group to appreciate my catchy tunes and snappy patter.

   In those days, there were no direct flights from Chicago to Rochester, Minnesota, and I couldn’t afford the short connecting flight from Minneapolis, so I took the bus for the fifty mile or so final leg. Of course it was snowing. My little poodle had accompanied me and we were both eager to get to our hotel and rest after the trip. I don’t know what the dog was dreaming of, but I pictured a comfy, warm room with the customary two double beds, private bath and a working TV. I didn’t ask for much in those days. A Ramada Inn-level of accommodation would suit me fine. After a very slippery ride in a cab, I arrived at my hotel, which was a long way away from any Ramada Inn. The lobby sported naugahide covered chairs with curved metal arms, against dark lime walls. The windows were covered by heavy, dusty drapes which, I reckoned, had not been opened in my lifetime. Lighting came from circular porcelain fixtures hung from the ceiling on dusty chains. They shed a weak yellow wash over the place and in the centers of these fixtures could be seen shadows of bug bodies. A dark, patterned carpet of low pile covered the linoleum floor, which was a black and white checkerboard disguised almost to a uniform gray by the wax buildup on it. The whole place reeked of cigarettes. In one corner, a sad little Christmas tree glowed bravely, the only indication that anyone was aware of the season. There was a front desk with a middle-aged woman sitting behind it watching a small television while she chain-smoked.

            “Hi,” I said brightly. “I’m Phoebe Otis. I think my manager made a reservation for me.”

            Without speaking and without looking away from the TV, she shoved a register at me. It had a pen attached to it with a piece of twine.  I signed the book. The pen was sticky. I shoved the register back to her and still not looking away from the screen, she pushed a key across the counter to me.

            “Second floor, turn left off the elevator,” she said.

            She was busy lighting one cigarette from another, so I didn’t bother to say thanks. I picked up my bag and my dog and crossed to the elevator which didn’t smell any better than the lobby. We progressed to the second floor at a rate of speed I was sure I could have beaten on the stairs, and shuddered to a halt. After a nerve-wracking delay of almost 90 seconds, the doors slid open. Whoever had decorated the lobby had continued on the second level. A dimly lit hallway painted the same dark lime shade stretched off to either side of the elevator doors. I had been told to go left, and go left I did, finding room 212 five doors away. The lobby and hallway should have prepared me. The walls of my room were, wait for it, dark lime green. It was shaping up to be a long week.

Stay tuned, Friends....