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....