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!”