Take me places.
We were touring through the Midwest. One of the perks with our gig that night was that it came with free lodging. Normally, we won’t stay anywhere but a hotel. When you’re on the road, you need your own place to stretch out and hole up in privacy without worrying about being in the company of strangers. But this “lodging” was a free stay at a hoity-toity bed and breakfast in town. From the moment we pulled up into the driveway and I saw the multi-level, lavishly landscaped Victorian home, though, I regretted my decision to stay there. Something about the place just didn’t seem right. Little did I know just how dead-on my gut feeling was.
Having seen our rent car pull up in her drive, the proprietor — who looked like she’d just stepped out of a Vogue magazine — met us at the curb, waved her arms frantically and squawked, “Park DOWN the hill! Park DOWN the hill! This space is for paying guests!” I looked at Lloyd, shaking my head in disbelief. We had tons of gear in our car! Could we not simply load out, and then park the car down the hill? But Lloyd, being a gentleman, backed out with a wave of compliance and did as told. Thirty minutes later, after we hauled our gear from the car back up the hill and to the porch of the B&B, we both heaved sighs of relief. We were finally going to be able to shower and get ready for that night’s show. Lloyd was just about ready to ring the doorbell when the door flew open. It was the proprietor again, standing at the entryway and pointing at our feet. “TAKE YOUR SHOES OFF!”
Okay, now this was going to far. I don’t often let “my girls” out in public, and I’d be damned if I was gonna let this perfectly coifed middle-aged prom queen see my gnarly size 10’s, which were in need of both a pedicure and some Athlete’s Foot powder. But before I could protest, Lloyd was slipping off his boots with a “Will do,” and a “Beautiful place you have here.” I took my shoes off, winced when our hostess raised a plucked eyebrow at my bare flippers (I’d forgotten socks), and waited patiently as she then spread out a sheet on the floor of the lobby — to set our gear on! “We JUST had this WHITE carpeting installed,” she explained. “It’s a DREAM come TRUE. Doesn’t it just make the wallpaper POP?” She looked at me, as if waiting for me to agree with her. She’d have blown a bobby-pin had she known that not but a few weeks prior I’d ripped the wallpaper off the walls and the white carpeting off the floor in my living room, choosing to just deal with bare walls and bald concrete until I could afford to redo the room. The wallpaper was hideous and the white carpet the previous owners had installed didn’t fit my lifestyle or my mutts. Talk about impractical!
“Nice,” I lied, shaking my head in approval. Nice.
Paying guests stayed on the lower levels. Complimentary guests, or “freebies,” as we were called, stayed seven flights up, in the loft. We complimented her on the newly refurbished living room, and shoeless, padded our way up the stairs. I looked back, and over the oiled wooden banister saw that her husband had joined her. He was as put together as his wife, and looked as if he’d coordinated his outfit to match hers. He felt me looking at him, met my gaze, scowled, and continued talking with his wife while pointing at the white carpet and the sheet with our instruments on it.
That night at the gig, the couple from the B&B showed up. Within a few minutes, I realized they weren’t there to support us, but to tout the fact that they were one of the sponsors for the concert series because they provided free rooms for the musicians. Taking note, at the start of the show, I sincerely thanked them for letting us stay at their lovely home. I was about half way through my first set when the two “freebies” (they were on the guest list), sitting front-row and center, both held up slips of papers with the name of their B&B on it. They wanted me to acknowledge them again, before we took a break for intermission. Nice.
I chatted amicably with them during intermission, but was more than a little relieved when I saw them scoot out the door before we began our second set. After the show, Lloyd and I were flat worn out from the events of the day. We’d shuttled our gear up and down that hill so many times that we were beyond exhausted. Once we dutifully removed our shoes and placed our instruments carefully back on the sheet, we decided to relax our aching muscles by taking the proprietor up on the wine she had left on the wooden bar in the living room. I suppose it was her effort to be hospitable — even to the “freebies.” Not wanting to disturb them, as they were both engrossed in a TV show, we didn’t greet them. They were sprawled out on their white sofa with their backs to us, and hadn’t heard us come in. It was the perfect opportunity for me to sneak a couple of glasses of wine. Sure, she had said we could have some! But I still felt uncomfortable — like she’d bite my hand if she had an excuse and I just wanted to stay out of her way. Lloyd bent over the rail of the stairs with his index finger touching his lips and gave me the “Shh,” sign. I guessed he didn’t want them to know we were back yet, either.
He looked ridiculous standing there in socks. I stifled a giggle as I crept toward the wine and was relieved to find that it had already been opened. I wouldn’t have a corkscrew to wrestle with, or a “pop” they might here hear. I quietly poured two small glasses, placed the bottle exactly back where I’d found it, and turned toward Lloyd to retreat back up the seven flights of stairs to my “room” — which was really just a shoebox with lace curtains. Lloyd’s was on the eighth floor; he was pretty sure his room was actually the attic.
I’m not sure how it happened, as there were no obstacles between the staircase and me. But I tripped. Somehow, I managed to keep hold of both glasses — while the contents of each flew out and landed in red splatters on the white carpet. I looked up at Lloyd. He was pale-faced and mortified. In perfect, comic synchronicity, our heads snapped towards the TV room; remarkably, our hosts hadn’t heard a thing! I softly walked to Lloyd and handed him the glasses. He shook his head in disbelief and snuck up the stairs, leaving me to fend for myself! I realized that if I crawled on my belly to my backpack, they wouldn’t be able to see me. I had a towel in there I could use to clean this up! Yep, the commemorative towel given to me by my friends Steve and Johnnie from WGN in Chicago that boasted, “In with the goat — out with the curse,” celebrating the Cubs and their victories in 2005.
The B&B couple continued to watch TV, their arms draped lovingly around one another … in matching sweaters? No, surely not. I shook my head and, not 10 feet behind them, went back to the crisis at hand — clawing at the carpet with my goat towel like an unleashed hellhound. Luckily, they had treated their carpet with some type of stain-guard. So with effort, and more than a few prayers, most of the wine came right out. Most of it.
The next morning, we crept downstairs and loaded out of their home before they awoke, while it was still dark outside. I left a thank-you note and some CDs on their spotless marble countertops. Once outside, I noticed that besides us “freebies,” they had no guests. Zilch. But that hadn’t stopped the owners from placing a large clay pot in the parking space next to theirs. Flowers were spilling over the sides of the pot, and in the middle of the colorful bouquet was what looked like a freshly painted sign that read, “GUEST PARKING ONLY AT ALL TIMES.”
Nice, I thought. Lloyd must not have noticed the sign, because he was a gentleman through and through and had he seen it, I was certain he wouldn’t have pulled our rental right up to the base of that clay pot. We loaded up in haste, and as we disappeared around the corner I could swear I saw the hostess burst out of the house with arms waving.
Nice.
By Terri Hendrix
THM Music (C) (P) 2010
"Cry Till You Laugh - The Part That Ain't Art"
