Monday, September 28, 2009
The first gig is in a church in a south suburb of the city. I need about 40 minutes to get there. Lena is still asleep as I prepare for the job, I leave some grapes and a choice of outfits for her in the living room. She will wake up before daddy does and know to get dressed. I kiss the top of her sleepy head and tiptoe out of the bedroom.
The gig is an Irish funeral for an elderly gentleman, Mr. Mahoney. This in itself is not unusual or remarkable except for the fact that the family asked for an Irish instrumentalist, too. That means that I get to sing with one of my favorite Irish musicians, Jimmy, who plays guitar and whistles. He will be groggy and late because he was out at a bar gig until the wee hours of the morning and should probably still be asleep. (He has four kids, so, how late would they let him sleep, anyway?)
He is Irish-from-Ireland, and that means, even though he is cutting it close in getting to the church, he must pause for a moment to kiss me “hello”. A buss on the lips followed by “good morning”. Together, we have as much fun as is possible while playing music at a funeral. The 85-year-old priest begins the Homily by saying, “Everybody wants to go to Heaven but nobody wants to die”. We are giggling. Jimmy plays his instruments so beautifully, you’d swear he was wide awake. I know I haven’t done a bad job myself, because both Jimmy and the music director at the parish praise the singing in ways that they just don’t have to. After we walk to the parking lot, we exchange the “good-bye, see you later” smooch that is required in order for us to part ways. He’s a great musician, a sweet person, and I just love him.
I race home in order to see Lena before she goes to preschool. I make it there in time to sit with her for a few minutes while she waits for our neighbor to walk across the yard with her own preschooler and collect Lena for their carpool. She is wearing purple Crocs on her feet and I notice that the Tinkerbell charm in her shoe is missing its head. As I remove the headless fairy, Lena is asking me to rethink my plans for the day and to come home while it is still morning. (Morning for Lena is anytime when you can still see daylight.) I tell her that I will be home before she wakes up on Saturday and I help her put her backpack on. We walk towards our neighbor’s car, and Lena kisses me goodbye, going off happily with her friend. I already miss her and I love her.
Following a quick trip to the Jewel for some provisions so that the family will not starve while I’m away for the rest of the day, my husband anxiously desires a cup of coffee from the Caribou. I don’t know why he doesn’t want to brew a pot at home but, hey, he’s buying so I’ll go with him on my way out of town. First I have to swap my funeral-singing clothes for the outfit that I will need in the evening. He patiently finds my microphone and helps put the groceries away. We get coffees at Caribou and sit for a moment in their comfy chairs, chatting about neighborhood happenings. He looks a little tired, possibly from lack of coffee until 1:00pm, or from the tremendous effort he is putting into creating class materials for a music camp that he will be teaching at next weekend. I could sit all day (or go home and nap), but I have to get moving. I kiss his cheek because I love him.
The next stop is all the way northeast, into the city, where I will spend time being an Arts Administrator. Half-way there, I get a phone call saying, “Where are you? We miss you!” I am coming as fast as I can, although Chicago’s finest cops have inexplicably come screeching into the intersection near the Superdawg and closed it right in front of me. A small detour is required.
Polish-from-Poland people share the same kissing culture as the Irish-from-Ireland do, and both the boss and the secretary of the organization that I am on my way to fall into that category of Polish-ness. However, I see them both so often, that we have developed an un-spoken understanding of when to kiss “hello” and “goodbye”. We do it when we are out on social occasions or at post-concert receptions. We save the biggest Polish kisses, three times – one cheek, the other cheek, the first cheek again, for Christmas and Easter activities. We are released from kissing obligations at our office. On this particular day, I solve a major problem for the boss who is preparing for both a concert on the weekend and a yearly board meeting. “I love you!” she cries out to me. This is such a frequent sentiment expressed at our office that I offer her my standard response “What’s not to love and I love you, too.” (Just don’t kiss me, I’m trying to get some work done!)
The Presbyterians that I know are not an overly kissing bunch. Genuinely caring, yes, and they like to shake hands and hug each other on Sundays. Today, one of them has an artistic concern that is bothering her to the point of sleeplessness. In between prepping music and writing paychecks for tomorrow’s concert, I read email messages from her and attempt to compose a cohesive message to her that might assuage her fear of being treated unfairly by the Music Director, who happens to be me. I think I have crafted a loving and thoughtful reply to her, perhaps we will exchange a hug soon.
It’s 8:00pm now and that’s really bad because I am still in the office near Lake Michigan and I am supposed to be standing in front of a band at a country club near Elgin by 9:00pm. It’s too far, it can’t be driven in sixty minutes. The boss, who is the one who has begged me to stay and help finish things for the board meeting, finally makes me leave by saying, “I love you, but, get out of here!”
It’s 9:00pm now, and I have somehow made it, in a light drizzle, to the highway exit, only 8 miles from the country club. The phone is ringing, it is the drummer who, of course, would like to know where I am. I am coming as fast as I can, I’m almost there, I ask him to have the male vocalist, who is also the guitar player in the band, to start singing the set. There is a small problem with my suggestion because it seems that the guitarist thinks the gig is on Saturday, and today is Friday. The guitarist’s wife knows not his whereabouts. The band would be really grateful if I get there soon. It doesn’t matter that I am late because the event includes a charity auction, which is still going on.
Seven men in tuxedos are very glad to see me at 9:10pm because they are huddled together trying to re-do the set lists for the evening. Fear not, I say to them, because we live in the era of internet on our cell phones, I can pull up the lyrics to any tune that the male singer does. (Just don’t make me sing “Mony, Mony”, I’m not getting paid enough for that!) The only one who has to suffer anxiety now is me, the person who will have to sing the songs she doesn’t really know. A list is written, the auction is over, the guitarist calls, he is shocked at his own forgetfulness but he is on the way! I am so happy when he arrives that I could kiss him! (We’re busy, so I won’t.)
The view from the bandstand is one of sparkling wealth and privilege, people are dressed to impress. Ladies of a certain age show proof that doctors who perform botox injections and personal trainers earn a good living in this neck of the woods. Also striking is the decades of age difference between some of the more beautiful women and the men they appear to be escorting or married to. I have clearly let my career opportunities to become a trophy wife pass me by, since I am on stage both in my 40’s and pregnant. C’est la vie.
One female guest stands out. She looks Latina, the only one in the room who is not part of the wait staff at this gala affair. She is wearing the loudest dress, a pastel that stands out in a sea of dark colored frocks. It is floor length and fringed like a flapper girl outfit, and it has a very daring, long slit in the back. She dances with abandon all evening. She laughs and smiles, she does not appear to have a frozen face. She is not the youngest or the most classically beautiful of the women in the room, but she is alive and captivating. It is impossible not to notice her throughout the course of the dance sets.
The benefit of my having warmed up vocally early in the day, and having already sung quite a bit before arriving at this gig, is that I sound good. Better than I should sound because I am now getting sleepy. One of the sax players notices both, “God, you sound great today. You look kind of tired.” The guests at this party are nice, a cultured group. They care enough to hire live musicians, and they come up to the stage to talk to us and compliment us throughout the night. It is a pleasant job. They are trickling out now, towards the coatroom, many of the ladies taking the extravagant floral centerpieces with them.
We will play until as long as the contract requires us to for the hearty few dancers who still want to party. This includes the Latina lady in fringe. She dances, now with her girlfriends, until the last note is played. At which point, she scoops up her own centerpiece and runs up to me. Thrusting the large bowl of flowers, tall gladiolas, freesia, gloxinia and greenery into my hands, she says in accented English “Take this, this is for you, you deserve it!” With exuberance, her arms encircle me and the bowl of flowers, she hugs me, and kisses my cheek. I don’t know her name, but in this moment, I just love this adorable woman.
After the long drive home, there is no one awake to give me a good night kiss. At 3:00am, with giant flowers on the table, I head for bed, confident that my husband and children will shower me with good morning kisses when the sun comes up.
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