Mystery Musical Date

I try to get comfortable on the bed and I realize that it’s not that the bed is uncomfortable, it’s quite adequate, but the pillows are too flimsy. I prefer two pillows. The bottom one has to be more solid than the top and I regret not bringing my own.

It crosses my mind as I flip the channels on the remote control that I am paying $100.00 to sit in a motel room to feel lonely and sad. I could do this just as easily at home.

The ringing of my cell phone grabs my attention for a moment and I am relieved to see that it’s Debbie calling. Perhaps she has changed her mind and is calling to tell me she is on her way up. She isn’t of course, she is just calling to tell me what time to expect her in the morning and that she will call before she leaves. I assure her that I will be there, because where could I possibly go? Then I try to convince her to get in her car right then and there and throw caution to the wind, live dangerously and join me because I am going stark raving mad. She laughs. I am almost begging. No not almost, I am begging. I am pathetically trying to guilt her into changing her mind. I cannot understand why she steadfastly refuses to come up until Wednesday, other than the fact that she is typically stubborn and only does what she wants to do. I nor anyone else, will ever get her to do something that she doesn’t want to do.

I have lots of good reasons for her to drive up that moment though. The room is already paid for; I’m lonely; it’s only an hour and a half drive; we would get an early start on the day; the room is already paid for; I’m lonely…then I realize that I am merely repeating my reasons over and over again and really I don’t have that many but I do feel they are good reasons. She won’t budge though and laughingly says goodbye and hangs up.

The silence (other than the constant chatter of the television) is deadly. I hate it. I return to the fetal position with my remote control and try to console myself.

Soon my mind turns to Musicman. I met him at the end of May while walking through a music festival. His music, which I could hear over the rooftops, drew me to the corner where he and his band were playing. He was singing one of my favourite Allman Bros songs, One Way Out. I planted myself on the edge of a planter across the street in the warm, spring sun and listened to them play song after song. I didn’t hear any that I didn’t like and it was a perfect moment in time. The voice, deep and raspy, from too many cigarettes, was very appealing.

After a few more songs, Musicman introduced the band members and I realized that the Bass player was an old acquaintance of mine. He was my old boyfriend’s roommate. I hadn’t seen him in years and this was a good opportunity to say hello and also get a closer look at the man behind the voice.

After a brief reunion with Bass player, I was introduced to Musicman. There was an intensity in his clear, blue eyes that made me want to stare, but I forced myself not to do so. He asked me if I wanted to buy a couple of their cd’s and when I said yes, he told me that he needed my address, phone number and email address. I complied because I was intrigued. I wanted to hear more of their music and because he knew Bass player, there was a higher comfort level than normal.

Sporadic email correspondence began shortly thereafter and was usually accompanied with questions of when I would be in their territory again. I could never give an answer because I didn’t have hardly any spare time to be going anywhere until this week, and when I made plans for my mini vacation, we decided to get together for a coffee and chat. I was also promised those elusive cd’s.

Just before leaving from home, I received an email from Musicman advising that he wouldn’t get off work until 10:00pm but he would be able to stop by the motel for a brief visit around 10:30pm. I replied that would be ok and suggested he call the motel earlier so that I could tell him what room I was in.

The fact that now I was sitting in a room without a telephone bothered me. Not only for safety sake, but now my chances of meeting up with him would be slim. Surely the young guy in the office would not be giving that information out to anyone, and I never thought to let him know that I was expecting a gentleman caller later that night. I decided that the only recourse would be to go outside at 10:30pm and sit at the picnic table waiting.

That idea didn’t appeal to me either and the closer it got to 10:30pm the more I was accepting that I would not see him and it just wasn’t meant to be. I have a fatalistic attitude about most things. People think I’m crazy sometimes, but I find it easier to deal with disappointment that way. If it doesn’t happen, it wasn’t meant to, if it does, than it was meant to and so on.

Still lying on the bed, trying not to fall asleep to the news, I was startled by the quiet knock on my door. I expected to see the young fellow from the office coming with a message and was very, very surprised to see Musicman standing there.

"How did you find me?"

"The guy in the office told me your room number. You were expecting me, weren’t you?"

"Yes, I was, but I don’t have a telephone in the room so I’m just surprised that we are actually meeting up. It never dawned on me that he would tell you what room I was in. I mean, I never told him I was expecting a visitor."

"Well, I’m glad he did."

"Oh yes, so am I. Sorry, I don’t mean to sound like I’m not happy to see you. Anyway, let’s go sit on the picnic table on the deck and talk."

"That sounds good, I can’t stay too long. I only have about half an hour and then I really have to get going, but I just wanted to stop in and say hello."

It seemed like he had just arrived, but here I was shaking his hand goodbye. A promise was made to drop the cd’s off to me the next day at 1:30pm. He would have more time to visit and perhaps we would go for lunch somewhere.

I walk inside my room, sit on the edge of the bed and debate what I will do next. Now I am wide awake and feeling trapped by the small room. After some thought, I decide to go out for a wee drive and perhaps grab a hamburger down the road.

The hamburger joint was long closed up and my gas gauge was warning me that I was not the only one that needed to be fed. Knowing full well that there would not be an open gas station in the Beach, I turn my car towards Collingwood and pray that there really would be an extra 5 kms worth of gas after the needle hits empty.

…to be continued.