by Kim Cayer
The nightclub was packed and the noise level was high. I greeted the hostess, who was expecting me. She led me through a throng of dancing bodies to a table just off the dance floor. I yelled, “Do you know which one’s the birthday boy?”
She yelled something back but I couldn’t make it out. She saw my confused look and simply pointed to the table, which held two men and two women. Both men looked 40. I figured the odds weren’t too bad I would figure out who Scott was on the first try.
Of course I picked the wrong guy. I’d played a third of my act before I could hear one of the ladies telling me, “The other guy is Scott!” The bloody place was so noisy that I ended up shouting the song into Scott’s ear. The rest of the table, by necessity, missed out on the ‘show’. I dispensed with the rest of my act – pretending to administer to the 40-year-old’s heart. I would have to pantomime it, and miming was not my forte. I cut the act short by half. As long as Scott knew he’d received some sort of oddball gift from ‘The Struthers Family’, my job was pretty much done there.
On Saturday, I didn’t have a show until later in the afternoon. That usually meant I could sleep in, but when you’re sleeping in your car, pretty much anything could wake you up much earlier than planned. The night before I parked at the end of a road leading into an underdeveloped park. Quiet, dark, out of the way…and I was tired and in no mood to search for primo cover.
The next morning I awoke to excited voices. I raised my seat and saw a bunch of guys in uniforms. Everybody was carrying big bags and shovels. I craned my neck around and saw my Suzuki was the leader of a long row of cars. Rubbing my eyes, I tried to focus on the people surrounding me. It slowly dawned that they were boy scouts with their leaders. A massive tree-planting session was about to take place.
Carefully making a three-point turn, avoiding the hundred boy scouts looking into my overloaded car, I drove back up the road and turned onto a busy street. I found the closest place of business that was open (McDonalds), found their washroom, and began my day.
First on my schedule was a tacky bride at a bridal shower. Usually I don’t much care for performing ‘woman-to-woman’; I had so much schtick when it came to men. But I had fun with this character and her zany mismatched costume. Even if I did a bad show, my appearance was so striking, it was enough to get a huge belly laugh. Listen, if you have the crowd laughing, you have them in the palm of your hand.
Next up was the singing nun. Coincidentally, this show was in the same banquet hall, but in another room. I ran back to my car, threw the many assorted pieces of the tacky bride back into its garment bag, and wiped off the make-up as thoroughly as possible. Not a trace could be seen on the nun’s face. I put on the costume, assumed a holier-than-thou look, and walked back to the hall.
The bride-to-be, whom I’d just performed for, was outside having a cigarette with a matronly woman dressed in black from head to toe. The white cigarette the older gal was holding seemed completely wrong with her outfit, but she was sucking on it like she’d smoked since birth. A little too late, I tried to avert my face without seeming obvious. The young woman did a classic double-take when she saw me. I may have fooled her, had I not been carrying the same two balloons on a stick that I’d brought to her event. I didn’t even say hello, just went through the doors to Salon B.
A complete change of character, but still a dynamic show. I was so pious at the opening that when I got into my act and made the nun a bit sexier, the shock loosened everybody up. Same ‘bit’ as when I do Marilyn… “My heart’s pounding so hard, can you hear it?” and I pull their head to my chest. Laughs when I do it as Marilyn, gasps of astonishment when the nun does it.
From this show, I had to travel quite a distance to be a Grim Reaper, one of my least favourite characters. The garment was made of a thin nylon and was actually an inexpensive Halloween costume I’d gotten online. When I opened the packaging, I was astounded to see how well-made it was, and quite scary-looking. It was a problematic outfit though; my vision was blurred from the dark netting covering my face and the garment was too long. If I didn’t belt it just so, I would be tripping all over the place.
The drive out of town was quite unpleasant. The lingering stench of vomit filled the car. I was sure I’d given the gorilla slippers a thorough washing but obviously it wasn’t good enough. The smell seemed to fill my nostrils, even with the windows open.
I had an address in Ancaster, a town about an hour from Toronto. Assuming it was a house, I was surprised when my GPS informed me that I was at my destination. A bingo palace? Oh well, as long as Henrietta was in there… I went into my Grim Reaper persona, tall, brooding, ominous, and entered the bingo hall.
I heard, “O 66, 0 66, clickety-click,” as I walked in. The brightness of the place aided my vision and I could see a wave of people turn to stare at me. Before I could say anything, a large shape lumbered toward me.
“Hi, I’m the manager, I know why you’re here but you’re going to have to wait…we have a game in progress,” he quietly whispered. “Just until somebody calls Bingo.”
Not wanting to attract more attention, I stood stock still as the players continued their game. People kept staring at me and behind my netted face, I stared back. Oh crap, about 75% of the crowd were senior citizens. I’m sure they loved seeing the Grim Reaper come around. My pose seemed menacing, silent but deadly.
Finally, “Under the B, number 5, B 5, stayin’ alive…”
Followed by a “Bingo! I got Bingo!”
The attendant dutifully checked to see that the excited 90-year-old actually did have a Bingo. He turned to the bingo caller and nodded his head. In the dull monotonous voice, the caller told the folks, “Ladies and gentleman, chicken dinner, we have a winner.”
The manager of the bingo hall appeared on stage and whispered to the caller, before scampering off towards me again. The bingo caller, in the same drone, spoke into the microphone. “Folks, we’re going to take a short pause while we have a spot of entertainment.”
At this point, about half the hall emptied out and I saw cigarette packages clutched in everybody’s hands. Some even had the unlit cigarette already in their mouths, their lighters in hand, ready to flick as soon as they cleared the no-smoking area.
The manager pointed out Henrietta, who was seated at the same table as the gleeful bingo winner. When she saw me up close, the happy old biddy clammed up, her eyes blinking rapidly.
“Don’t worry, bingo winner,” I calmed her. “Today really is your lucky day. I’m not here for you.” With that I wheeled around and pointed my plastic scythe at Henrietta. “It’s YOU, Henrietta, that I’ve come to see!” Henrietta (though I was told she was called Henny since birth, so why did they give me her formal name that nothing rhymed with? ‘Henny’ would have been a cinch, anything ending with an ‘ee’ sound) was just entering her senior years. Her sister had sent the telegram as a joke that now that Henny was 65, she was at death’s door. Only a family member could get away with that joke. Henny knew a prank when she saw one and completely went with the scenario. She was quite the ham and basically made the show a hit.
Back at my car, I stood in the parking lot and peeled off the costume. I opened the trunk to get my French maid out; may as well get into it before I started the long drive to Pickering. I love my job but hated all the driving. Back in the ‘old days’, after a long day of shows, I couldn’t wait to get home, get out of the damn car (sorry, Suzi!) and just be glad I was off the highways. Now, after a similar long day of shows and driving, I was forced by circumstances to remain in my car.
I sat on the driver’s seat to put on my fishnet pantyhose and gagged at that awful vomit smell again. This couldn’t continue! It was affecting my quality of life! I threw the fishnet stockings aside and went back to the trunk. Pulling out the bag that contained the still-damp slippers, I gave it a tentative sniff. The bag didn’t smell at all, so I opened it up and took out one slipper, again cautiously smelling the underside. There was definitely a l
ingering bad aroma, but it wasn’t ground zero of the REALLY bad smell.
I went back to the front of the car, leaned in and inhaled. Now, for some reason, I couldn’t smell it that much, so I sat down on the seat in the same way I’d been doing moments earlier. Maybe the odour was stronger again, but by now I was simply confused. Deciding to just carry on, I again started to put on my fishnets. As I raised my food towards me, the smell came in loud and clear.
Oh, dear God, my feet stink of vomit! I shuddered to think that whatever had seeped through the slippers and onto my feet had been there all night and day. I was sure I would lose a foot from some disgusting infection I was bound to get. Once more, my inner spirit wavered…Had you been in your home last night, you’d have had your usual nightly bath! I’d developed a habit of dropping into various hotels, acting as if I had every right to be there, and using their lobby washrooms to seriously wash up. McDonald’s and Tim’s had too much traffic, even at midnight. Gas stations rarely had toilet paper, never mind the thick hand towels offered by The Delta Inn.
There would be time to worry about this after my French maid show. I had to get going before I’d be late, so I sprayed my feet with perfume and finished dressing. I drove to Pickering in record time, windows rolled down as far as possible before clothes and boxes could fly out.
The French maid was thankfully outdoors. I was a gift from the wife. Other than the fact that my spike heels keep slipping through the cracks in the deck, the show went spectacular. FiFi the French maid pulled out all stops, anything to make them forgive my stinky feet. The happy couple walked me to my car after the show. I turned down their awkward request for a threesome for later that night by saying I was happily married. Joke’s on them.
My last show of the night was at the Old Links Golf Club in Bolton. Another long journey. Now that I knew my feet were in mortal danger of a fungal outbreak, the rest of my body began reacting in sympathy symptoms. I started to get a headache, (though I hadn’t eaten in quite a few hours, food had lost its appeal. How I longed to even boil an egg or toast my own toast the way I liked it toasted), I got stomach cramps, my back ached. Something had to give.
En route, I came up with a plan and prayed it would work. For my sanity, it had to work. As I entered the long winding road to the golf course, I pulled off to the side. Using my trusty Blackberry (who needs ya anyhow, laptop?), I googled the Old Links Golf Course and came up with their phone number. I pressed the button for ‘call’ and was connected to reception.
“Hi, I’m going to be coming by there soon,” I began. “I’m doing a singing telegram…”
“Yes,” she interrupted, “we know about it. Are you lost, honey?”
“Oh, no! Actually I’m here already,” I replied.
“Aren’t you early?” the receptionist asked, a worried tone in her voice. “They just served the main course.”
“I’m calling to ask you for a favour, if it’s possible,” I was as polite as could be. “You see, the lights in my car don’t work that great and…I want to look good for my show. I was wondering…do you think I could get ready inside the golf club somewhere? I just need a public washroom, if that’s okay?”
“Awww, sweetums, you come on in,” the receptionist said. “You’re the entertainer, you’re the big star, of course you want to look nice! Listen, nobody uses the member’s lounge at this time of night. You’re welcome to it.”
“Oh, I can’t thank you enough!” I gushed. “I’ll be there in two minutes!”
I quickly parked my car and grabbed my top-hat-and-tails costume. In my haste, with my feet afire, I swear, I almost forgot three of the four things I always made sure to take to my gigs – rose, balloons, song and car keys. Grabbing them, I locked up and ran to the rustic-looking Old Links Golf Course door.
The receptionist, a woman about forty years younger than I’d imagined, stood up to greet me. Her smile instantly faded when she saw my get-up. “You’re a French maid? I thought Mr. Wilson booked a….”
I lifted up my garment bag. “This is my costume for the show.” I pointed to the skimpy French maid I was wearing. “This was my last show.”
She almost swayed in relief. “Thank Betsy! The couple celebrating their anniversary tonight – extremely religious! Just make sure you keep it clean.”
That was good information. In the info I was given to write a song, no mention was made of their devoutness. I’d have to do away with the sexual innuendoes, the double-entendres, the full-on flirting. There went half the show. And if she wanted clean, my perfumed feet didn’t make the cut.
I was shown to the member’s lounge and had the washrooms pointed out to me. Assuring the receptionist, LizBeth (really, no space?) that I’d be seeing her in thirty minutes, I closed the door on her. Dropping all my stuff immediately onto a couch, I shot into the washroom.
Ooowee! Luxury! There were three giant sinks, with enough space between them that I could sit up there and stick my feet into the basin. And even better, separate faucets so that I could control the water temperature! I’d become almost obsessive in my hatred for those sensor-controlled one-temperature single taps found in every public washroom these days. The coup de grace were the thick towels to dry your hands (or feet) and the lilac-smelling soap. With the water turned as hot as I could stand it, I scrubbed them until they were beet red and starting to swell. Finally I stood up and with some dexterity, I lifted each foot up to my nose and sniffed.
Aahhh, back to normal! Even better, I could say. And while sniffing my left foot, I happened to take in the rest of the washroom. Three lovely toilet areas to go with the three sinks. And tucked farther back, a small sauna, which held no interest for me. What made me scurry over was the sight of…be still, my heart…showers! And even though I’m a bath person, I’ve been known to take the occasional shower. Usually a power shower, in and out in under five minutes. Could I do that now…?
Glancing at my watch, I saw I had less than fifteen minutes to get ready. My make-up was fine; the French-maid look could work for the top hat and tails, though the eyeliner was a bit thick. Not enough time for a badly needed shower. Oh well, at least my feet were clean.
Going up the stairs, I went back to reception. LizBeth perked up. “Oh, what a difference a change of clothes can make! You look much more presentable!”
I didn’t know whether that was a compliment or a diss, but I let it pass. “I want to thank you for letting me use that room,” I said. “I’m going to have to run back down there after, to get my stuff.”
“You have another show after this?” she asked. I didn’t, but I nodded anyhow. “If you want to use that room again, go ahead. I know you said you had bad lighting in your car.”
“Seriously?” I asked. Now she nodded her head. “Wow, you’re the best,” I told her. She was my angel in disguise, and I’m sorry I was rude about her name. She had no idea of what I planned on doing in that members’ lounge. Refreshing my make-up was not one of them.
The top-hat-and-tails telegram went superb. I had been worried about losing a good portion of my show but somehow I still managed to give them fifteen minutes’ worth. It was a different show than usual, for some reason. I was affectionate with the elderly couple, I went to the trouble of meeting their children and grandkids, and I shared words of wisdom on the sanctity of marriage. I was not just smiling, I was ebullient. Maybe because I had the best-smelling feet in the room. Or maybe because I was about to put my devious plan into action.
After a final photograph with the grateful couple, sent from their niece in California, I wished them many more years of wedded bliss and walked out of their lives. I passed the lovely LizBeth on my way to the members’ lounge.
“Sounds like they had fun,” she commented.
“It’s my job,” I replied. “I’m going to change now…don’t panic if you don’t see me for twenty minutes or so.”
“Take your time,” she offered, as her computer made an odd sound. “Oh, no, not again!” LizBeth pouted
as she jabbed at a key. I simply slipped away, turned a corner and literally ran in my high heels to the stairs. By the time I’d gotten to the bottom, half my clothes were already off. I ran into the lounge and directly to the glistening, clean shower stalls.
I stayed in that heavenly shower for a long, long time. I knew I should get going but I just couldn’t seem to get out. After thoroughly cleaning my body and washing my hair twice, I just let the water cascade over me. I figured they’d have to remove me by force. Suddenly, after what was maybe forty minutes? the water began to get cooler. That’s happened to me before in my house…but was I using up the entire golf club’s supply of hot water? I got out immediately.
Standing there naked, dripping wet, I couldn’t see any large towels. Was I supposed to bring my own? I picked up my costume jacket with the long tails and used it to dry myself off. Going back into the washroom area, I upgraded to the little hand towels.
Definitely time to split. However, I didn’t want to get dressed again in my costumes. I picked up the French-maid dress and put it on, sans bra or panties. Squeezing my damp feet into the heels, I packed everything else away into the garment bag. It was time to make a stealthy getaway now, especially since I was wearing a micro-mini dress with no underwear on.
I quietly went up the stairs, then tip-toed to the wall shielding me from the reception desk. I slowly peeked around it and saw LizBeth on the phone. It seemed apparent she had called somebody about her malfunctioning computer, as she was listening and then pressing the odd key.
With haste, I made a fast bee-line to the exit. Once I had the door open, I turned around and called out to the receptionist, “Thank you, LizBeth!” She glanced up, gave me a perfect receptionist happy smile, and waved goodbye. I’m glad she didn’t notice I hadn’t one spec of make-up on my face…and that my hair was awfully damp.
Back at my car, I exchanged the French-maid dress for the most comfy old sweat pants and baggy t-shirt I’d packed. I enjoyed a big yawn. It had been a busy day of work, and the steaming shower had left me feeling drowsy. All I wanted to do was get some sleep before I had to do it all over again tomorrow.