by Kim Cayer
I was in Bolton. The danger of getting in trouble with cops or management were slim. I didn’t drive far that night, looking for a place to sleep. About fifty metres, to be precise. The far corner of the Old Links Golf course, a nice place to golf, shower and sleep.
Sunday dawned early to the sounds of the course-maintenance workers mowing the grass. That always meant one thing – time to get out of there. Today I had three shows, the first one at 11 a.m. downtown. I took my sweet time getting there, travelling the back roads instead of the highway, turning a 45-minute drive into double the time.
Today I had to show up at a brunch as a Bag Lady. That was usually a favourite character of mine; clothing-wise, anything worked as long as you looked down and out. A lot of laughs came from the costume, a lot from my character’s quirks – scratching at her head lice, phlegm-filled coughing before I sang the song, the begging for a penny, nickel, quarter, dime.
As well, the location for this show could not be more perfect. Where else do you find the homeless? Usually downtown! I would park my vehicle and then walk to my gig, getting in character before I arrived. Downtown, I wouldn’t get a second look from bystanders; the homeless are a common sight. Often when I’m booked to do a show in some quaint villages that have never even heard of the phrase ‘bag lady’, I have to say, “Hey, don’t be alarmed, I’m really a singing telegram.” And they kind of acknowledge that they get it, but I know they don’t because they still look alarmed.
Today felt different though. Walking the block and a half to the Fred’s Not Here restaurant, I had somewhat of an epiphany. With one stroke of bad luck, like my car getting into a wreck, and I too could become a bag lady. For God’s sake, I hadn’t even changed out of my t-shirt and sweats, nor bothered to put on underwear. I was even wearing my battered old slippers, which I’d brought with me and slipped on when I was running into restaurants to pee. Was I subconsciously preparing myself for a future life of living on the street?
I started to get anxious, maybe I was going to cry, when I glanced into the window of a closed sushi place. I could see the reflection of my painted face and relaxed. I saw someone that didn’t look like me at all; she looked like Hagatha the Bag Lady. In that brief instant, I snapped back to normal. Don’t be silly, I chided myself. Besides, no bag lady smells as clean as I do.
Entering Fred’s Not Here, I went into my tried-and-true routine. I scrounged a bun off a platter, I pretended to sneak a slice of bacon off someone’s plate. As soon as the crowd seemed to turn against me, demanding management evict me, I suddenly noticed my ‘victim’ and acted like he was an old boyfriend.
Today, Seamus, the new 40-year old, was taken off-guard. He denied it and seemed to fear any contact with me. It wasn’t until I told him I wrote a song about him and proceeded to sing it that he then realized it was a set-up. The entire audience gave me a standing ovation.
However, I still looked like a bag lady as I left the restaurant. Just for kicks, I dragged my ass getting back to my car until I saw a couple well-dressed women stop to crack open their Starbucks coffee containers. They were close to my vehicle and I made sure they saw me get into it. Their dumbfounded expressions, one with her cup frozen halfway to her lips, made me love the character all the more. It was a role I could play until retirement!
I had almost the whole day to kill before my next show, a Madonna. This one was up in Barrie, over an hour north of Toronto. With nothing better to do, I drove up there immediately. Being at a party seven hours early always ensured I got a good parking place.
Dark clouds were rolling in as I made the drive. After stopping for gas, washroom, snacks, the usual, I GPSed the party’s address. My current GPS pal, the American Dude, told me to continue up Highway 400. Once at the address, I donned a baseball cap and sunglasses, even though the sky was seriously overcast. I just didn’t want the people at the event to later recognize me as the woman loitering in her car on their street all day.
I wrote the song for Zak, which didn’t take long. The telegram was being sent from his girlfriend and apparently, she didn’t know much about him. He liked video games, he liked burgers, he liked rap music, his girlfriend’s name was Bronte.
Hours to go until my show. I could take a walk, but with my luck the rain would start. I could go to a mall and drink more coffee and look around, but I just didn’t want to lose my parking spot. As soon as this gig was done, I had to race back to Toronto for my final show of the evening. I wished I had a house to clean.
That thought naturally led me to look at the mess in my car. Maybe I could spend time cleaning it? I had removed the bulk of my belongings and had just started doing a fine job of repacking it all in when fat raindrops began to fall. As fast as possible, I put the rest of my stuff in but it wasn’t as neat as I was aiming for. Rain doesn’t scare me, but being conspicuous in sunglasses is what hustled me back into my car.
The sky turned black. Even though the rain came down steadily, it was still warm. A refreshing breeze wafted through the car. The water droplets that came in through my open windows felt like a spray of mist from a waterfall, just delightful! I tilted my seat back, tucked the pillow under my head and picked up a cooking magazine I’d been reading intermittently. Fictional reading, you could say. Studying a difficult recipe for brined turkey, I drifted off to sleep.
Hours later, I awoke to a huge crash of thunder. I was drenched from the rain and had a chill. As I rolled up the window, a burst of lightning lit up the street. Though it was only about 5 o’clock, the darkness made it appear later. I saw a woman walk out of the house where I would be performing. She was carrying a bunch of helium-filled balloons, all saying ‘25!’ on them. She placed them on the lawn and scurried back inside. Within seconds, the heavy rain was pushing the balloons to the ground.
I turned on my interior light and decided to write the song for my last show. Looking at the Blackberry attachment that contained Braxton’s information, I groaned aloud. Another one of those instances where the person sending the telegram just couldn’t tell you enough about the birthday boy. His many accomplishments. Every school, course and class he’d taken since junior kindergarten. The many names of his friends (and spouses!), all the jobs he’d held since his first paper route. Didn’t these people understand they were hiring me to write a little song, not his autobiography!
With that done, I blew up the balloons for the next two shows and then considered my make-up. Time was of the essence; I had to rush from my Madonna gig to Marilyn. Except for their famous beauty marks, the make-up was identical. As long as I remembered to switch beauty marks, I’d be okay. I took extra care with my make-up because I wanted it to look fresh for the next couple hours and because my final gig was going to a well-known wealthy man. He’d have discerning guests who knew a quality act when they saw one.
I was ready to go into my show at eight p.m. There were quite a few cars on the street but only a couple were by the party house. I made my entrance and I could see Zak wasn’t that impressed. He turned to his girlfriend and said, “You sent this?”
She nodded, all pleased with her inventiveness. With the $250 she spent on this telegram, she could have gotten him an iPod or rims for his Ford Fiesta. Instead, she thought this gift would be more appreciated. “You said you liked Madonna,” she gloated.
“I said I liked Gwen Stefani,” Zak reminded her.
“I remember you said you liked Madonna,” Bronte said, urging him to like me.
“I said I liked that one song of Madonna’s,” Zak clarified. “The Virgin one. That’s it.”
“I don’t remember anything about Gwen Stefani,” Bronte pouted.
“Oh, come on, I love Gwen Stefani!” Zak retorted. “You should know that by now.”
“Well, sorrrr-ree!” Bronte retorted.
It was time to interrupt this lover’s quarrel. “I’m still here!” I broke in. “And I do have a new song to sing! I call it ‘A Song for Zak’ and it goes like this….” I went straight into the sing
ing telegram. What with the fake flirtation and the appreciation of the six Madonna fans at the party, the act went over well enough that Zak gave his girlfriend a kiss on the cheek at the end.
“Thanks, Bron,” he said. “But next year, Gwen Stefani, okay?”
Like that couldn’t wait until I was out of earshot? Well, good luck, Zak, finding a Gwen Stefani lookalike. I’m in the business, and there is none.
Through a torrential downpour, with intermittent flashes of lightning, I headed back to Toronto. As soon as I got into the city and off the highway, back in the land of traffic signals, I began changing my costume every time I had to wait out a red light. Before I’d driven 10Ks, Madonna transformed into Marilyn. The beauty mark above the lip now appeared on my cheek. Best of all, it appeared I would get to this show on time.
The lack of parking is what astounded me. I guess Braxton was quite the popular man with the upper echelon of society. Porsches, Bentleys and BMWs lined the road as far as I could see. I drove around the block and couldn’t find a spot. Often I will block the driveway at my show’s location if I can’t find a place to park; I know nobody will leave while I’m doing my act. This time, not even that option was available. The foot of the drive was taken by the caterer’s truck.
Even the spaces by fire hydrants were taken, not that I’d allow myself that dangerous luxury. I finally parked about half a kilometre away when someone vacated a spot. To make matters worse, the rain was coming down in buckets. How I despised it when people ordered up expensive entertainment and expected them to show up looking mint, when they couldn’t supply parking. Don’t blame me when the gorilla’s sopping-wet feet leave marks all over your hardwood floor. You didn’t supply parking, the ape had to walk through puddles to get to your soiree – put the blame on your damn self.
An umbrella would sure come in handily and I knew I’d packed one, but I didn’t have the time to dig through my car to find it. Grabbing the balloons, rose and my song, I reached for my issue of Bon Vivant magazine. It was nice and big and only cost a quarter at the library’s used-book sale. So I splurged one day, but it helped to shield most of the rain from my wig. In my high heels, I did a fast walk to the mansion where I’d be performing.
I got more pissed off the closer I got. Ringing the doorbell, I waited for somebody to answer. The music coming from the lower level of the house was deafening. I rang the bell three more times then brazenly tried the door. The knob turned easily in my hand so I walked in.
The inordinate style of the foyer was remarkable but what was most appealing was the tiny washroom tucked right beside the front door. Nobody saw me come in, nobody saw me duck into the little cubicle. The entire washroom was encased in mirrored tiles.
The sight staring back at me made me want to run back to my car. I was a trashy, has-been, slutty version of Marilyn Monroe. For obvious starters, my white dress had become rather sheer; my nipples were clearly visible. Even though Bon Vivant did its best, my wig held a thousand droplets of water. The boa’s red feathers clung to me, the dye rubbing off on my dress, gloves and shoulders. Worst of all was my beauty mark. Instead of that perfect round dot, now there was a long black line running down my face.
Fire me, ask me to leave, but I definitely planned to be late for my performance. There was no possible way I would even allow myself to be seen like this. I took a towel and rubbed hard at my wet dress, trying to dry it enough so that all eyes would not be on my boobs. I took off the wig and gave it a hundred good shakes before placing it back on my head. I fixed my make-up as best as I could, without having my make-up bag with me.
Picking up the rose (looked like it lost a few petals), the telegram song (about to tear apart from its sodden state) and balloons (still glistening wet), I made my exit from the washroom. A woman in black pants and white shirt was just passing by, a silver platter of appetizers cradled in her arms. I asked her for Elinor, my contact, and was told to wait, she would get her.
Five minutes later (all good, I was getting drier), Elinor showed up and asked if I could give her ten minutes so she could get everybody together in one room. I guess my being twenty minutes late (though she didn’t even seem to notice) gave her the right. Fifteen minutes later, she showed up again. I’m glad I didn’t have anywhere else to skedaddle to – all this waiting around would have put a wrench in my schedule. Often people will do this – assume that their party is the only thing you have to do, and they can keep you waiting all night if they wished. “Oh, sorry, can you wait until the bride and groom have had their first dance?” Me: “Oh, do you know how long that will take?” Them: “I don’t know, they haven’t finished eating, they’re still on their salads.”
I was led down the stairs and by rote, went into the same routine I’ve done for twenty years. Maybe the crowd was liquored up, maybe it was a boring party with too-loud music, but the guests were loving me. After a multitude of photos taken with the male guests, and one with Braxton’s mother, I bid adieu and walked up the steps. Elinor followed me to the door.
Now, I’m not greedy and I don’t always expect to get a tip. I know I’m already paid quite well for my services. However, when you’re doing a show for one of the richest men in Toronto, a gift sent from the wife, you can’t help but hope for a few bucks. I’m sure the caterers were getting a tip. So I lingered by the front door.
“That was fun!” I laughed. “Good crowd! Very appreciative.” Subliminal hints.
“They loved it,” she agreed. “Thanks for coming in this rain. Did you have an umbrella?”
“Oh, yeah!” I remembered. I opened the door to the little bathroom and reached into the sink, where my Bon Vivant magazine still rested. “Well, thanks for the job,” I said.
She opened the front door. “Drive safe now,” she said in a kind voice. I could see that Dame Elinor, in her Dior dress and Tiffany jewels, was not about to bequeath any extra of that wealth onto me.
As I turned to leave, a voice boomed out. “Elinor!” She froze and I could see the top of Braxton’s head peering from the stairwell. He strode up. I didn’t know whether to leave or see if I was part of this. “Did you give her a tip?” he asked his wife.
“N…no,” she stammered. “I…I was going to mail it to her agent…”
“Like hell you were,” he spat out. The lovey-dovey couple I’d seen downstairs were nowhere to be found on this floor. Braxton suddenly appeared tyrannical. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a gleaming money clip choking with bills, and peeled off a hundred. He held it out to me. “Take this.”
“No, it’s not necessary,” I said, with my hand already on the money. “But thank you, you’re very generous!” Tyrant or not, I liked his style.
“I enjoyed your show very much,” he said. Leaning forward, guaranteeing that I never work for Elinor again, he gave me a soft kiss on the cheek. “Sorry my wife is so cheap.”
On that note, I left. I clutched that hundred-dollar bill tighter than the magazine shielding me from the rain. I got back to my car and made sure to put the money into my glove box. I drove off, with the usual predicament ahead of me – where do I sleep tonight?
About five minutes later, stopped at a red light, a honking noise caught my attention. A woman in black clothing covering every inch of her body except for her eyes, driving a fancy SUV, rolled down her window. Me, in my body-exposing white dress, rolled down mine.
“Your dress is hanging out of your car door!” she shouted.
I looked down, followed the line of my dress, and saw I’d shut the door on most of the skirt part. I groaned then said, “Thank you!” to the lady. I made an immediate right-hand turn into a Sunoco station.
I pulled into a spot quite a distance away from the entrance to the gas station. Hopefully nobody would bug me and I could sleep the night away here. I opened the door to see if any damage had been done to my costume. The whiteness of the dress that had remained in the car was a stark contrast to the mud-splattered wet black mess that hung outside.
&nb
sp; Great. I’d just done my laundry four days ago – about a month’s worth. Obviously I’d need to visit the laundromat again. Taking it off, I stuffed it into a Thai One On plastic bag, which I then wedged onto the seatbelt thingy (always trying to pad the damn thing). I changed into my regular clothes and then felt queasy. I don’t know if I was hungry but the Tim Horton’s down the street held zero appeal. After a brief visit to the gas station’s washroom to wash away Marilyn, I bought some peanuts and celebrated the end of a lucrative weekend.
The next morning, I understood why I’d been having a sore back, stomach cramps and a headache. Sorry to have put the blame on you, my vomit-covered feet, but my period had arrived. In the past, I knew to the hour when I could expect my 28-day visitor. Since moving into my car, my period ceased to be regular. Now it was every 40 days or so.
Maybe my menstruation started during the night, in my sleep. It had gone on long enough, without protection, to soak through my sweat pants and onto my seat. It looked like a chicken had been killed in my car. So now I had a Marilyn dress to clean as well as my car seat.
As mentioned, I was in a precipitous state. Here I was, making tons of cash, but all I could do was gripe. Things weren’t panning out the way I’d planned. Though I claimed otherwise to my daughter Shannon, I wasn’t enjoying my stay in my Suzuki Swift. It was nowhere near as fun and exciting as I thought it would be. It was outright boring and monotonous and scary and unpleasant.
Here I had a $100 burning a hole in my glove compartment, begging to be spent on a hotel room. But no, that lovely tip would go to the Suds N’ Bubbles laundromat, and the Lucky Coin Wash. As well as tampons and Midol.
Maybe I was PMSing, but lately I REALLY hated living in my car. And did I mention how much I detested that goddam seatbelt doohickey?