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Chapter One?
“Next up…” The scrawny man at the mic, who calls himself Mister DJ, announces. “We have Ma-ry-beth Thorp.” He says in a showman’s voice, elongating my name as if it were three names and then a quick, one syllable surname.
The girls at my table leap to their feet, drumrolling on the table, making our plates vibrate against the bare wood, scream, and clap. Even though they know we all signed up for one song each when we walked into the Buffalo Bodega tonight. It’s kind of the whole reason we are here. Saturday night is Karaoke night at the steakhouse.
He raises his voice, even though he’s speaking into a microphone, to be heard over the sudden and boisterous noise my friends are making. “And she’ll be singing, ‘I Will Survive.’”
He grins up from his clipboard. His eyes widen toward the audience. “Let’s hope she does.”
Michelle Gibson and her friends, Cindy Bradshaw, Tricia Timberly, Suzie Woolbridge, and I became instant friends earlier at lunch when I met with them as potential clients. Michelle is the bank teller who helped me move my account electronically from Denver to here in the Wells Fargo Bank of Deadwood. She deposited my winnings of a hundred-thousand dollars with very few questions.
Of course, I told her I inherited it from a long-lost uncle, rather than that I won it the night before at a high-stakes poker game. It was a lie and not a good way to start a friendship, I admit, but very few people need to know I gamble once in a while and win big.
While she counted the bundles of one hundred dollar bills, she asked what I did for a living and I told her I am a Professional Organizer. She insisted I meet with her and three of her friends to discuss how I can help them declutter.
At lunch, I brought with me my portfolio. I put it together in a scrap-book style with frames, stickers, pockets, and lettering that make it not only informational but fun to look at. Inside are previous clients’ before-and-after pictures of their closets, kitchens, and other areas; hand-written or emailed testimonies, stating how much they enjoyed working with me and what a difference I have made in their lives. Tucked in the very back, I have tri-fold brochures with my prices broken down for various levels of decluttering and one-page contracts for my services. I am always prepared to take on a new client. Since I just moved to Deadwood, I’m desperate for new clients.
The girls were very excited, and each signed a contract before we parted. Michelle and I will get started on her clutter Monday after she gets off from work. She invited them all to come back this evening for karaoke and dinner.
The steaks, that this place is known for, look and smell delicious, but I don’t want to sing after such a heavy meal, so I order a club salad instead. Michelle orders the steak tips with sautéed onions and mushrooms, Cindy asks for a six-ounce sirloin with a simple butter and sour cream baked potato, Tricia orders a twelve-ounce ribeye steak with the works on her potato, and Suzie follows my lead by ordering a club salad, only without bacon.
We just got served when Mister DJ calls my name to the stage. I know I am blushing, because of their loud display of support for me, when I stand. I shake my head all the way to the small stage, but I’m smiling, too. Silly girls. I just met them today, but I love them already.
As I step onto the karaoke stage, Mister DJ hands me the mic with a grin that I cannot read. Is he impressed or worried I’ll be an off-key flop. The mic smells like the beer Mister DJ is drinking and a multitude of perfumes and colognes. I’m tempted to spray it with some Febreze, if I had any on me. I am so glad I didn’t eat yet. I clear my throat shoving back the slight nausea.
“Thank you.” I say into the mic to test its volume and how close I need to get to it while singing. Every mic is different. “It’s good to be here.” I continue in order to find my spot with the mic. I cast my gaze to the four women at our table.
“Thank you, ladies, your payment will be at the hostess’s podium after the show,” I tease. It wins me a few laughs.
Comfortable with the sound of my voice at the mic, I nod to Mister DJ and cast my eyes to the monitor, just so I will know when to start singing. From there, I know the song by heart.
A whistle in the audience yanks my attention to the other tables. Blaze, my drop-dead-gorgeous neighbor and Frank, the former owner of my house, are sitting there, applauding… and apparently whistling at me. Was Frank still here in town? He showed up yesterday thinking he could still squat at the house until his wife cooled down over his gambling failings.
I cringe. The song I chose was all wrong with Blaze and Frank in the audience. They will think I’m singing this song because of them. After all Frank did walk into the house, unannounced, and I did change the locks, after Blaze took him next door to stay the night.
“Wait.” I turn to the scrawny guy to tell him I need to change songs, but he has already sat down at the first table next to the stage. The music starts, and the highlighted words race across the screen. In a panic, I quickly catch up.
“At first I was afraid…” I say quickly, not singing with the music. Thank God there’s a pause. I’m with the prompter now. “I was petrified.” I swing my eyes to the girls so I can forget who’s in the crowd and continue. “Kept thinking how I could never live without you by my side.” I smile and the girls scream. Back on track with the song, my voice adjusts to the key and I don’t sound half bad.
When I get to the part I know they know too, I hold the mic out for them to sing with me. They do. “Go on now, go. Walk out the door.”
They laugh and sing. Audience participation is always fun. The other patrons of the restaurant sing, too. I smile, casting my eyes across the other people. Hopefully, I’ve made it very clear I was not singing to Blaze or about Frank.
When I finish my last line, “I will survive, I will survive.” The patrons stand and applaud. WOW! The girls run up to me and hug me fiercely. We laugh all the way back to our seats. They have eaten most of their food and mine is waiting for me. The shredded cold cut meat is looking a little dried out, but I don’t care. Now, I’m starving.
The girls each get called up to sing. Michelle has a really good, strong voice. Cindy is so quiet, she can barely be heard, Tricia belts out her song like a professional, and Suzie is a soprano and sings the song at an octave too high. But we all have so much fun together it really doesn’t matter.
“Promise me.” I say over the bedlam of cheers for the last singer. “We will come do this again.”
They all nod in absolute agreement. The scrawny MC speaks and my head snaps toward him.
“Did he just say Blaze Hemingway was next?”
“Yeah, why?” Tricia asks.
“Because—” Blaze interrupts me. “Maribeth! Come up here and help me with this one!” He waves his arm in a circle, beckoning me to come up there.
Michelle pulls her glasses down her nose and glares over the lenses at my neighbor.
