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Good, I can get there via the trolley. I get dressed, gather by backpack purse, and head for the trolley post. I purchase everything I can think of to get this “under-the-weather” under control from the dollar store, (the closest Deadwood has to a grocery store) and then jump onto another trolley to Kate’s house. I show up with sacks draped from my fingers and ring the doorbell.
I can see why she wants to stay where she is, this is a cute little bungalow-style home. Perfect for her. My confidence inour plan to gift her the money for a down payment is boosted. She answers the door. Red eyes, red nose, dark circles under her eyes and her pink bangs are plastered against her moist forehead. The rest of her hair is sticking out in all sorts of ways as if it had not seen a comb in days.
“Oh, you poor thing.” I say and barge my way in. I feel her forehead, she is a little feverish, and start pulling out all the remedies I bought. “Go lay down, I’ll bring all this to you.”
She smiles a crooked smile and obeys. “Thanks.”
Tylenol, for fever, decongestant for the stuffy nose, Gatorade for electrolytes, Vitamins and Zinc to shorten the life of this cold, chicken noodle soup, and nasal spray to clear out her breathing passages. I didn’t think to get eye drops, but hopefully with these over-the-counter goodies, her eyes will clear up, too. I’ll make sure she takes a nice steamy shower before I leave. “This should fix you up.”
“I can’t sing like this.” She pulls a tissue and blows her nose. As of right now, she’s right.
“Well, let’s see how you feel after you take this.”
I look around for a tea kettle and some tea bags. Surely, a gal like Kate has tea in her kitchen. Score! In her pantry, I find several boxes of flavored teas, one with peppermint and echinacea which will help clear her head and shorten the life of this virus, too. I fill the kettle and prepare a cup for her. She lays on her couch and pulls a quilt up to her shoulders. A box of tissue is on the floor, within reach, and a pile of used tissues scatter the floor. I open the soup and begin warming it on the stove. Finding latex dishwashing gloves next to her sink, I slip them on and gather the spent tissues into a trash bag.
“No one should be alone when they are sick.” I tell her as she looks up at me with grateful eyes. I smile at her. A wave of guilt washes through my thoughts. If it hadn’t been for the plan to give her the money, would I have been so attentive to hercold? I vow to myself, that from now on, with these new friends and a new life in Deadwood, I will be that friend who makes sure they have help when they need it.
I leave her several hours later so I can get ready for our evening. She is feeling better and we plan to nurse her voice with tea and honey at the steakhouse before she goes on stage. Plus, we looked at several options on google and decided she could sing Pink’s song, “Don’t Let Me Get Me,” without straining the limits of her vocal cords. After several cups of peppermint and echinacea tea she began singing the song to herself.
“I like this song.” She told me over and over. “It’s not my safe songs, but it fits me and won’t stress my range.”
It makes me smile.
I drove her Bronco home, showered and changed, then drove back to pick her up for a change. We arrived at exactly ten ’til seven. The girls are at our table when we walk in. Excitement sparks in the air like static electricity as we join our friends at the table. Good thing we agreed on them getting there thirty minutes early, the place is quickly becoming standing room only. Dell Griffin may need to have a Karaoke Contest more often. It looks like it is great for business.
Of course, he wouldn’t be having a $25K prize. That could be the sole reason for the public interest. I never thought about limiting the number of entries. This could take a while to hear every contestant sing every song in its entirety. I sigh.
“What’s wrong?” Michelle asks me.
“I never imagined this big of a crowd!” I confess, hating that I have to scream to be heard over the bedlam of people chatting anxiously.
“Is Blaze coming?” Cindy asks.
“He said he’d try!” I yell at her. Mister DJ is swamped with people putting their names on the list. He is not his usual jovialself, but looks frustrated and overwhelmed. I decide to give him a hand.
I walk to the stage, test the mic and announce. “Ladies and Gentlemen. Form a line over here to sign up for the contest.” I gesture, indicating a line against the wall. They scramble to maintain their spot in the cluster and press against the wall. The line wraps around the restaurant and disappears into the foyer. I lean into Mister DJ’s ear. “Put the list on that stool and let them write their entry down. It can continue to happen while you get the first several songs lined up.”
He nods a grateful smile and takes the mic. “Okay, Folks. We will start this Karaoke Contest in just a few minutes. Be sure to sign up, write legibly” —he glances at the person currently holding the clipboard— “and… Maribeth, could you ask Mr. Griffin for some more signup sheets?”
I nod and hurry to the owner’s office and come back with about twenty sheets to add to the clipboard.
“Wow.” I notice the line goes out into the street. You’d think this was an audition for American Idol. Of course the winnings is a significant amount. I get why so many are here to try for it. Maybe this was a bad idea. I just hope no one gets hostile when Kate wins. With her chest cold, I am certain she will not be as outstanding as some others.
I worry my lip as I go back to my seat. The girls grin at me. “Always the organizer.” Michelle teases me. I shrug. “Thank goodness, you guys signed all of us up when you got here.” I yell.
Trisha’s eyes go wide. “Oh no! I knew I forgot something!”
“Seriously?” My eyes dart to the centipede line disappearing past the hostess podium. I stand, dreading finding the end and standing for who knows how long to get our names, especially Kate’s, on that list.
“NO!” Trisha slaps playfully at my arm. “I’m kidding!”
“Whew!” I sit back down, relieved. She has no idea how her little joke churned my acid reflux like a water wheel at high tide. I swallow the bitter bile and look for our waitress. I need a coke to neutralize the burning in my tummy, and I promised Kate we’d continue to nurse her vocals with warm tea and honey.
I lift my arm to flag her down and turn to search the restaurant for her, when Blaze strolls in with three of his buddies. They follow the hostess to an empty table next to ours. It has a triangular sign on it that states, “RESERVED.” Did he reserve a table? I smile at him as he approaches me. “Maribeth, break a leg, I guess.”
“Yeah, thanks.” I dismiss his well wishes, “I didn’t think you knew if you were coming or not.”
He shrugs. “I told you I’d try. This is me trying.” He gestures toward the reserved table where three other men have already sat down and are telling the hostess what they want to drink. “I can’t promise we will be able to stay” —He glances at the long line waiting to sign up— “until the end, but we’ll stay as long as we can. Especially, I want to hear you sing again.”
