Page 17 of Wassailing We Will Go
There’s a moment of awkward silence, and then I continue. Let me know if you hear from anyone about tonight, yeah? See you later, Barb.
I pull out my phone as I walk on and text all of the random people I know who are music-adjacent, and it seems like everyone is busy or sick. Out of ideas, I’m left only with the option of cancelling the whole thing.
I pause a beat on my scroll through my contacts when I get to Harrison Turner. He had been messaging me updates regularly over the last forty-eight hours, some might say with too many details about his recovering skin condition. It turns out that once you take off the skin-irritating material woven from what we can only assume was some sort of polyester-asbestos blend, you can heal up pretty quickly. His last text indicated that he was pretty sure he would be able to come in tomorrow.
KATE: Hey, hope your recovery is still trending upwards. Random, but do you know anyone around here who performs? Have you made any new musical friends lately at the spa?
It’s open mic night and all of our usuals are sick. I’m afraid we’ll have to cancel.
HARRISON: Nah, you’re my only spa friend and I’m not musical
I mean, I think I have an amazing singing voice but only when it involves 7-9 beers and a karaoke machine
Quick follow up question
Do you have a karaoke machine
Absolutely not. We’ve done open mic night featuring local county musicians every Thursday that we’ve been open for two decades. But as I look down at my phone and see that one of my last contacts has declined for the evening, I realize that I am low on options. The only two who have confirmed are one-third of a fiddle group (and not even the fiddler, the accordion player), and a woman named Louise, who we usually try to push to the very end of the night because she only ever sings very sad folk songs about people dying of heartbreak. We are officially out of options.
KATE: I bet Daniel does but I can’t decide if I’m desperate enough for that
I might be
Fine.
I’ll ask Daniel
I peek into the office, where Daniel is looking at some spreadsheets that I think, at a glance, have to do with alcohol markup percentages.
I have a suggestion, and you are going to either love it or hate it, and I’m honestly scared to find out which, I say.
He spins slowly in his chair to face me and crosses his fingers. Let’s have it.
Open mic night is going to be empty—all of our regulars are sick. If I were to get a karaoke machine set up, could we get the word out in the next hour about the switch up?
If you had given me more notice, I am pretty sure that all of my aunties and uncles would have driven from Kingston for this, says Daniel. I could have had this place packed with relatives.
Hey, if this works, we can keep it, I say. Your extended family are welcome anytime.
You’ll wanna rethink that once you meet my cousin Rodney, but sure, he says. If I post this to our Instagram, though, there is no going back. We will be spending the evening listening to people butcher ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ for two straight hours.
If they spend cash money, they can ruin whatever song they want, I say. If it’s a busy night on a Thursday, the way things have been going, I’ll sing a little tune myself.
Oho, I’ll take that bet.
Beg your pardon?
If, say, fifty people show up. You sing. My song of choice, he says.
Seventy-five, I counter.
We don’t even get that for open mic night!
Seventy-five, I repeat.
Fine, but I am going to pick a long-ass song, he says. Once we shake on it, I can’t decide which outcome I want more.
I text Harrison:
