Feel Free to Use the Shower

 I took a deep breath as I rolled into the driveway. I double checked the GPS and reread the directions she’d given me: truck in the driveway, boat in the yard. Both were there. I spent a moment thinking about it, because you can never be too sure when you’re pulling into a stranger’s driveway in Austin at 3:05 in the morning. 

In case you were wondering, there’s no way to get settled in a friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend’s guest room in the middle of the night without feeling like a punk-kid breaking an entering. I stalked up the driveway. What a relief to find the door unlocked.

Snores echoed in the dark room. My heart jolted as the silhouette of a dog stepped into view, but he wagged his tail, licked my hand, and didn’t cause a ruckus in a stranger’s living room at 3:10 A.M. That was a plus.

I stumbled towards a light down the hall and found the room Libby had described in the text. It was covered in beige, featuring a giant bed. Family pictures sat on the dresser. I only felt slightly creepy as I looked at them and decided they looked like a nice family of three.

To my surprise, there was even a bathroom! What a blessing! You know how you see depictions of Native American cultures marking the days by the moon phases? Well, on the road, I sometimes marked the days by showers. “Oh, that was before the last shower... 5 days ago…”

I never mind making due with wet wipes and river beds. I didn’t have anyone to impress. If it got bad, I’d just pay to shower at Love’s with the long-haul truckers. But it never came to that.

Showers are commodities on the road, though. The last time I’d showered was in Louisiana. I’d stayed with the couple who owned the cafe where I played tunes for gelato, a chicken sandwich, a bed, and some good talks. Maybe they smelled me when I walked in their house. They offered their guest shower.

Anyways, Libby’s shower was exciting.

Libby was my friend’s friend’s friend, and that is a joy of social media. She’d offered me her guest room. I told her I’d be late. Little did I know it’d be 3 A.M. late. 

I’d played a gig at this place called Hole in the Wall in downtown Austin. True to the name, it was a hole in a wall, and you did come out of there reeking of cigarettes. I opened for a couple of songwriters, Wild Fitz and Will Cope. They were long-haired men with shiny belt buckles and boots. 

Mr. Cope must’ve been an Austin legend because all night everyone was like, “GOSH DARN IT THAT’S WILL COPE!” His shaggy hair and newsboy’s cap made him look like he had a lot of songs in his head. I remember a song he sang about moving to Texas, buying some cowboy clothes, and learning to write songs and sing them in smoky bars. It made me smile.

Fitz was sweet, and he sang like Hank Williams reborn. I got the feeling he used to be a wild one, but now he has a baby. Now he stays home and sings for his woman. He told me about the best record store in San Antonio to find Tejano vinyl, and to this day his words have stuck to my heart.

     “It’s crazy,” he said, a far away look in his eyes, “On the road, you meet these strangers, and more often than not, they’ll be so kind to you for no reason. You probably won’t even see them again.” He sighed. “It’s like people want to be a part of your story.”

Turns out, we weren’t getting paid until the bar closed at 2 A.M. The three of us would split a percentage of the beer sales. So I sat out back with these cowboy singers for a good while, laughing about mostly nothing, and I got that $30 I was owed. At least it covered the parking costs.

I was already going to be late to Libby’s, and then, halfway to her house, I realized I’d forgotten my condenser mic (of course, one of the more expensive things I owned). I sped back, grabbed it by the grace of God, and despite the strangeness of creeping into a stranger’s house in the pitch black, as soon as I hit that bed I was out.

In the morning, my eyes unpeeled, breaking the seal made by clumped eyeliner and mascara. The midday light shone through the windows and the bed held my tired bones like a cocoon. I heard voices in the living room. It sounded like Libby’s husband and the kid, but I didn’t hear a woman. I’d better get up, get out, and let these nice folks move on with their day, I thought. Of course, everything I needed to make myself decent was left in the car, so bedhead and bad breath prevailed. At least I’d slept in my dress.

I strolled into the living room. The world stood still. Libby’s man, a large fellow with earrings and a mohawk, stared at me with eyes like saucers, his mouth wide open. The towhead kid held his HotWheels to his chest and gawked. Do I look that rough? I thought. Is the bedhead that horrendous? Are the raccoon eyes that bad?

“Who are you?!” Boomed the man. “Where did you come from?”

I stuttered. My knees shook. “Uh…” I pointed to the guest room. “In there...I’m from North Carolina…”

Apparently, Libby had forgotten to tell her family that a weird girl was going to crash in the guest room. She’d gone to work early that morning. “I am so sorry, sir, I didn't mean to scare you.” 

He burst into laughter. “No it’s fine!” He smiled all too kindly for a guy who thought his house had just been broken into. “We have touring musicians stay with us a lot, it’s sometimes hard to keep track.” 

In the daylight I saw the guitars and the drum set in the corner. “You play?”

”Yeah,” he said. I told him I’d played at Hole in the Wall.

“Oh that’s why you were in so late. I’ve played there,” he said. “It’s cool, but the pay sucks, huh?” He grabbed the kid’s backpack. “I’ve got to take this squirt to school, but hey, stay as long as you want.” He headed towards the door.

 “Oh, and feel free to use the shower.”