Key Changes

A short story from the road

Some, most or a little of this is true.

So I was lurking around the lobby of a Marriott hotel outside Kingston New York. Just, y’know, between jobs. It was evening, about ten PM. A weeknight, so not too crazy. A convention of Christian ministers were holding a meeting in town.

I see this older woman sitting at the bar. Looks like she just came from work, some kind of sales call maybe? She’s not exactly elegant, but not a total hobo either. What makes her stand out is this red leather jacket she’s wearing. I mean, this is Ulster Avenue right, not Brooklyn or even Albany.

I must’ve been looking at my phone for a while, because when I look up—she’s gone. But the red leather jacket is still there. A few minutes pass, another ten. She hasn’t come back. I notice the bartender washing glasses, cleaning the sink. Stopping up the beer taps. It’s nearly eleven now. Someone dims the hotel lobby lights.

Without really meaning to do anything, I saunter over towards the bar. The bartender’s back is to me, her blonde ponytail bobbing as she sponges the counter in front of the liquor bottles.

“Have a good night,” I say, as I lift the red leather jacket from the back of the barstool.

My heart’s beating a little faster as I stroll out the front door to the large parking lot. The lights over the Target across the road have little halos around them. It’s humid for October. I feel extra weight in the pocket of the red leather jacket: the answer to a question I hadn’t known I was asking – a key fob.

I stroll casually along the first row of parked cars, clicking the unlock button. Like the devil winking at me, lights flash from the edge of the car park. Nothing fancy, a Mazda, the equivalent of a Honda CRV. Grey in color, like seventy percent of the vehicles in most parking lots these days.

Getting in the driver’s seat, I take stock of the surroundings and detritus the red leather jacket lady has left behind. A couple Starbucks coffee containers, a bag of organic dates. Water bottles, half full and few tossed empty into the passenger seat. This lady is riding alone.

I look behind me. The back seat is filled with cardboard boxes. I reach around into an open one and pull out a paperback book: Girl To Country, it says, in hand-lettered red script. A black and white photo out of the past, a not-quite fresh-faced young woman looking off into the distance. Makes me think of Walker Evans dustbowl, almost. Halter dress, bare shoulders. A quality photo. “A Memoir” it says. By Amy Rigby.

So, I start putting two and two together. Maybe the red leather jacket broad is a publisher’s rep? Trying to foist some new titles on the bookselling and bookbuying public up here? I know of a few stores: Golden Notebook, Oblong, Spotty Dog in Hudson. Inquiring Minds, yep the Hudson Valley is a regular brain trust. She’s probably got some fiction in here too, maybe something I could read later to help myself fall asleep-

I grab another book out of a different box. Girl To Country, again. What’s going on? Is it a remainder sale? I decide I better get out of this parking lot and look into things a little further. There’s that nice Stewart’s up the road. Good coffee, ice cream. I press the ignition button and roll out of the Marriott parking lot.

Up at Stewart’s, I park at the pump. Get out of the Mazda and open the hatchback. More boxes of books. The same title, again and again. Mailing envelopes. A hardy metal road case. I open that, hoping maybe…cash? What kind of idiot leaves all their shit in the car? Maybe the same kind who leaves their jacket on the back of a barstool. We all have our lapses. The metal case is full of records. LPs, CDs. Five or six different titles. Amy Rigby, again and again. And another book, this one with a dark-eyed punkette holding a beer can. Girl To City. By Amy Rigby. Shit lady, you’ve been busy. Maybe that explains how you pull a dumb move like leaving your stuff laying around hotel lobbies?

There’s a duffel bag back here too. I unzip it. I could probably use a clean shirt—wait, does the world really need any more tote bags? Cute though, nice sentiment. “I Love You, You’re Perfect, Don’t Ever Change” – sweet. I’m kind of liking this lady. Seems in addition to glugging wine in hotel bars, and being absent-minded, she’s out there trying to bring a little light and joy to this sometimes-miserable world. I could use a touch of that.

Wait, is that a guitar case? Surely she wouldn’t just leave that sitting around a car park outside Kingston, overnight?

Unless. Maybe she’s so tired she just wants to let it all go. Maybe this is all a set up? She planned the whole thing, I’m her mark. She’s taken an Uber to the airport to take a flight back to England or wherever she lives, to putter around a garden, walk by the seaside and paint landscapes. Roast a chicken on Sunday; wear hats.

There’s an iPhone in the cupholder, and I can read the text: Soundcheck 5:30 PM tomorrow. The address of a club in Baltimore. I calculate. That’s about five, five and a half hours from here. Just the thought of the drive makes me tired: NY State Thruway, Route 17, NJ Turnpike, I-95. Kinda brutal. Wonder who’ll show up in Baltimore? Probably a couple hundred people, right? Otherwise, would it even be worth it?

But, the books. The tote bags, the records. No matter the numbers, it must all add up to something.

“I Love You, You’re Perfect, Don’t Ever Change.”

I want to know what it feels like, to believe in people. I go to sleep for a little while, and when the sun comes up I start driving. I’ve always wanted to see Baltimore.

Girl To Country out now and on tour