Chapter Eight
WEDNESDAY AND THURSDAY ARE BOTH slow days, the only highlights of which are that Chef and Daniel are slow releasing some of their holiday features, and so far, they are going over extremely well. This is the last weekend before Wassail starts, but we’re getting festive early.
You want more lights? asks Barb. She towers over me by a few inches, so when she crosses her arms, it’s a little intimidating. Still, I press on.
Just around the entrance. See over there? I say, pointing to a few shrubs that have yet to be bedazzled.
Barb shrugs. I’ll have Hugo get some guys on it, but I’ll have to pull them away from pruning for a few hours, she says, rubbing her forehead.
Something about her eyes makes her look tired, and she doesn’t seem her usual self.
Barb has never been a perky sort of person, but she’s usually a warm one.
She turns to walk away, but I call after her. Hey, are you and Hank playing at the open mic tonight?
Nah, not tonight. We’re not feeling up to it, she says. Hank has a cold, and I think I’m fighting something, too. I’ve just been tired lately.
Our loss, I say. Do you guys have anyone you can send our way?
I’m worried that it’s going to be sparse tonight.
Chris and Mike are sick as well. It’s five thirty, and the open mic goes from seven to our close at nine.
Usually, we have a few reliable locals who come round for a pint and to jam for a little while, as the performers all get a free drink.
I’ll post online to some groups, she says. See who turns up. Cold’s going around bad, though. Hey, while I have you here—have you heard much from Jenn and Lauren?
I shake my head. Sometimes, but they have a weirdly busy schedule over there for retired ladies. Aunt Jenn’s taking a bunch of online classes, and Aunt Lauren’s gotten very into ceramics. Why?
Barb shrugs. Been a while since I heard from them; I thought I’d check in. It’s a weird thing, you know. Got used to seeing them every day around here, and now it’s like they disappeared off the face of the Earth.
I nod. I know what you mean. And I really do. Before, I spoke to my aunts most days, even when I lived in Toronto, but now with the time change, it’s hard to update them even on the most basic things. But they do sound like they’re doing well. I’m happy for them.
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:
KATE: Well, Daniel knows a karaoke guy and it’s all happening, god help us all
HARRISON: I was mostly joking but this is incredible I’ll be there in forty minutes
KATE: Is that advisable
HARRISON: Honestly, I was pretty much fine this morning but wanted to make sure I was 100% before i came in
And I think we’re there
Apparently the curse that was woven into that hell garment has been exorcised
So what do you think
Sweet Caroline, a true classic, or truly madly deeply by noted 90s rock band savage garden
I’m already having regrets, but the post is up, and all of Daniel’s friends have shared it. This is happening.
The karaoke rental guy shows up a little after six to start setting up, and I have reason to believe he is also a relative of Daniel’s. He sets up at the back of the restaurant, and as the hour goes by, the vibe starts to switch from a nice dinner service to something else entirely.
The patrons who did not come here for karaoke get their cheques quickly, and I don’t blame them, but soon, the room fills back up with a different crowd.
In the off-season, our Thursday night open mic nights are made up of a pretty regular cast of characters, but this is more like a summer night.
A few dozen people are here, and I don’t recognize most of them.
Hey, stranger, says a distinctly Australian voice. Harrison has arrived, wearing a matching tracksuit, for some reason.
Nice outfit, I say, eyeing him over. You really weren’t kidding about your nineties singing performance.
Gotta commit when performing karaoke, he says, and he stretches his hands behind his back like he’s getting ready for a workout. But nah, though I am really much better, I prefer the softer textiles at the moment.
The karaoke man is fully set up now, and the room is packed. Nearly every table is full, when I had anticipated maybe a third of the volume. As a result, I jump behind the bar to help—I’m not the best at mixed drinks, but I can help pour.
Can I help? asks Harrison.
You’re not even on the clock, I say while filling four pints of cherry cider and three of our ginger spice. They’re rushed off as soon as I finish them.
Daniel rolls up to the bar, grinning. So, uh, everything is set up. What now? Are you going to make an announcement or what? Get the crowd hyped?
I don’t know. This isn’t, like, a typical thing for me, I say. Won’t the karaoke guy just get things started?
Rodney’s just an equipment guy. He’ll put the songs in the queue, sure, but you do not want him in charge of anything else, and you certainly don’t want him speaking to the public, he says.
I groan. Fine, I say. I am okay at public speaking. It is a thing I can do. But it’s not a thing I relish doing, and I will not be winning any awards for it. What do I say?
You just ask how everyone’s feeling tonight and who’s ready for some karaoke, says Harrison. Ask who’s brave enough to start us off, and then off we go.
Listen, I know I said three minutes ago that you’re not working, but…how do you feel about doing this? I ask. I mean, you’re dressed for it.
Point taken, Harrison says, looking down at his own outfit. Alright. I’m in. But maybe pour me a glass first, though. I oblige, and he downs it quickly.
Harrison then leaps onto the makeshift stage that Barb throws together for such events and grabs one of the two microphones that Rodney has set up.
G’day, g’day, all! Welcome to Sparks Cidery’s very first karaoke night. It’s November, it’s cold—God, it’s so bloody cold all the time—but we’re all warm and cozy in here! And about to get warmer because we’re about to welcome up our first singer!