Yes, it could have been worse.

Wanna know how the gig went? I'll TELL you have the gig went...

Arnie's driving should not have surprised me. It is exactly the product of his personality - stammering, muttering, hesitating, sudden bursts of puerile anger. It's a fucking nightmare to be his passenger, and I believe even the non-nervous passengers of the world would kiss the good solid earth upon exiting his vehicle.

We leave Arnie's house at 5:45. Mighty early. It should take us an hour and a half to get to Dover and we'd like some time to warm up a little and eat dinner once we get there.

We're still in Belmont when Arnie checks in at a gas station for directions. HEAR ME? STILL IN BELMONT! He doesn't trust the Yahoo! driving directions to Dover NH so he asks gas station attendants in Belmont Massachusetts for their sage advice. To their credit, they direct Arnie to a map.

"Ohh... it's clear now. Thanks a bunch, guys."

It's very, very clear. 95 North the whole way, then a simple exit, a single turn, Wha-La!

Then how, oh HOW do we end up on 128? And how do we end up lost in Gloucester, then Essex, then Ipswich (with JoBiv saying, "Um, Arnie? Why did you leave 95?" and Arnie muttering something about how he didn't know he left it.)

So we backtrack. And we backtrack s'more. And by the time we finally find 95 again, my jaw is so tight I think I will never be able to open my mouth again in my life, much less let a flutter of song escape and swoop out over a most-likely apathetic crowd.

But we arrive with ten minutes to spare before our 9pm call. That's right, it took us three hours to get there. I run into the restaurant to find our contact, John P-somethin, and assure him that we're not punking on him. The place is beautiful - this huge space with a tall bar, everything painted up pretty, a multi-tiered water fountain, artistic lighting, $25 entrees... nice. And an 8'x3' carpeted platform tucked into the main entrance. Oh, the stage! Of course.

I flag Arnie down and direct him to the parking lot, lug out amps, stands, and music, try to smush everything onto that stage with standing room for us, ask for water, quickly apply lip gloss, catch my breath...

Arnie's busy poking wires into things and flipping switches. He's flustered, and I'm trying to look gracious and relaxed, accepting two waters from John himself, making smalltalk about getting lost. Arnie wants to switch our amps. Okay then. We switch them. Sound checks... more sound checks... The people in this restaurant don't seem to notice our presence and thus there is no real pressure to begin. I should be sitting with hot tea, relaxing, thinking out songs a bit. Instead I'm hiding the ugliness of cords and backpacks in the planters behind us and reassuring Arnie.

At last, we begin. I sound okay, Arnie sounds flustered still. He can't keep the tempo. I'm trying to steam on, hoping to be his rhythm section somehow. He get it, settles, we keep going. The diners are loud in their conversations and I don't fight them. We're here for background music, we're not the spectacle. At the same time, would it hurt to get their attention? John claps when we finish a song, startling his patrons into meagre, embarrassed applause. A few beging to watch us for a few bars at a time before drifting back to their food and friends.

At some point someone from the waitstaff drags a high table to the side of the stage and places a large glass vase on it. John P. leaves his bar and magnanimously dumps a sheaf of ones into it. Ah, this is how we get paid. Dance, monkey! Dance! Am I supposed to draw attention to this embarrassingly empty jar? To the fact that we won't make enough tonight to cover the gas money it took us to get here? To the fact that I'm wearing $175 superficial confidence shoes but haven't eaten a fresh fruit or vegetable for a few weeks? How can I say anything tactfully? How is it not begging? How is my singing, the part of this I'm supposed to love, any different from busking in a T station? Between songs I try to come up with some cute, quick words to ask for money. I can't think of a damn thing.

Toward the end of a ten song set I'm mangling lyrics and Arnie's losing his rhythm. John delivers two plates of food (ordered during Arnie's previous flustered wire-poking moments), which are luke-warm by the time we turn off our amps and exit the stage. The food sits on a high table and there are no high chairs near it. The table nearly blocks the entrance with us standing near it. Finally a server notices us and has us follow her to a part of the restaurant we couldn't see from the stage, separated by a 5' tall wall. We eat ($25 pheasant for me, salad for Arnie) and discuss the acoustics of the place, whether the audience cares, how we get them to give us money...

Suddenly people from the next table are leering at us. A woman in a cashmere hoodie and a man with a big-eyed, endearing face smile at us excitedly.

"Excuse me... was that YOU?" I can barely hear the woman, but she repeats this a few times.
"Singing? Yes. And Arnie on guitar." (He opts out of the conversation. Just as well.)
"Oh wow, we thought it was a CD!" she says.
"I guess you can't see us behind this wall..."
"Wow, really, we thought it was like a CD or something. It was you?"
"Yep. It was us."
"Wow."
"Thanks?"
"So are you doing another set," says the man. He's smiling hugely and staring at me like I've got a wild tattoo on my face and he can't believe my balls.
"Yes, just taking a break for dinner."
"Oh, great! Okay, we won't keep you from your dinner," says the woman.
"Thanks..."
"Wow, it was really you?" says the man.
"Yes... yes it was..."

We slug back more water, wipe our mouths, retake the stage. I decide that I cannot be shy with the mic because Arnie certainly isn't going to step up.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, I forgot to introduce myself to you earlier." People are looking at me. Make it good! "I am Johanna and this is Arnie, and we drove all the way from Boston to entertain you tonight in this beautiful restaurant." Smiles, how charming she is! "I hope you're enjoying the music, and if you'd like to show us your appreciation..." We've lost eye contact! Houston, we've lost eye contact! "... Feel free to slip something into that fine vase right over there. Thanks so much..."

Ugh. How do the monkeys do it?

The second set swims along just fine, and I even get a little adventurous with a few songs. I relax a bit and try to flirt with the audience a bit. Is that old man looking at me? Of course he is. He's the oldest and most foreign-looking guy in the place. Natch. That kid in the Sox jersey keeps looking my way, too, but I think it's mostly because he's drinkin' alone. Pure boredom. Some guys in the front of the U-shaped bar watch Arnie intently, and I imagine them in their wife-sanctioned dens making tentative love to a $100 Ibanez with assorted U2 songs printed from the internet in tablature. "Yeah, I play a little... LOVE watchin' this guy..."

JoBiv! You're supposed to be singing! Focus!

But then I start breaking the room into sections of the playground: Plays well with others, needs to work on resolving conflicts with playmates, very social but could talk less during class... The near-30 jocks over here, please, bellies to the bar. The middle-aged troupe who have to get home to relieve the babysitters over there. Yes, that's good. Over 60 couple at the corner, sipping cocktails and spendng their retirement on PHEASANT for goddsake... that's just fine. Restaurant staff mob, take that corner, where people aren't sure if you're working and therefore can't ask you for anything, and the management can't hear your backbiting. Everyone having a nice night? Greeeat.

Back to singing. Yes, I am singing. This is lovely. Whatever shall I do with "It Might As Well Be Spring?" We decide on Bossa Nova. Fun for us, Sominex for them. Hmm... "Fine and Mellow," with an extra serving of sex? Whoa! Applause! "Dream a Little Dream," then, up tempo, make eye contact... they love it! Or maybe it's just because it's the closer...

By the end of the set I'm exhausted from working this audience, as little as I am, and we have $30 total in the jar. Someone put in a $10, we suspect it was John. $15 each and a free meal? Fuck that, I'm gettin' a drink.

This is the Very Awkward Part. John congratulates me on a job well done, I ask for the drink, pleading a little to sound human and tired and perhaps deserving of more than $15 for my efforts. The patrons on either side say little appreciative things and turn away. A woman from the middle-aged group approaches with glowing praise, apologizes for the crowd's behavior (definitely a mom), and says she hopes we come back next week.

We! Where's Arnie?

Who cares. Yummy whiskey sour...

A guy on my left gives slightly more enthusiastic feedback than most. "Man, I LOVE jazz." Hmm. And I love being called "man" while wearing my superficial confidence shoes. He tells me he's a cook (I was right about the We Work Here corner) and I compliment his pheasant. He's cute... but distracted. Off he goes. Sigh.

Oh, THERE's Arnie, lugging the 80 pound amp by his own little self. I get up to help, and soon we're on our way.

This should be the simple part. 95 South the whole way. How could that go amiss? It's late, we're tired, we want to be home, no pressure of being late for anything. Arnie tells me he has a hard time discerning the curve in the road when it's dark, I pop an Ativan, he turns on the radio, and I doze off...

I wake to a strange texture beneath the car... sand?

Yes, sand. The shoulder. We're pulling over. I glance behind me, expecting flashing lights. Then I notice the smell.

"Arnie, what's happening?"

"Oh... umm... there's some trouble with this engine, I think." THIS engine? No kidding. As though the acrid smoke isn't now burning us out of the car.

Neither of us have cell phones. Shit.

I walk around to the road, practically standing in the right lane, wave my arms frantically, thinking, "If no one stops, at least they might call the Police if they see we need help." After ten minutes of this I'm not so sure and I'm very very cold. Back in the car. Arnie pops the hood and tries to look like he's capable of doing something there. The propping thinger is missing so he looks for a stick on the side of the road. No luck. He looks in the trunk, finds a yellow broom, tries to prop under the hood, but alas, it slips off of the bumper. I could help him, but I'm still sleepy and just getting warmth back, and I don't think that any under-the-hood poking he could do would help our situation.

He joins me in the car, huffs and mutters, and after about twenty minutes of zero progress, I decide to change into my sneakers should I need to climb the chain-link fence that separates the road from the houses beyond it, or should we decide to walk to the next exit. Arnie informs me that he isn't willing to "leave the equipment." I have a brief vision of Arnie carrying his guitar and amps on his back with mics and cords dragging in the dust behind him.

We both get out of the car and go back to jumping and flailing. There is much more traffic (at 1am? Why?) and soon a truck stops. As it reverses toward us I feel my momentary "this person might KILL us" panic dissipate when I see the Home Depot logo printed on its side. Phew. He lends us a phone. Arnie calls AAA. We will be just fine.

A tow and an hour later, we're in Saugus, where our very nice tow-truck driver doesn't charge Arnie and offers to check his oil. It's nearly gone. Duh, Arnie. He buys oil, they pull out the funnel. All will be fine. We use the bathroom and I buy a Reese's cup from the gray-haired man in the small station, who has one lens of his glasses completely taped over and blacked out, but looks at us over the top of them with two perfectly good eyes, it seems. Arnie tells him we're musicians, that I sing jazz. He smiles in a grandfatherly way and says, "Ooh, jazz. That must be nice." I want to stay with him in his little shop and cry in his arms. I have this sudden strong need to stay there. I feel like a kidnapped child, my eyes darting around for some way to leave a message for this man.

But then we're saying goodnight. And we're getting in the car. And we're gone. Down Route 1, past all the garish neon, the Christmas Tree Shop clipper, the office parks, the malls... Over the Tobin bridge, down Storrow, Kenmore Square, Beacon...

"Bye Arnie. Thanks for the ride." Slam.