Blues Singer Part 4 The Warning
By Blue Sleighty
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 Blue Sleighty
ISBN# 978-1-4660-8662-3
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THE WARNING by Blue Sleighty ©Blue Sleighty
My life had become busy and hectic. A lifestyle that I do not relish. I require solitude, and I don't do pressure.
As my mind raced down my mental checklist of all of the details I needed to address, I added an item. "Buy day planner." I was stressing. Somehow, I had gotten involved with scheduling my girlfriend's tour schedule, even though she had a perfectly good manager who was quite capable of handling things. But, I had personal contacts at the clubs in Houston. I was an assistant club manager, and a talent booking agent, myself. So, I was nice, and offered to help. Today, I noted, I had to deal with ASCAP. Phone. Phone. Phone. Fax. Signatures. Fax. Signatures. Fax. Signatures. Fax. Phone. Phone. Phone. I HATED having to do shit like that. It would take HOURS. The necessary red tape.
It was rather a stupid thing for me to do. Not just because I was busy enough without getting involved with Bette's tour, but because Bette was not supposed to be involved with me AT ALL. Bette's father, a politician in Missouri, had discovered that his daughter was having a lesbian relationship, and vehemently disapproved.
Bette's father decided that his career could not stand such a thing. So, he promptly got Bette a gig with a house band in a club that an associate of his owned. It was too good an offer to pass up. Bette took the deal, and left Houston, and me, to pursue her career as a singer in St. Louis, under the watchful eye of her father's associates.
We were young and in love. The tragedy and the drama only fueled the fire.
Bette and I had just gotten back from a trip to Cozumel, Mexico. We spent 4 days and 3 nights making love in paradise. Her father had only inspired us to go to greater lengths. We had vowed to sneak away, often.
***
High on the top of an ancient Mayan temple, frozen with fear, and laughing uncontrollably at our ridiculous predicament, Bette and I decided that the thing to do, would be to plan a tour for Bette's band. That way, Bette could promote herself, her band, and her club, and we could have tons of opportunities to sneak around! It was a damned clever idea. It was always a good to have some fresh talent in the house every once in a while in the club business. Her home club would benefit from her absence. We reasoned and rationalized until it was all perfect. And, really, they had been threatening to go on tour for a while, anyway.
As for our predicament, Bette, and I had taken a tour of the Mayan ruins in Tulum, Mexico on a day trip, while we were in Cozumel. And we had gotten ourselves into a jam. As we explored the wonder of the ruins, we decided that it would be a great idea to climb the temple. To experience the structure and become one with it. To let it offer us up to the skies and the GODS.
We climbed and climbed until we reached the top. The treads and risers were unusually small, I thought. Short.
When we got to the top, the view was incredible. My heart soared as the energy of the ages and the spirits that be, mingled with the willing, believing, receptive living. The view of the ancient structures of a long gone ancient civilization, surrounded by white stone and sand, and waving palm trees against a clear blue sky, above the aqua sea, was breathtaking.
And, it was all so wonderful, until it was time to climb down.
Let me tell you,- that temple was STEEP. And those itty-bitty treads and risers that constructed the stairs on that temple were obviously intended for little tiny Mayan feet, not for size 7 1/2 huaraches. I wondered how the male tourists fared with this situation. The tread was so short, that it did not give the heel enough room to clear the previous step, which forced anyone with over a size 6 foot to literally walk on tiptoes.
Bette suddenly FREAKED out. It was as if she feared she would NEVER get down alive. She began to cry, and I wasn't sure if she could talk. In attempt to calm her down, I tried to engage her in conversation. I was relieved to find out that she could still make sense, even overwhelmed with fear. So, we talked about everything else, but being stuck on the steep side of a Mayan temple. Thus, the conversation about the tour.
We finally decided to look like morons, and sit on the steps, and kind of lower ourselves down on our butts from step to step, until we got to better footing, or our panic went away, or we got a better idea, or SOMETHING. But we HAD to get DOWN. It was terribly undignified. I wished I had on jeans, and I imagined Bette did, too. The little khaki camp shorts that we both wore didn't offer much protection. I was certain I would fall if I tried to walk down. I was too hung over to even consider it. We had been drinking a bit of champagne the night before, and my equilibrium was slightly off.
The footing NEVER got better. An hour later we reached the bottom just in time to hear the tour guide say, “Although many tourists are tempted to climb the temple steps- it is not recommended.”