I love surprises. As the unofficial head planner of this household, I've always already worked out where we need to be at what time and with what things. It's just a benefit Brett reaps by living with me. He gets to live all drifty and floaty and I just pull his little raft into the sunshine before he gets too chilly. I like doing it - I like being prepared. I don't like work surprises. But I love fun-time surprises! The kind of spontaneous weekend adventures that you aren't wearing the right pants for are my favorite. That's how you know you're having a true extemporaneous existence.
Brett planned a date night and didn't tell me anything about it. He told me when to be dressed and ready, and he put that call-time into my calendar. I watched it get closer for two weeks, giddy by the mystery of it all. As I got ready that night I asked Brett to pick a shoe. He looked down at my heeled boots and thought for a minute. "I'd have never noticed that those are different shoes," he said. I chuckled at him. "Which ones are more comfortable?"
"These ones."
"Which ones could you run in?"
"Run in? What are we doing?" I declared, "But these ones. Should I wear flat shoes? Where are we going? No don't tell me!"
"Do you have any cleats?" he asked. He knew I was trying to pin down our plans.
As we drove down Calhoun, I ruled out restaurants and options. "Ok so we're staying inside the Crosstown," I deduced.
"Quit deducing."
"Are we going to pass King Street? Oh we did. We did pass King Street... Oh boy Meeting too? Where are we going?" Then Brett did a U-turn. I gasped with excitement. But then he parked and we jumped out of the car and he pushed me across the street. I couldn't guess where we were going until we got there because I'd never heard of the place. He took us to a little oyster bar in an old Charleston Single. The kitchen and bar were on either side of the staircase and the two dining rooms were upstairs. We sat up there and had a fun fishy meal and then Brett looked at his watch. "We've got to go. We've only got 10 minutes."
"Ten minutes to what?" I asked, "There's more to the surprise?"
We paid our bill and pulled on our coats and made our way down the narrow staircase in the middle of the house. A waitress waited at the bottom of the stairs for her turn to go up. "Oh excuse us," we said, happily chatting with her as we made our way down. Then I slipped on the last step and nearly fell into her arms. She and I laughed about it but Brett was behind me on the stairs, making fun of me. Then he slipped on that last step too and stumbled into the both of us. The visual of this from the waitress' perspective is something I burst out laughing about that night in bed while Brett was sleeping. That tall, gangly couple wiping out on the staircase.
Out on the street Brett checked his watch. "Remember how I asked if you could run in those shoes?"
"Yeah."
"Well I was kidding then, but we're going to need to hustle. We have two minutes." So we took off running down Calhoun Street in our nice clothes. We cut across the church parking lot onto Meeting Street.
"Oh boy are we headed to the Music Hall?" I asked as we passed Marion Square. Brett grinned at me. "I love the Music Hall!" I exclaimed. "Is it a concert? A comedian? A puppet show? I hope it's not a puppet show."
"Hush up, woman." We scampered passed the pink hotel, and then Hutson Street, and we turned left on John. A crowd was gathered outside of the Music Hall. "Do you think we can get in without me figuring out what the show is?" I asked Brett. He was enlivened by this challenge.
As we tried to jump in at the back of the line, a security guard stopped me. "Ma'am, we have a clear bag policy." All the people waiting in line turned to look.
"What does that mean," I asked him. He pointed to my purse.
"You can't bring that inside. You have two options. You can take that back to your car or you can purchase a clear bag for five dollars. It was in the email. You should have read it."
"Well I didn't get an email," I told him. "I'm on a mystery date." The big security guard looked down at me, up at Brett, and then grinned.
"What do you mean?" he asked smiling.
"I don't know what the show is," I said. "It's a surprise." The security guard and all the eavesdroppers thought this was the best thing.
"So you don't know what's happening here?" he asked.
"Nope," I said.
"Dude," someone in line said to Brett, "You didn't even tell her what she's seeing? That's awesome!"
"Shh! Shh! Don't tell her!" someone else said. Everyone really liked our surprise date, but they still made me pay $5 for a plastic beach bag.
I'll have you know that I did make it all the way in with no clue. There was an opener playing though, so I quickly deduced that it was a concert. I turned my head away from the merchandise table, just in case. Finally the opener blew it and announced that Shakey Graves would be on soon. We really love Shakey. We've come to see him three or four times now and it's always a real show. We've spent two New Years Eves with Shakey. On one of them we were broken up and not supposed to be seeing each other, so it felt extra dangerous and fun.
The opener came and went and we were still waiting for Shakey. The house lights turned back on and people clustered together near the front of the stage or wandered off to grab a drink while we waited. "Oh man," I heard Brett mumble. I looked up at him. His face was scrunched. Disgusted. Someone had pooted. "That's awful," Brett said softly. I looked all around us, accusing bystanders with my eyes.
Truth is, it was me. I don't make a point of doing such things in public but it came on as a sneak attack and I was left with no choice. I felt a tectonic shift deep in my guts. I startled me, like some little worker bee in there dropped a stack of books. Clunk! Mere seconds later was a I forced to sully the air around us. Here's the best part. Brett was behind me. On either side of me were pairs of good ol' boys twice the heft of Brett. If a casting net dropped from the sky, capturing everyone existing within the stink cloud, and then we were all lined up for trial, no one would have accused me. Not that sweet looking girl in the little skirt and tasseled ankle boots. No, it was certainly the big guy in the stained tank top.
I beamed up at Brett, which he knew to take as my confession. "Lue!" he shouted, equal parts amusement and outrage.
"No one will believe you," I told him.
By the time Shakey came on, it was past Brett's bedtime. Did I mention this was a Tuesday? We eventually found some seats, like old people in heeled boots that can't stand up for too long without getting back pain. Four or five songs in, Brett got sleepy.
"I don't think I'm going to make it through the whole show," he admitted.
"My feet hurt," I admitted.
"You ready to go?"
"Only if you are."
"Sorry I didn't think about your shoes. I'd have made you wear flats if I'd thought about it."
"Oh that's alright, I was thinking about the last time we were here and that girl in front of us..."
Before we knew it we were just having a casual chat over the booming Jazz-Metal stylings of Shakey Graves, so we went home and ate ice cream.
