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Asheville Diary
by Cesca Janece Waterfield, written one afternoon during a week-long stay in Asheville, North Carolina The Amoco clerk and I have an understanding, a tacit confidence. When I push open the smudged glass door, a series of beeps indicates that I have entered a ceramic tiled tract of sympathy. In this time of life marked for so many by financial privation, I nearly weep with joy when I catch whiff of the coffee pots, the taquitos rolling on their greasy stainless steel rods. Then I get to work. It goes like this: Every night I enter and nod an impersonal, yet polite greeting. The clerk nods in return. We don't need to exchange smiles, we have already agreed. Every night I stroll the snack aisle. I pretend to study nutritional content, price, volume. I study the Traditional Chex Mix for a minute, then return it to examine the Cheddar version. Lured momentarily, I stray toward the Giardello's Italian Garlic and Parmesan bagel chips. Too many preservatives, my eyes seem to say. I hang it by it's hole punch where it swings between the kettle fried chips (Absolutely not. Have you seen the fat grams?) and the Cool Ranch Doritos (Ew. Nuff said.). Pretzel rods? Too much sodium. And so on. Every night I feign snack quandary. Every night the Amoco clerk stands by the Crystal Light next to the bottled water and pretends not to watch me. On the radio, the Bee Gees, Little River Band, Poco, play. At last I allow the looks of indecision, and then surrender to possess my features: I pocket four Hazelnut creamers, and leave. Busking yesterday, I made quick money, and then there seemed to be a lull. I packed up, walked to another spot. Quick money, lull. Pack up, roll. I was approaching the Mellow Mushroom which I anticipated being a good spot because the packed patio of diners. A man of about 52 smiled warmly, not in a pervy way, but just an open kindness. I was setting up when he approached me (Oh, no, I remember thinking.) "Do you have any love songs?" he queried. I answered truthfully, that I have one. He explained that his girlfriend of three months was at a casual work luncheon at a restaurant he named. It was one with which I'd become familiar in the few days I'd been here. Unfortunately, my only love song, I can't even play anymore! I suck ass in a general sort of way. One specific way is that I cannot play some of my own fucking songs. So I played him the second-closest thing to a love song I've written - "Speakeasy," a song I wrote about my favorite bar in Norfolk. In the song, I talk to the bartender and regulars about cops and crime, because some of the people in that bar are straight up criminals. But I thought that would be a good song for his purposes because it is jazzy and relaxed. He liked it. After I sang the line, "Tell me what's new in crime…" He asked, "Did you say, 'What's new in your life'?" I nodded yes as I continued to sing. I didn't play the whole song. He was into this, I didn't need to. He told me where she was and what he wanted me to tell her. So I asked, "Chief, what's in this for me?" Yes, I did. I am not into subtlety. "Money, of course," he answered. He extracted a twenty and a five. I walked down the hill to the restaurant where his lovely blonde lady was sitting with several suits. Both women and men were profesh dress. I may seem rough and poorly skilled socially, but in fact, I can carry myself quite well with professional people. So I told her what was up, and I played Speakeasy, changing words to make it a love song to a person instead of what it is: a love song to alcohol and a bar in Nawfuck, Virginia. When I was done, I reported back to Chief. He was elated. Then I went to the Renaissance Inn where I hoped to work out. The fitness room was locked, accessed only with guest keys. I decided I'd wait briefly for someone to exit. I decided to give it five minutes. Within two, I heard a woman's peal of laughter. I bent to my bag to pretend to be searching for my guest key. A pair of women pushed open the heavy door and the older laughed sweetly, and held open the door. Score! I got to work out. Then I hung out in the hot tub and met Karen, whom I'll never see again, so I'll use her full name, Eric, and Emily. Eric is from Boston, so talking to him about neighborhoods in Beantown was cool. Eric and Emily are in-laws, a poli sci and art student respectively. Freed for the semester from school, they said they were really happy to just be doing nothing each day except sitting at the pool while Eric's wife and Emily's sister was attending a conference at the hotel. We sat in the hot tub for three cycles of the bubbles, talking. When we were thoroughly water-logged, we said goodbye went on our ways. I came back and was strong-armed into going dancing at the only bar in West Asheville. It cost nothing and I danced my ass off. The two other girls from the hostel didn't go but I had a blast. They think I'm in my mid twenties. Who am I to tell them otherwise? hehe The hostel is host to some really interesting people, too many to talk about tonight. K. has lived in Nashville for the past four years. We talked about writers and books and I got some promising titles and authors I look forward to exploring. He's using this trip to scout places to relocate. He spent a couple nights here, then went to Athens. I was going to go with, but there's no hostel there that I could find online. I got an email from his today and he's not impressed with Athens. He's coming back to Asheville, maybe to stay. Over coffee this morning in the hostel, I met S., who is a freelance book editor considering moving to Asheville. He's originally from New England but is enamored of Southern writers. He's weary of the hustle of freelancing so he's hoping to either find more freelance opportunity in this area, or to find a "regular" job. There are many people here who are interesting. These are just a few. One thing I like about this hostel, is that everyone is pretty healthy. I've stayed in hostels with amazing people who excused themselves to shoot drugs in the bushes. I left Tennessee because the hostel where I had decided to stay was filled with great kids, talented artists, and they were pretty much to a person dangerously addicted to one hard drug or another. I have enough problems. Before noon today, I walked all the way downtown. I'd like to know how many miles that is. But I stopped in at the River Arts District. It is a group of late 19th century and early 20th century building that today house sculptors, ceramicists, furniture builders, and more. They're all open to the public. They're rustic, and working studios. I saw a great sign made of glazed tiles of letters on plywood: "Don't forget your bourgeois manners, but don't lose your proletarian bite." Today I hung out with V., a street musician who's living in his car. I was walking past, on my way to the Renaissance Inn when a street musician said, "Hey, you were out here yesterday." I stopped and ended up sitting in with him for a bit. He's a great guy. Like many, he was a "working stiff," by his own admission. He had ten grand saved, and lost his job. So he decided, hell with it. I’m doing my music. Sounds familiar. He has a strong voice, and good guitar chops. He has a few original songs but since he only recently began playing publicly, he doesn't yet feel confident about playing them. But he works on them, and from his performance with covers, I know he'll be playing his originals soon in clubs. There's a dog at the hostel who is just a gem. Ask anyone, my dog Cinder is rare among dogs. Seriously, she is so gentle and sweet. Unless someone's trying to break in or something, and then she will eat your face. But anyway, Mona is a white mix breed. She walks around and exudes curiosity, benevolence, and fun. I am supposed to play a house concert and I'm nervous. I can play in front of hundreds, can speak publicly to any number of people. In theatre I could do anything onstage for big audiences. But put me in an intimate space? My nerves are raw like sushi. So wish me to break a leg. Break a leg, Cesca!
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