When I discovered popular music, I was an 11 year old suffering from chronic bronchitis and resting at my grandmother's house. A transistor radio sat next to my ear. While convalescing (something I did a couple of times that school year), the songs from 1971 carved themselves into my heart. "Clean Up Woman" was one that played over and over as I recovered under Grammy's chenille bedspread. Songs from that era -- along with anything from Carole King, Three Dog Night, the Temptations, Marvin Gaye, and on and on -- built my musical foundation. I may not remember much from sixth grade, but I know all the lyrics to "Knock Three Times."
Forty years later, the "Clean Up Woman" entered my life again. I was visiting my son, who was starting his junior year at University of South Carolina. He lived with two friends in a well-used bungalow near school (pictured here, without all the empty beer bottles that typically festooned the porch). It was his first off-campus residence and he was excited about the new school year; we'd spent the day acquiring kitchen items, cleaning solutions and bedding to get the boys settled into their new home. Before leaving, he invited me to his first house party, saying "Come meet my friends! They all want to meet you. And then you can leave!"
So that night I attended my first fraternity party in more than 30 years. The girls wore sundresses and sandals. The boys dressed in pastels and wore croakies affixed to their sunglasses. Tanned and good-natured, they shook my hand politely and assured me I raised a great kid. It was a sea of good manners, Vineyard Vines and beer. Sam, my son, encouraged me to play a game or two of beer pong. We lost.
I sipped a margarita and around 11:00 Sam announced, quite nicely, it was time for me to go. He called a cab, waited outside with me and then kissed me on the cheek before I climbed into the car and headed back to my hotel.
"Clean Up Woman" was on the radio. Now, picture driving through the nearly unbreathable heat of the South Carolina night, listening to Betty Wright, with a margarita swirling in your system. How can you not react to that funky, hip-shaker of a tune? Surprised, the driver looked in his mirror and announced, "Girl? You can sing!" I thanked him, and that was my second mistake (the first was singing in a cab. WTH was I thinking).
I don't know how we transitioned from Betty Wright to the apocalypse, but pretty quickly the cabbie assured me of God's displeasure with humanity (maybe he figured the Clean Up Woman pissed God off with her boyfriend stalking). I don't know. He told me we were all going to die. Soon. And maybe it was the tequila, but I let his words wash over me, as the swampy air choked the interior of the car, and I asked him: "Sooooo.... why do you think this?" I certainly agreed that humanity can disappoint. And hey -- we were in the south, where religious leaders can be a little extreme. But what made him certain we were all going to die, like ... tomorrow?
And then he told me: "Because I read it on the Internet."
We reached the hotel, and I scurried out, paying him and avoiding eye contact. I said I enjoyed the conversation, which wasn't true but I didn't want to continue opening his damn box of crazy. I realized right away it all made a good story: helping my kid, going to a fraternity party, and ending the night with the Cabdriver of Doom. Amiright?
I think about him sometimes, and how he searches for words on his computer after his shift ends. And it makes me sad because all the words are out there, whatever you want to read that will shore up your beliefs, fears, prejudices, and needs. There are websites for every proclivity, every viewpoint, every bad habit. And if there isn't... there will be.
Today I read about Betty Wright's death, and I am reminded of that cab driver, who searched his computer for truth. He seemed to find what he sought. We are all that cab driver these days, dissecting this world around us, hoping -- as my neighbor said this morning -- "to wake up to some good news during this hard, scary time." I'd like good news too. I want a cure and a vaccine. An economy that rebounds. I want to play a gig again, and have dancers celebrate our shared humanity as I assure them that "something's gotta hold on me." I want another job (I was laid off a month ago). I hope we'll learn something that transforms us after this is all over. Whatever "over" means. This global uncertainty smacking us around has me looking for answers.
Maybe it's out here in this wild tech west, but I don't think so. I'm reminded of WB Yeats and his line in "The Second Coming." "The best lack all conviction, while the worst/ Are full of passionate intensity." Be careful of easy answers. Or answers that make you feel more secure during this insecure time. Because, I'm convinced: those who preach loudest know the least. And right now? I don't think anybody knows how this will end.
So let's all raise a (margarita?) glass to Betty Wright, who warned us, when she was 17, about the perils of taking life for granted. Let's love. Be kind to each other. And hope for a better tomorrow. Because hope may be all we have right now.
