I walk into the Nye Beach Market and notice a boy and two girls sitting around a gingerbread structure. It isn’t a house. It looks like a pile of squares. Gingerbread condos? I am weary, having roamed from shop to shop seeking willing merchants with actual customers since 3:00.
“Would you like some music?” I ask, spreading my gear on the cushy red chairs. “Why not?” says the young woman behind the counter. “It might just be us though.” Whatever. I whip through “Feliz Navidad” for the third time today, followed by “The Marvelous Toy” and “Mary Did You Know?” As I sing, struggling to be heard over the refrigerators, I realize those are two-foot-long salamis hanging above a counter full of sweets, including three-quarters of a chocolate cheesecake. Two women come in and browse shelves of chocolates and fancy olives while the boy leans over the cake, carefully frosting the edges. Next time I look, all the kids are licking the leftover frosting out of a bowl.
I decide to move on.
I have already been to Coastal Breezes, a knick-knack shop where Mr. and Mrs. Santa waved at me coming and going while I sang to patio chairs occupied by stuffed Santa figurines. Every time a truck came by, I lost audio contact.
Next I walked up the hill to the wine shop, where I expected to find our old friend Wendy behind the counter. Who were these strangers surrounded by wine-tasters talking the language of color, nose and provenance? “Would you like some music?” I asked. The two men behind the bar shrugged. “I guess we’ll turn the jazz off,” the older man said. The other man just kept talking. And talking and talking. As I squeezed between the wine racks and sang, my voice cracked. “You need some wine,” someone suggested. “No,” I said. “It would coat my throat.” Besides, I knew I was just unnerved by the haughty attitude of the audience. Wine did sound good.
I swigged my water and went on. A middle-aged couple, possibly Hispanic, came in, loudly proclaiming, “Sue Fagalde Lick,” my full name. “Who are you?” I asked the woman, but I guess she didn’t hear me over the wine clamor. Her husband followed. “Hi Sue,” he said, clearing knowing me from somewhere. “I love your books,” the woman went on. “I didn’t know you were such a beautiful singer, too.” “Oh, thank you,” I said. I had no idea who they were, but I did an extra song for their benefit.
On to the Dapper Frog gallery, where my friend Nancy works amid glass art priced at thousands of dollars. At least it was warm and pretty in there. I sang to $100 candle holders, $4,000 masks and swirly chandeliers that cost almost as much as my car. Oh, and don’t forget the lime green Buddha. I think he was only $1,500.
I was lucky to get out of there without breaking something. Nancy was the one who sent me to the market. She meant well.
Business was slow everywhere because of the weather. It was in the low 40s and the weather forecasters had bee predicting snow for tonight and tomorrow. Yes, snow on the beach. I wore so many layers I felt like one of those kids so bundled up they can’t walk. Last weekend, the weather was comfortable and dry. I played outside, and the stores were jammed, but this time, merchants twiddled their thumbs, watching their holiday profits disappear. . .
From the market, I head west. I stop at the tea shop and this old woman with hair, face and coat all the same pale yellow informs me that the tiny gift shop is open but the tea room is closed. She clearly doesn’t want company. “I’ll move on,” I say. She suggests “next door.” Uh, the Sandbar, one of the roughest bars in town? I don’t think so. Not the lingerie shop either. I consider the Chowder Bowl restaurant, but upon opening the door, I am deafened by the roar of a vacuum cleaner. Again, no.
It begins to rain hard nuggets of water that drive me to the shelter of Illingworth’s, one of the oldest gift shops in the area. As I park myself in a corner between the salt water taffy, chocolate truffles and a Christmas tree decorated all in silver, the page-boy-haired manager and her few customers welcome me and laugh when I say it’s starting to rain “or something.” “It’s that ‘something’ that worries me,” someone says. “Rain, I can handle.” Amen. By then I have set up and taken down my music stand and guitar and changed eyeglasses about 10 times. The acoustics are good, the audience complimentary. I’m staying here for the rest of my tour.
Finally it’s 5:00. Darkness has fallen, but the rain has stopped. I pack up and head past the lighted shops to my Honda.
Across from my car sits Café Mundo, sort of like a restaurant in a treehouse. I’ll have to describe it in a future column, but the light glows red from the windows and I think about how I’d like to slide into a chair, take off my coat and order something intensely alcoholic. Lacking that, I would settle for going home and throwing myself on the floor in the corpse pose for a day or two, but it’s time for real life, dogs at the door, everybody needing dinner, chores to finish, and one more chance to practice my piano music for tomorrow morning’s Mass.
Feliz Navidad, already.