Champagne and Compresses
by K.W. Poole © 2021
It was early spring, I think. I was in Connecticut hanging with my friends from The Marshall Tucker Band. I loved those weekends. Staying at a hotel. Getting away from the grind of the weekday job. Singing back-up. Hanging backstage. Hanging on the bus, listening to the tales of the Southern Rock boys. Eating sushi and oysters. And the champagne. Oh the champagne!
This particular trip I had a beautiful hotel room. I think it was a Hilton property. It was a bit far from my CT pals homes, but well worth the extra miles for the luxurious room.
I traveled by car from the Vineyard, and with me I brought a few bottles of Moet. Upon arrival, I opened a bottle, and soaked in the tub with a glass in hand. I had time before meeting up with the band. To my dismay however, I had forgotten a vital tool for the champagne connoisseur. For wine it would be a corkscrew, but for champagne a WAF Champagne Stopper, invented by Walter Fortunato was imperative.I sealed the bottle to perfection, keeping all the precious bubbles intact. An open bottle as if unopened was a welcomed greeting at the end of concert nights. And yes, I truly carried a stopper with me on my trips, but somehow had misplaced my travel essential. I searched the car (after my bath) - thinking it may have fallen out of my purse - to no avail. What to do?
I knew the fork trick. (No one ever believes me, but a fork or spoon will help the champagne to maintain a great deal of its carbonation for up to three days.) However, I did not have a utensil in my luggage. The only possible solution was a small cork from a metal flask I brought along for the band's drink of choice, Crown Royal. It was a tiny cork with a slim metal top, about the size of a nickel, but not as thick. That should do the trick! I thought as I pushed the cork into the top of the bottle. It fit perfectly! I placed the bottle on the inside of the mini fridge door and pushed it against the lip above. I closed the fridge. Now what to do about the cork-less flask with the liquid gift for the band? I grabbed a few tissues and shaped a stopper. I used a hair scrunchy to hold the paper stopper in place. I would just have to be careful to hold it upright on the way to the venue.
I was running behind schedule at this point, after all of the searching and problem solving. I flew about the room pulling together an outfit; recklessly discarding unwanted garments on the bed, tables and chairs. (I am usually a freak about hanging and folding my garments, putting everything away in a hotel room, as if to make it home.) I was a woman on a mission to sing her heart out and live her rock-n-roll fantasy for a few hours.
My phone buzzed with the all familiar warning. The text read: "Be down in 5." And by the seat of my pants I was out front with 15 seconds to spare. The ride was full of laughs and stories, setting the stage for a stellar evening. Thirty or so minutes later we arrived. The venue was a familiar and welcomed site. As I presented the flask in the greenroom I was greeted with thanks and quizzical looks. The tale of my champagne conundrum unfurled to laughter and kudos, and we all toasted to ingenuity, before heading to the stage.
During these shows I spent most of my time backstage with the crew, or hanging with Dibby at the sound board, one of my favorite pass-times. We would chat, sip and laugh at inside jokes and signals. Until the magical moment when I would receive the nod and the melodic chords of Can't You See would begin to waft out of the flute. I would take my place next to my dear friend, Mr. Hicks and join hi9m in harmonious bliss.
This particular night was no exception. And once I joined the band on stage I remained for several more songs. The energy from the audience was magnetic. The room was on fire! We were living the life. When I exited the stage, and returned to hang with the crew, drinks flowed as the show closed out.
I love the end of a show, it is always as Jackson Browne paints it. You want to stay and linger in the energy that holds the hall. Though the audience disappears, they leave a bit of themselves there. The break-down and packing up, the toasts in the greenroom, the relief of a concert gone well, all of it is glorious.
With MTB there are traditions, sushi (sometimes accompanied by Karaoke), more Crown bus beers, jokes and laughs, but always food. I had time before our dinner plans, which were closer to my hotel. I was dropped off to change and headed up to my beautiful room. I entered with two thoughts in mind, a much awaited glass of champagne before dinner (beer and Crown are not really my thing) and a moment to sit on the bed in the quiet. I kicked off my boots and hung up my jacket. I grabbed a glass and placed it on the nightstand. I grabbed a notebook and pen (I often write immediately following any performance, as I am inspired). I pushed the garments scattered on the bed into a pile, making room to stretch my legs out. Ready. Now for the champagne! I opened the door to the mini fridge and -
POP! BAM! BLACKOUT.
The flask cork hit e dead on in the eye. I fell to the ground. I have no idea how long I was out, but I did see stars behind my swollen shut eyelid when I came to. My other eye was tearing so profusely, I could not open it either. There I was in a hotel room, by myself, unable to see. The pain was ridiculous. I would have laughed otherwise. I sat up trying to gain my bearings. In my minds-eye I pictured the layout of the room. I tried to remember where my phone was. I felt for the fridge to see if magically there might be ice inside. No such luck.
Eventually I crawled my way to the bed. My other eye was trying to clear up, but each time I tried to truly open it the tears would flood again. I fumbled with the phone and blindly figured out where ZERO was to call the front desk. It was difficult to talk, but I managed to ask for ice for an injury.
I waited, for ice, for a phone call to locate my cell. I waited. The ice came before the phone call and I had to call out as I made my way to the door. I retrieved the ice and assured the staff member I had friends who were helping me. But did I? Not one word and I still could not locate my cell.
My uninjured eye finally began to restore, tearing less as I held the ice compress to my swollen face. About this time, my cell buzzed. A text. Of course. Not a ring tat would help me locate it, just a buzz. It was on silent. I listened carefully for the second alert. Hoping whoever was texting would continue. Te room was silent. I held my breath. I let out my breath. Nothing. I waited in painful silence.
What must have been twenty minutes later my cell started to buzz the longer alert. Someone was calling. I fumbled around with one eye open, one glued shut. I found the phone just as the buzzing stopped. Hitting the contact dial back only led me to a friend's voicemail. He had an uncanny knack for never being available, even if you called right back.
"Ummm..." I wavered tears welling up as I left a message. "I think I might need to go to the hospital. Please call me back?"
The call-back came at least half an hour later, not without concern, but definitely on time delay. At this point I had managed to get into my pjs and crawl under the covers. I had no desire to go anywhere. I recapped the story briefly, downplayed the extent of my pain and insisted we would address the issue in the morning. I was exhausted. I found ibuprofen in my toiletry case and swallowed three with one big gulp of champaign out of the bottle. I placed the bottle back in the mini fridge without corking it, and crawled into bed.
I awoke with the sun, a melted ice pack soaking the pillow next to mine. My eye throbbed, but it felt less swollen and I tried to open it. A sliver of vision presented itself. I checked my phone; it was too early to call anyone. I made my way to the bathroom mirror which revealed the true extent of a seriously bruised and swollen lid. In the hours and days that followed, a doctor visit determined no damage was done to my cornea and the swelling turned to an open eye with one hell of a shiner. I had survived the champagne fiasco with only my pride and facial aesthetics bruised.
To this day, I carry a fork, a spoon and a WAF Champagne Stopper with me on my travels. I do not carry a flask. And, come to think of it...
I never located the infamous flask cork before checking out.
This particular trip I had a beautiful hotel room. I think it was a Hilton property. It was a bit far from my CT pals homes, but well worth the extra miles for the luxurious room.
I traveled by car from the Vineyard, and with me I brought a few bottles of Moet. Upon arrival, I opened a bottle, and soaked in the tub with a glass in hand. I had time before meeting up with the band. To my dismay however, I had forgotten a vital tool for the champagne connoisseur. For wine it would be a corkscrew, but for champagne a WAF Champagne Stopper, invented by Walter Fortunato was imperative.I sealed the bottle to perfection, keeping all the precious bubbles intact. An open bottle as if unopened was a welcomed greeting at the end of concert nights. And yes, I truly carried a stopper with me on my trips, but somehow had misplaced my travel essential. I searched the car (after my bath) - thinking it may have fallen out of my purse - to no avail. What to do?
I knew the fork trick. (No one ever believes me, but a fork or spoon will help the champagne to maintain a great deal of its carbonation for up to three days.) However, I did not have a utensil in my luggage. The only possible solution was a small cork from a metal flask I brought along for the band's drink of choice, Crown Royal. It was a tiny cork with a slim metal top, about the size of a nickel, but not as thick. That should do the trick! I thought as I pushed the cork into the top of the bottle. It fit perfectly! I placed the bottle on the inside of the mini fridge door and pushed it against the lip above. I closed the fridge. Now what to do about the cork-less flask with the liquid gift for the band? I grabbed a few tissues and shaped a stopper. I used a hair scrunchy to hold the paper stopper in place. I would just have to be careful to hold it upright on the way to the venue.
I was running behind schedule at this point, after all of the searching and problem solving. I flew about the room pulling together an outfit; recklessly discarding unwanted garments on the bed, tables and chairs. (I am usually a freak about hanging and folding my garments, putting everything away in a hotel room, as if to make it home.) I was a woman on a mission to sing her heart out and live her rock-n-roll fantasy for a few hours.
My phone buzzed with the all familiar warning. The text read: "Be down in 5." And by the seat of my pants I was out front with 15 seconds to spare. The ride was full of laughs and stories, setting the stage for a stellar evening. Thirty or so minutes later we arrived. The venue was a familiar and welcomed site. As I presented the flask in the greenroom I was greeted with thanks and quizzical looks. The tale of my champagne conundrum unfurled to laughter and kudos, and we all toasted to ingenuity, before heading to the stage.
During these shows I spent most of my time backstage with the crew, or hanging with Dibby at the sound board, one of my favorite pass-times. We would chat, sip and laugh at inside jokes and signals. Until the magical moment when I would receive the nod and the melodic chords of Can't You See would begin to waft out of the flute. I would take my place next to my dear friend, Mr. Hicks and join hi9m in harmonious bliss.
This particular night was no exception. And once I joined the band on stage I remained for several more songs. The energy from the audience was magnetic. The room was on fire! We were living the life. When I exited the stage, and returned to hang with the crew, drinks flowed as the show closed out.
I love the end of a show, it is always as Jackson Browne paints it. You want to stay and linger in the energy that holds the hall. Though the audience disappears, they leave a bit of themselves there. The break-down and packing up, the toasts in the greenroom, the relief of a concert gone well, all of it is glorious.
With MTB there are traditions, sushi (sometimes accompanied by Karaoke), more Crown bus beers, jokes and laughs, but always food. I had time before our dinner plans, which were closer to my hotel. I was dropped off to change and headed up to my beautiful room. I entered with two thoughts in mind, a much awaited glass of champagne before dinner (beer and Crown are not really my thing) and a moment to sit on the bed in the quiet. I kicked off my boots and hung up my jacket. I grabbed a glass and placed it on the nightstand. I grabbed a notebook and pen (I often write immediately following any performance, as I am inspired). I pushed the garments scattered on the bed into a pile, making room to stretch my legs out. Ready. Now for the champagne! I opened the door to the mini fridge and -
POP! BAM! BLACKOUT.
The flask cork hit e dead on in the eye. I fell to the ground. I have no idea how long I was out, but I did see stars behind my swollen shut eyelid when I came to. My other eye was tearing so profusely, I could not open it either. There I was in a hotel room, by myself, unable to see. The pain was ridiculous. I would have laughed otherwise. I sat up trying to gain my bearings. In my minds-eye I pictured the layout of the room. I tried to remember where my phone was. I felt for the fridge to see if magically there might be ice inside. No such luck.
Eventually I crawled my way to the bed. My other eye was trying to clear up, but each time I tried to truly open it the tears would flood again. I fumbled with the phone and blindly figured out where ZERO was to call the front desk. It was difficult to talk, but I managed to ask for ice for an injury.
I waited, for ice, for a phone call to locate my cell. I waited. The ice came before the phone call and I had to call out as I made my way to the door. I retrieved the ice and assured the staff member I had friends who were helping me. But did I? Not one word and I still could not locate my cell.
My uninjured eye finally began to restore, tearing less as I held the ice compress to my swollen face. About this time, my cell buzzed. A text. Of course. Not a ring tat would help me locate it, just a buzz. It was on silent. I listened carefully for the second alert. Hoping whoever was texting would continue. Te room was silent. I held my breath. I let out my breath. Nothing. I waited in painful silence.
What must have been twenty minutes later my cell started to buzz the longer alert. Someone was calling. I fumbled around with one eye open, one glued shut. I found the phone just as the buzzing stopped. Hitting the contact dial back only led me to a friend's voicemail. He had an uncanny knack for never being available, even if you called right back.
"Ummm..." I wavered tears welling up as I left a message. "I think I might need to go to the hospital. Please call me back?"
The call-back came at least half an hour later, not without concern, but definitely on time delay. At this point I had managed to get into my pjs and crawl under the covers. I had no desire to go anywhere. I recapped the story briefly, downplayed the extent of my pain and insisted we would address the issue in the morning. I was exhausted. I found ibuprofen in my toiletry case and swallowed three with one big gulp of champaign out of the bottle. I placed the bottle back in the mini fridge without corking it, and crawled into bed.
I awoke with the sun, a melted ice pack soaking the pillow next to mine. My eye throbbed, but it felt less swollen and I tried to open it. A sliver of vision presented itself. I checked my phone; it was too early to call anyone. I made my way to the bathroom mirror which revealed the true extent of a seriously bruised and swollen lid. In the hours and days that followed, a doctor visit determined no damage was done to my cornea and the swelling turned to an open eye with one hell of a shiner. I had survived the champagne fiasco with only my pride and facial aesthetics bruised.
To this day, I carry a fork, a spoon and a WAF Champagne Stopper with me on my travels. I do not carry a flask. And, come to think of it...
I never located the infamous flask cork before checking out.