Eureka Springs, AK – “Tattoo Wedding Parlors and Mud Masks” – The Ozark Folk Festival, Day 2 – October 9, 1999
Fuzzy showed up at 9:30 on his portable car phone. It’s rare to see him without it, except when the signal drops on a bend or a bridge. During those times, he lets out a frustrated “dambdamb damnit!” He runs his entire taxi operation from his car he apologetically explains, “I’m the driver, dispatcher, and accountant for this whole taxi enterprise. But that also means I can do anything I want!” he said “I even pick up hitchhikers from time to time.” He parked under the shoe tree where, he insisted, the reception was best. Plugging one ear and closing his eyes, Fuzzy booked his next client before driving us into town.
Eureka Springs is certainly unique. Almost every store offers weddings—The Tattoo Parlor doubles as a marriage parlor, and The Cigar Shop wants to marry you and gift your new husband a free stogie. We walked by an “Old Time Photo” studio that, unsurprisingly, also functioned as a wedding parlor. Their window was full of framed photos —newlyweds dressed in 19th-century hooker and gangster garb sporting new rings and casual attitudes toward marriage. It seemed, in Eureka Springs, people were getting hitched just for the fun of it, or for the perks like a free sepia picture or cigar. Walking by the Tattoo/Marriage Parlor, I couldn’t help but point out the irony of permanent inkings juxtaposed against loosely tied knotings of matrimony. Ravenous, we looked around for a place to eat that wouldn’t unintentionally turn into a wedding ceremony.
A woman passing by stopped us. “My husband and I loved your show last night,” she said, beaming through thick glasses and a Southern accent. Suddenly, we were celebrities. People were coming up to us, complimenting our performance. “I heard your show last night was great,” said a man poking his head out from his barbershop. “I love your voice,” said a teenage girl walking by with her friends. And it struck Soucy and I at the same time —a thousand people in attendance at our gig the night before meant we’d played in front of more than ½ the population of Eureka Springs.
Just as we were about to give up on lunch, a small-hipped, wide-eyed brunett woman ushered us into her café, “Mud Street,” for a bite assuring us she wouldn’t marry us and insisting she feed us a free meal, She’d loved our show. Everyone stared and whispered as we walked in. Lisa sat us down and poured out two piping hot cups of coffee. The steam curled up in cat tail-like rings around our chins. Exaggeratedly, I widened my eyes at Chris so as not to be overheard and said, “Remind me to move to Eureka Springs for a week if I ever need to feel famous.”
Drunk on town people’s love, we wandered up the street after our free meal, to the arts fair. Face painters glued glitter on children’s bright eyes and cheeks, drum makers showcased their instruments, and dancers in mirrored Indian skirts spun to the drone of a a sea of didgeridoos. Bubbles floated through the crowds, dodging feet and children’s eager hands. Chefs in stained aprons flipped steaming meat which sizzled and hissed and surrounded us in plumes of sweet-smelling sausage and bell pepper. Astrologers offered tarro readings, and half the people who passed grabbed our arms to say, “We loved the show last night.” Eureka Springs felt like the backdrop of a fairytale. I could have swam in that velvety joyous environment all day but Chris and I had a show to prepare for.
We showed up punctually, guitars in hand at The Old Ballroom. But the sceen was chaotic. The stage manager hadn’t showed up, and the sound man, arriving late, admitted when he got there, “I’ve never worked with this sort of board before.” When we took the stage, he proceeded to send blood-curdling shrieks of feedback through the room and people clutched their ears and stared around at each other uncomfortably. After the third shriek, I pushed the mic stand away, unplugged my guitar, and addressed the obvious. “OK,” I said, “I came to sing for you, not to have equipment scream at you so If you don’t mind, let’s all bring our chairs up close to the stage. I’m gonna do this one acoustic.” From then on the night turned around. The sound man got drunk, and the audience, no longer in danger of being deafened, appreciated the rest of the show.
Back at the Land-O-Nod, Chris and I opted out of returning to town to see “Rice and Beans,” a band led by a pretty Asian keyboardist. Instead, we put on green mud masks, opened a bag of chips, a gourd of salsa, and a bottle of red wine. I unwrapped two plastic cups from the bathroom sink, and Soucy poured generous servings. We switched on Wild Discovery—something about tornadoes—and settled into our “honeymooner’s suite,” king-sized bed. Before long, the room was a mess. I kept dropping dollops of salsa on the colorful comforter, and Chris spilled a full cup of wine on the carpet. In a panic, he stripped down to his underwear and socks and danced around in circles doing a make shift chacha atop a wet towel in an attempt to remove the stain. I laughed until I choked because he looked so ridiculous in his cracking green clay mask, undies, and pulled-up black socks. He laughed too.
The next morning, Fuzzy brought us to the airport. He carried our luggage all the way to our gate, and hooked us up with free massages right there at the terminal (courtesy of a therapist who happened to be one of his drivers). But, though he was no doubt the best taxi driver we’d ever had, he refused to take our money. “I don’t need it,” he said, strutting away like a cowboy. He turned one last time on the descending escalator to wave and smile goodbye. See you next time, Fuzzy. See you next time, good buddy.