Mrs. Hot Tub

Years ago, I went to a tuning outside of a small town in West Michigan, in the heart of the Bible Belt. My customer was an average looking middle aged woman, who worked as a truck driver. She had an ordinary spinet piano in the basement. As I began to work, I noticed about 20 small tables, each with a candle and surrounded by chairs. She said there was a hot tub nearby.

Going to the bathroom upstairs, I walked by a table with a sign-in book, and a money container. There was a bulletin board covered with flyers about swinging sex parties, and couple swapping. Returning to the basement, a light started going off in my head. During the ride home, the light in my head grew brighter. Upon arriving home, I told my husband all about this whole weird scene. In dull West Michigan, we were both amazed. Ever since, we refer to this customer as Mrs. Hot Tub. I went back a few other times, over the years; you know how hard humidity is on pianos.


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