She was driving down a highway. She was 38. Not quite lost but not quite found. Wondering about business school, if the student loans would pay for themselves or if she'd quit the life and be stuck with them. Worse than a divorce, which she had counted herself lucky to have avoided, thus far.
Seeing him waiting outside the box office, leaning against the wall, everything came flooding back. Her body recognized him before she did. And with long hair and a long scraggly beard, nobody else recognized him at all.
When he saw her, he smiled like he was caught by surprise. Before she could deliver her practiced speech, he grabbed her into a bear hug which squeezed out all the petty resentments of the past 8 years. He knew he could get her to see him with a bribe and an excuse. A free ticket that would go to waste for her favorite group, and an honest admission of missing her. Not too hard of a compromise. This concert was a long trip for her, and he hoped that she had spent the ride singing rather than stewing.
She had pulled up a series of their favorite cds. And was in a mood to smile and look beautiful, living well as the best revenge. She was hoping for some honest conversation, or at least some fun flirting. But she still wasn't expecting much.
They were seated in the back of the room, in the worst corner, by the sound guy. Where all the comps go. He had given tickets away to another loyal listener, who was only too eager to monopolize the conversation. This guy held his head to one side, as if he were constantly considering something, but the more animated his litany of famous autographs got, the more she thought it was probably a birth defect. Another bearded guy showed up, another refugee from the radio station, looking clear eyed but so large that putting one's arms around him seemed like a impossible feat. She wondered if they realized how much they looked alike in their nonconformity. Shaggy beards, long stringy, greasy ponytails, salt and pepper hair, balding in front or back. All wearing the same uniform: music tshirts, jeans, as if there was some bouncer who wouldn't let them in wearing a suit. Shoulder bags that all held the same 45rpm albums, each with their own square plastic condom, waiting to be signed.
This was going to be a long night.
He joined in the conversation when the lucky contest winners compared war stories of famous photographs. As usual, his brief rise to stardom granted him the most credibility at the table. Everyone, except her, leaned in to hear the Playboy Bunny story. Afterwards, the conversation was a steady decline into the failures of modern society. Mostly the loss of the Free Form Radio format. She was interested in only the vaguest of ways about the politics of all the local folk music radio stations. Names that she hadn't heard in 10, 20 years started popping up; it tickled her to think that they were still alive, playing a variation of their old roles.
"Jane ran for public office. Western Mass somewhere! Remember how scatterbrained she got just trying to pull the news together?" There was a special machine dedicated to the AP wire service and it printed out the hourly news just minutes before it was to be delivered live on the air. Or was it a fax machine?
Halfway through, during the last song before intermission, she awoke to the evening. The Famous Singer, not liking to play alone (after his rise to fame as part of a trio), began inviting audience members up onstage. He started by asking for the children to come up. Then, "All children under age 50". She was only one of 3 who stood up, a group defined by age as well as boldness. Seeing the results, he extended it to anyone under 70. 10 more people got onstage, but the rest being painfully shy. She could never be accused of that. (No matter what her anxieties told her)
The moment itself was lovely; a large variety of people, in various stages of emotional and physical handicap sang together on and offstage and their hearts beat in unison rhythm. It had the vague effect of church.
She found herself one of 15 audience members onstage, singing THE song of her childhood, and maybe the #2 or #3 top folksong in terms of popularity. Practically the "Born in the USA" of the folk world.
And then, the Famous Singer handed her the microphone.
She took it graciously, fully in the moment, and gave into the music. From the back of the room, he could hear her, could see how easily her body commanded the stage, even in the crowd. Even her sincerity, came through which gave her confidence to stay on pitch. She sang the few lines of the verse miraculously enough, even to her, the words came out sweetly and with a lovely bit of musicality.
"She's got it," he thought.
After the song was over, she stepped off the slightly raised platform and was beaming.
He hugged her. And for the second time that night, he tried to lean in for a kiss. But the other members of their motley crew were excited by proxy. If she wouldn't hug them, she'd at least want a copy of the moment.
"Nice solo, there, kid! You have such a lovely voice. I've always thought so."
"Thanks. That was sweet of him to invite everyone up"
"I got video of that. I'll send it to you. What's your phone number?"
"You better get in line before he gets sick of signing autographs!"
Even though he didn't understand how his lust for an autograph won out over any other lust, he was quickly disposed of. Back at the table for the rest of the night, he kept trying to ingratiate himself by offering more details of his conquest to get photos with every singer from the 1960's rock era.
She held hands under the table with her favorite DJ. And when the waitress came with their burgers, and the constant and endless refills of coffee, she shifted her leg so that it was touching his. When she pulled it away, his found hers. And when everyone else at the table was engrossed in the song about the Vietnam war, he undid the clip from her hair. In the dark reflected audience light, he ran his fingers along her temple, to her lips, to her neckline. She silently responded.
The music was over quicker than it had taken them to drive there. She waited politely again, while he scribbled his info on the back of a cardboard box of gum and gave it to the Famous Performer. He was trying to use his credibility as a DJ, when he pulled out his music cred, he just got a funny look.
"I remember that group. Which one were you?"
That shot his confidence and even in the pictures she took, he looked nervous and the Famous Singer was already looking away from the camera, eager to move onto the next city.
"Always look people in the eye, no matter how tired you get," She said as they walked back to the car.
"It conveys a sense of sincerity to the fans. And you know what they say about sincerity . . ."
"Once you can fake that, you've got it made," They both said in unison.
They had heard it in the control booth one day, a non-cynical musician, a real California type, who just blurted it out. And then laughed. As if the notion of anyone faking sincerity in that business was inherently ludicrous. As if it wasn't already an oxymoron. As if he were permanently stuck, California dreaming.
They had bonded over similar levels of cynicism; both suspected everyone of insincere and those in the industry who didn't realize it yet were doomed. The only joy was the music onstage and the accidental magic that spills over into the audience. Nights like tonight, which somehow gave them hope.
He hugged her to say goodnight as the group was heading in separate directions for their cars. He wouldn't let go. His lips aimed for hers and she turned a bit, so he landed only 3/4ths of a direct hit.
She did look him straight in the eye, hold him by the shoulders and smile as she said goodbye. He decided to follow her to her car, leaving the others to wander off (laughing) to find their cars.
He hedged and hemmed and told her about everything he could, just to stop her from driving off. They talked, and talked some more.
"I still have a long drive ahead of me,"
"You can come to my house, you know,"
"I know. I could," she said noncommittally. Then closed the door, rolled up the window and started the car. And waved a firm, certain, goodnight.
He waved back, trying not to hide his disappointment. Even walking away, he felt a warm glow. As he got into his car, he felt loved. And thought about how good it was to see his old friend. And how horny she had made him. But he was okay with it. Just bewildered by the strong pull he felt towards her. Different than before, somehow. Lovely.
And then his engine wouldn't turn over.
And then he felt cold. And more alone than he had ever been. All his wingmen had already left for their own journeys home. What help were they, if they couldn't even wait to tease him about her and see if his junky old car would start?
He stared straight ahead, both hands on the wheel of his dead car, contemplating.
Nearly had a heart attack when she knocked on his window.
"Wanna ride, mister?"
==
She was picky about the radio stations, kept switching the channels, until he turned it off.
Sing Everyday. Or the Cats song. They had lots of suggestions, but neither were in shape to sing.
He told her about the concert they asked him to host. And if she would come help him out.
She told him to stop trying too hard, of course she was gonna sleep with him.
They laughed.
She squinted into the windshield that was full of glare in the darkness.
He kept trying to hold her hand or her knee or tickle her along her chin.
She scolded him and he stopped when they got to construction on the highway.
He told her what exit it was.
She reminded him that she remembered. That she had driven the route 100 times before.
It was just like old times.
"Puff The Magic Dragon" by Peter, Paul and Mary