On a silent and grey Sunday, I decided to straighten up a bit around the house. I was bored and it seemed like the perfect time to give myself something worthwhile to do. It’s hard sometimes, living alone. Especially when the blessed silence I had thought would help my task go smoothly was rudely interrupted by the pomp and circumstance of thunder and lightning. The flashes and echoes invading my big empty house made me feel tiny like I could be consumed at any moment by an unseen force much larger than I could ever imagine.
The rain beat against my windows so hard that they rattled as I trudged up the stairs to the attic to get started on what I figured would be the most daunting of that which I had to clean. I flipped on the jumbo-sized flashlight I’d carried up with me and set it down on a table, the beam of light stretching across the crowded attic like something out of an Indiana Jones film. I followed the light all the way to the end of the room where it landed upon a dress form upon which rested an old coat of mine. I didn’t even recognize it at first. It looked like it had come out of another dimension.
The flashlight illuminated the mauve faux fur collar so that the petrified flecks of glitter that — no doubt embedded in there for the better part of the last few decades — shone as brightly as the day they’d taken up residence in my coat. I ran my hands over the soft brown suede body, racking my brain, trying to figure out where and when I had last donned this magnificent garment. My hand slipped gently into one of the pockets, but it was empty. I tried the pocket on the other side, but no luck either. I pet the soft fur collar and reached inside the coat. The flashlight didn’t pick up the spectacular purple paisley print of the lining but, as soon as I reached into the left breast pocket, my fingers brushed up against a perforated piece of card stock and the memories all came flooding back.
I pulled the faded concert ticket out of the coat pocket and held it out under the ray of the flashlight, straining to read the ghostlike ink. It didn’t really matter, though. The name of the band may have been long lost to the ages, but as I closed my eyes, gripping the ticket in my thumb and forefinger, I could hear the music clear as day. The melodic guitar, the thumping bass, and his captivating voice. I remember the night I sweet-talked my way backstage and first gazed upon him. He was tall, thin, and pale, with a sort of otherworldly aura when he spoke. Our eyes met and he grinned at me through crooked teeth, reaching out his hand, silently beckoning me over to sit next to him on the plush couch. It was as if I’d forgotten how to walk. My naive nineteen year old knees knocked together as I stood there in my platform heels. I pulled my coat tightly around me as I tiptoed across the room to sit next to him.
I resisted the urge to blurt out, “I’m your biggest fan!” when he asked, “What’s your name, love?”
“Jane,” I said, feigning confidence.
“Oh, sweet Jane,” he singsonged, brushing a lock of my hair aside and leaning in closer.
“What’s a sweet girl like you doing back here in this den of sin?” he whispered, with a tone of sincerity that stunned me.
Did I have to make my intentions any more clear? I may have been young but I knew exactly what I was doing there. I was there to fulfill my rock n’ roll fantasy, which was…
I paused and took a moment to truly observe my surroundings. There were clouds of smoke lingering in the air, a variety of scents and thicknesses to each. I saw straws, rolled-up bills, razor blades, and mirrors covered in powder. There were young women and men rolling around on carpets and couches in various states of undress, kissing, groping, and unabashedly fucking each other out in the open.
Was this what I really wanted? I turned back to face the strange beautiful man and he smiled gently at me.
“I…” my voice trailed off.
“It’s alright, darling,” he comforted me, “You don’t belong here.”
I sighed, disappointed and embarrassed. I was nothing but a wannabe groupie and he knew it.
“I love your music more than anything in the world,” I gushed, holding back tears, “I just wanted to…”
He wiped the tear from my cheek and whispered in my ear, “Then listen to the music. Never forget it.”
He looked me dead in the eye.
“All of this,” he said, gesturing at the decadence that surrounded us, “means nothing if you don’t care about the music. And I can tell that you do. And that’s why I say you don’t belong here.”
I sniffled and nodded, still feeling a sting of shame heating up my cheeks. I reached into my coat pocket and held out my ticket stub.
“W-would you please sign this?” I asked.
He graciously obliged and I stuck the ticket inside my coat in the left breast pocket to keep it close to my heart. I shook his hand, got up from the couch, and left.
Though I didn’t realize it at the time, that was the night I fell in love for the very first time. Not with the rockstar, but with his song.
Standing alone in my attic, holding that faded ticket, I wept at my own bittersweet memories. Life had taken me on many an adventure since that night, always guided by my own free will and, most times, by my love of music. I turned the ticket over and looked at his beautiful signature on the other side, a star next to his name — his cute little trademark — and I smiled.
Wherever you are, “star man”, thank you.
