Addiction

Years and years ago, I was a huge fan of a rather famous singer. I spent obscene amounts of money (money I shouldn’t have been spending) to attend his concerts and conventions and bought his albums and books and t-shirts and key chains and coffee mugs. I joined his fan club. Granted, I was quite a bit younger than I am now. But I was in way too deep. If he was doing a weekend’s worth of shows in Las Vegas, I’d go to every show. I mean, every show. Thursday, Friday, both Saturday shows and Sunday, even if it meant taking a red eye flight home to be at work on Monday with almost no sleep. I was addicted. I admit it. The emotional high of a concert was incredible. I hung on every note, every bit of banter, every joke or wink or smile. The emotional lows after the concerts were devastating.
During those years of following this singer, I saw the best and worst of fandom. This was in the days before the internet, when fans kept in touch with letters and phone calls and mimeographed newsletters. In those days, we were all so innocent and naive. Later, of course, that changed, and fans became fanatical, or worse. The anonymity of the internet brought out the dark underbelly of fandom. I saw fans put their families in jeopardy by spending money they didn’t have to go see their idol. I saw marriages break up because of the wife’s infatuation. Women wrote steamy fiction with themselves and their idol as the main characters, and they hung his pictures in their homes. They put him on a pedestal and allowed no one to say anything negative.  They paid thousands and thousands of dollars for five minutes of one-on-one time with him, in hopes of making some sort of “connection”. Of course, they never did.
Eventually, luckily,  I moved on. My father died. My kids got married, and the grandbabies started coming. My mother died. Life settled into a boring, predictable, safe routine. I didn’t have much money (ha. Poverty would have been a step up) but I was content spending my days writing, babysitting, and crafting. My addiction became an uncomfortable memory.
Then, a couple of years ago, I saw a musical in Las Vegas. I loved it. I loved the music, the energy, the story. I loved it so much I was thrilled when I found out there was going to be a movie made of it. I saw the movie as soon as it showed up in our local theater. I thought it was great. But I didn’t go over and over again. Once was fine.
I have a dear friend, 88 years old. She had wanted to see the movie, but her health had prevented her from going out while it was still in theaters, so when I saw the DVD on sale one day in January, I bought it. I took it over to her house, and we watched it together.
And something happened. Something clicked inside my head and when I went home, I started looking up everything I could find on-line about the star of the movie. I watched video clips, I watched interviews, I read articles. I discovered he had an album out, so I downloaded the music and listened to it over and over again. When I found his Facebook page and found out that I had just missed a set of concerts in San Francisco over the New Year, I was disappointed. Then, I found out he was performing way, way down south over Valentine’s Day weekend. Rats. Not only was it way too far, it was the weekend of my oldest grandson’s birthday. I knew that if I tried to take off on the weekend of his party, I’d have explaining to do to my children. I knew they would be worried that I was repeating my previous addictive behavior. And frankly, I was afraid of the same thing. And the situation was complicated by the fact that this fellow is younger than two of my children. I was embarrassed to admit how much he affected me. I thought there was no way I’d ever be able to go to see him sing, so I put it out of my mind.
But then, I got a royalty check for my writing, and it was almost exactly to the penny the cost of a ticket to the show. Someone I’d only just met online offered to let me share her hotel room. My grandson decided he was too old for birthday parties, and wanted to go to the Santa Cruz boardwalk for his birthday instead. Suddenly, going to a show was maybe, just maybe possible.  I checked the venue and decided to take the plunge and buy a ticket. I chose Valentine’s Day for two reasons. First, it was my late mother’s birthday. And secondly, it was the last night of the three night set of shows, and I knew from my previous life that if I went to the first or second show, I’d have a hard time leaving, knowing there was going to be another show and I wasn’t going to be there for it.  My seat was way in the back, but at least I’d be in the same room.
Sigh. As soon as I clicked “Buy” I started having second thoughts. I was terrified of falling into the same trap I’d been in decades ago. I forced myself to back off, to stop watching videos, to stop playing the music, to stop daydreaming.
It worked, to some extent. I was actually considering staying home, letting the cost of the ticket be a slightly expensive lesson in being realistic. And then, on a whim, I checked the venue’s website and discovered that a front row seat had become available. It was a sign! Within moments, I had called the venue and changed my seat.
The weekend arrived. I’d sold some things on ebay for the gas money, I had a room for the night, and my outfit planned.
Honestly, the show was anti-climatic. I loved my seat. I loved the songs. I loved seeing the singer live and up close. But I didn’t feel the way so many of his fans had reported feeling about his shows. I wasn’t ecstatic with joy. Yes, he’s a fantastic singer. Yes, I enjoyed myself. But by far the best part of the night came after the show.
This young man knows what his fans want. After the show, he appeared and signed autographs and posed for pictures until every person who wanted one got one.
I don’t remember all of my moment with him. I know he asked me about the spelling of my name. I know he laughed and initialed my little Lego figurine. I know he said he knew me from my posts on the internet. And I know he said something else about the dark side of blogs. I might not remember what we said or did, but I remember how I felt when I walked away.
He’s doing another show next week. I have a ticket, and an airplane flight. I’m moving into a new house just days before, and I think I’m nuts to even consider going. I’m so afraid....

The Girl Wearing Yellow

Prologue

It was the blue jay diving out of the pine grove that started it all. The Steller’s jay, its blue plumage glistening in the sun, swooped down toward the picnic table, aiming for the unattended tray of French fries.

I had arrived in Lake Tahoe just yesterday, driving up into the mountains from San Francisco in my little rental car. Winter still held the Sierras in its grip and as I’d made my way up the twisting roads, dirty snow had edged the road and my tires had made a gritty rumbling on the slushy blacktop. In the shade of the huge boulders below me and up against the base of the tall pines, clean white snow lay in shadowed patches. The afternoon sun had flickered through the trunks of the trees like the frames of an old silent movie.

Today, I was playing tourist, wandering around the shops and restaurants and enjoying the sunshine and the scent of pine. I had paused outside a small shop, all uneven wood floors and mossy roof, to examine a selection of colorful hand-blown glass jewelry arranged on a small table. The flash of wings and a hoarse ‘caw’ drew my eyes toward the small A-frame hamburger stand next door. The hand-carved sign over the order window identified it as ‘Bill’s Burgers’.

As the bird landed on the weathered wood table and plucked a fry from the cardboard tray, the young woman at the table looked up from her cell phone with an annoyed frown.

“Hey!” she yelled, her voice echoing off the buildings. “Get away! Shoo!” she waved her hand angrily, but the bold bird simply hopped sideways away from her flailing fingers, the limp French fry dangling from his beak.

“Gabe!” the woman called, “Make this damn bird leave my food alone!”

Her companion, who had been standing at the counter filling two small paper cups with ketchup, turned toward the table. As he hurried across the short space between the counter and the table, I must have moved or maybe made a sound, something to draw his attention, because he looked over in my direction, and our eyes met.

An unexpected sense of awareness tingled down my spine. Under dark brows, his eyes were black, piercing, challenging. I was mesmerized, the bracelet I’d been admiring falling unnoticed from my fingers. Ignoring his companion, he started to take a step toward me.

“Gabe!” the woman wailed. “This damn bird is driving me crazy!”

Those dark eyes closed briefly as if in pain as the man turned back to the woman, some strong emotion tightening his mouth and stiffening his shoulders.

I shook off the hypnotizing effect of his glance, stooped to pick up the bracelet and replaced it on the table. I continued to pretend to browse the shop’s wares, all the while covertly watching the couple, who seemed to be having a major spat, albeit one conducted in voices too low for me to overhear.

Just as I decided it was time to stop being a voyeur and move on, the woman stood up, and with an aim that would be the envy of many a major league pitcher, tossed her uneaten hamburger at the man, hitting him squarely in the chest.

“That’s what I think of you and your stupid ‘termination clause!’” she cried, before grabbing her cell phone and storming off up the street, her sandals slapping the pavement at every step. As she hurried down the sidewalk, she narrowly missed running into a trio of young women huddled in a doorway, giggling and whispering to each other. In her wake, even more giggling ensued, accompanied by a middle-finger salute. 

 Her companion watched her go, making no effort to follow. Instead, expressionless, he calmly brushed sesame seeds and bits of chopped lettuce off his black T-shirt, and then stood to gather the trash and throw it away.

Quickly, I ducked inside the souvenir shop, hovering near the front window until I was sure he was gone. Once he was out of sight, I made my way quickly down the sidewalk in the opposite direction, trying to shake off the strange sense of recognition for a man I’d never met.