"I thought the venue would have a stage hand drop me off..."
I kept my mouth shut, afraid that if I went to speak he would not continue with what he was about to say. I had no idea what his words would be or what they would mean, but I knew that I wanted to hear them.
“Kristin?”
“Yes, Joe?”
“I need you to do me a favor; Scott doesn’t like crowds, so I need you to pick him up by the buses and drive him back to their hotel.”
At this I raise an eyebrow, knowing that Joe can easily read my expression, as it clearly states “You’re kidding, right? I don’t know this dude and I am not about to be tomorrow’s headline news.”
“It will be fine. He’s a good guy, just not a fan of crowds; he wants to get back to his room.”
“Where is everyone else?”
“Busy loading out or already gone. I’m the only one left in the office, so I can’t leave.”
“Joe, promise me that you’re sure this will be okay.”
“I promise this will be okay.”
“Fine, but it’s on your head if anything happens.”
“I’m willing to risk it.”
I leave the office somewhat pissed. After this many years playing to thousands of people, Scott could not deal with a venue that held less than 700? Somewhat new to the industry, my naïve thought preempted logic and I got into my car annoyed, wishing that this trip was already over.
“What’s this?”
“This is my car.”
“This is the car that you will be taking Scott back with?”
“Yeah.”
“Seriously?”
“OK, listen. Scott said he needed a lift back to the hotel. No one specified what kind of car, so this is what you’re getting.” My car, a 1992 Oldsmobile Cutlass with a crack in the windshield and a backseat full of fliers, was the only thing in my life at that time that was mine and it held an incredible amount of sentimental value. This interaction regarding method of transport was not making me feel any better about this increasingly dreadful situation.
“Alright, fair enough. Hey, Scott! Your chariot awaits!”
Scott came off of the tour bus looking around for what I am sure was a nicer car than the one in front of him. Even the fans who had gathered around had faces that read “How dare you drive Scott in that?!” He noticed me looking at him, not with that “You’re Scott from ________!!!” look, but more like a “Yes, this is it. No, it’s not a joke. Please just get in the car” kind of stare.
“You’re driving me?”
“Yeah, I’m Kristin”
“I’m Scott. Nice to meet you, Kristin.”
“Nice to meet you, too, Scott. Ready?”
Thankful to be out from under the scrutinizing and sarcastic eyes of crew members and fans, alike, we were off. The first portion of the ride was quiet, but it was only a few minutes before a hitch was thrown into this originally simple plan.
“Uh, I’m kind of hungry. Is there anything open around here at this time?”
Fuck. This was not in the agreement; damn it, Joe.
“Well, I am sure that there are a few fast food restaurants still open.”
“Ah, no. Anything else?”
“Well, there is a diner open just up ahead. You would have to go inside, though. It’s pretty close to the venue, so you might run into some people who were at the show.”
“Oh. Well, I guess that’s not so bad. Okay, diner it is.”
I pull into the diner parking lot feeling a little guilty. I mean, it’s not this dudes fault that I am the one driving him, is it? He didn’t specifically ask “how about having someone drive me that really isn’t into the idea?” Just as I am thinking that I should at least make an attempt to be less standoffish, Scott turns back towards me.
“I just want to thank you for doing this. It has to be a little weird for you, seeing as you don’t know me at all, and here I am asking you to drive me back to my hotel. I really do appreciate this. I just hate crowds...”
That’s the precise moment that I knew I had nothing to worry about. This rock legend stands before me, somewhat awkwardly, thanking me for helping in his great escape. He is trying to do his job and lead a normal life at the same time…that shit’s not be easy.
“No, I understand. I really don’t mind helping you out, but, you’re right, I don’t know you and it is weird. It’s cool, though.”
The tensed air around us lightened a bit, both us of us now content knowing that our common ground was feeling awkward, albeit for different reasons. Scott nodded towards the diner. “So, you want to get this over with?” I nodded and started walking with him into the diner that was home to many after show gatherings. I wondered if Scott had taken me seriously when I warned him of the chance of fan encounters, but my wondering soon turned to confirmation as about 20 heads automatically whipped around upon our entering the foyer. The automatic silence was creepy and for a few seconds we both just stood there, trying to assess the situation.
“Come on.” I said, leading Scott over to the bar area and away from the tables that were full of people who had watched this man on stage not an hour before. “You’ll notice less people staring over here.”
He nodded slightly, a look of uncertainty frozen on his face. As soon as we sat Scott opened up the menu, quite apparent in using this as both a distraction and a way to hide himself as best as possible. Neither was working very well. After reading through the board a few times Scott questioned, “So, what are you going to get?”
“Oh, I’m alright, thanks.”
“Well, you have to get something. I need to make this up to you somehow.”
“No, you don’t…really, it’s no big deal.”
He turning back to the menu, clearly intent on finding anything that didn’t seem like NY diner food. His plan failed. The waitress came over to take his order of a burger, fries and a milkshake.
“Are you sure you don’t want anything? I would really like to pay you back somehow.”
“I’m positive, but thank you. Consider it my good deed for the day.”
He looked over at me, but said nothing. We had been quiet for a few minutes when he suddenly asked “Why the music industry?”
“I’m sorry?”
“How did you get involved with this industry? Why did you?”
No one had ever asked me that before and thinking back, I am not sure I had ever asked myself. It was something that I simply knew and never felt the need to question. He had asked a legitimate question though, so I thought about it for a little bit before I started to answer. I spent the next 10 minutes or so trying to surmise all that was relevant, speaking with enough honesty and passion so a man who had been a part of this grand illusion for so many years may even believe me.
The silence that followed seemed to swallow all of my words, and I wondered how much of a jerk I just made myself out to be. Mentally berating myself for letting my guard down and showcasing myself as a possible idealist, I figured our newly formed pseudo acquaintance was now back in the awkward stage. The waitress came by to deliver Scott’s chocolate shake and I said the only thing that came to mind. “Ice Cream is always a good choice.” Scott smiled and replied “I knew there had to be something you would like. Now, can I please order you a shake?” I laughed and told him that would be good, but only if it were strawberry. Another order placed with our patient, yet obviously bored waitress, and we were back to picking our cuticles and staring at nothing.
“You’re going to make it, you know.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I’ve been doing this a long time.” He stopped speaking, but the look on his face said it all. His expression seemed like that of a man who had seen life fly by at an alarming rate - he wasn’t bitter, just tired. I have read about this man in recent years and all descriptions paint him to be “laidback” and “easy going”. Those character traits were evident that night, but in a pensive manner.
I kept my mouth shut, afraid that if I went to speak he would not continue with what he was about to say. I had no idea what his words would be or what they would mean, but I knew that I wanted to hear them.
“I’ve been doing this a long time…long enough to know when someone is bullshitting me. You quickly learn when you should take someone seriously or if you should just add them to “the list.”
A man who had been not-so-nonchalantly staring at Scott since we entered the diner stood up to leave with his friend. On the way out he stopped to speak with Scott, telling him how big of a fan he is and how great the show was that night. Scott remained humble; a genuine “thank you” muttered to the man kind enough to keep it short and sweet. He looked back at the counter, pausing slightly before he continued.
“You seem to have a good head on your shoulders. Hell, you weren’t all too pleased with having to drive me around and that says something about you. Nothing that you just said to me was sugarcoated. This is a rough business and it’s not an area for the feeble minded; I have a good feeling about you.”
Scott noticed the look of shock, as I am sure that my eyes had grown wide. He laughed a bit. ”Yeah, I think that you’ll be just fine. For what it’s worth, I have met a lot of people in this industry and I haven’t felt this confident about all too many of them.”
No one had ever expressed such confidence in my working in the music industry before. All I had ever received were condescending remarks about how it was something that I “needed to get out of my system” or the ever-charming eye roll. Now I sat before a man who had more likely than not seen and done it all, telling me that I had a shot. I was completely taken aback and could not do much more than thank him, hoping he realized how much his words meant.
Scott smiled and nodded. Looking back, it’s rather funny to think about. Neither of us wanted to be like the others and because of that, here we are drinking milkshakes; trying to avoid life’s tests, but taking in its lessons. We continued to sit, the conversation taking a turn towards our lives outside of music. Scott told me he lived in London and how much he loves it there. How he misses it when he is away, as his home offers him much peace.
We walked back to my car much more at ease with one another. The conversation remained light and friendly on the brief ride to the hotel. They had a show in New York City the next evening and he kindly extended an invitation, which I accepted. Scott thanked me once again, telling me that he was glad to have met. I agreed, assuring him that it was no problem.
I never made it to the show the next night. To this day it remains one of the few shows I feel disappointed to have missed. I don’t remember why I could not make it into the city that night, but a part of me believes that no excuse short of death, dismemberment or a raging fever would have been suffice.
The last thing Scott said that night, just before he closed the passenger side door was, “I certainly didn’t expect the night to end this way. I thought the venue would have a stage hand drop me off and I would just wait silently until the guys got back.”
I smiled up at him. “Yes, but that wouldn’t be much of a story.”
