Dream Theater: John Oates LIVE! in Concert

Photo from AspenTimes.com

A group of us were going to see John Oates perform in Chicago. I didn't know any of them. We'd won the tickets through a sweepstakes or something. 

John wasn't appearing with Darryl Hall. But he was still going to play all the hits. It was expected that the audience would sing all the vocal parts. 

We'd gathered outside the stage door, in an alley where the El tracks rumbled overhead. Everyone was dressed up for the occasion. Some in their '80s outfits, others just in nice clothes. Except for me. All I had on was a t-shirt and jeans. But that wasn't the only reason I felt self-conscious.

There were pimples all over my body. Crawling out of my shirt collar, from inside the sleeves of my shirt. The urge to pick and pop them was nearly irresistible, but there was nowhere private I could go. We were waiting to meet John Oates, to go backstage and spend a few minutes with him before the show.

The door opened and everyone rushed to get inside. But I hung back. I didn't want John Oates to see me this way.

We filed into a dark space, not quite backstage, nowhere near the dressing rooms. Then John Oates appeared and a wave of excitement rippled through our little crowd. 

John shook hands and talked with everyone and smiled while they took selfies. He seemed to be enjoying himself as much as the people in our group.

Then he made an announcement. John said that unfortunately, the promoters had made a mistake. There wouldn't be enough room for all of us at the front of the stage. Someone would have to watch the show from the wings, away from the rest of our group, separate from the audience and crowds.

I raised my hand, and that seemed to settle it. Everyone else followed John to the stage. I stood watching, waiting for the show to start, deciding how long I would stay, how soon I could slip out and head back home.

 

Dream Theater: The Home of Sister Rose

Photo by carrollcountycomet.com

It was a simple proposition: one day off work at the ad agency in exchange for one day volunteering at the place of my choice.

So I ended up at a convent, offering to clean the home of an elderly nun named Sister Rose, who'd been in the hospital with an unnamed illness but would be returning soon.

For years Sister Rose had lived in a run-down brick building of three or four stories--the kind of place with bodegas and no-name electronics stores on the ground floor and dark, airless apartments above.

Her home was just two rooms, one in front of the other, with an impossibly small bathroom off to the side. And as it turned out, Sister Rose was a hoarder.

In the living room, two mis-matched sofas faced each other, surrounded by stacks of books, magazines and newspapers. In the bedroom, one dresser after another lined the walls, their drawers filled with clothes and documents, their tops covered with whatever could no longer fit inside. In the bathroom, green mold covered the tub, the toilet and the front of the sink. 

I looked around, trying to figure out where to start and how to finish the job in a single day. That's when I realized the sofas were classic mid-century designs. The dressers were by Heywood-Wakefield, Kent Coffey, Lane and Paul McCobb, each worth thousands of dollars.

Somehow, Sister Rose had amassed a small fortune in modern furniture, all of it donated to the convent over the years. 

That's when Mother Superior Justine arrived to check on my progress. She was younger than I expected, with a stern, thin face that peered at me from within the folds of her black habit. 

I tried to explain what I'd found--how valuable the furniture was, how much Sister Rose had collected, and finally, how it would be impossible for me to complete the work.

She said nothing, but her withering look told me she'd seen this all before. I wasn't the first ad agency person who'd come here hoping for an easy day outside the office.