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| 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.
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