One Night With a Rock Star

by Chana Keefer

  Home is important. Building a home for those you love is a beautiful, worthwhile aim.

  I headed into my senior year of college storm-tossed and a bit disillusioned. I received word I’d secured the news internship and tried to drum up excitement for the future.

  Due to my experience as an entertainment editor, I was given the position of assistant to the station’s entertainment reporter, Jonnie Dawson.

  Jonnie had been with the station since the 1960s. Through the years her movie reviews and interviews with the stars had become the much-anticipated dessert of the newscast.

  At first I was disappointed my time would not be spent hopping into a helicopter to chase down “real” news. Plus, my assignment to organize Jonnie’s countless videotapes and interviews was anything but glamorous. To top it off, I would work in the dungeon, the basement of the building housing much of her horde. I joked with Jonnie that, should we get bombed, I would be the sole survivor in my bunker.

  I was thrilled, however, with Jonnie. I found her to be one of the most gracious people I had ever met with a charming, sincere smile and an intuitive ability to put people at ease.

  She expressed concern that I was to be holed up in the basement so she arranged for me to emerge from “the dungeon” to attend daily planning meetings with the central news staff—the real movers and shakers of the newscast.

  I developed a healthy respect for the news manager, a man in his mid-forties who ruled the newsroom with a quiet voice and disarming wit, a far cry from news editors in movies who kept everyone efficient out of fear.

  When word leaked out about my assignment, a few sympathetic visitors, usually other curious interns, turned up to gawk at the long concrete hallways and endless stacks of news fodder.

  A young producer named Alex became a regular visitor. He picked up on my desire to see the world and would talk about his travels as a foreign news correspondent. He invited me to view the newscast from the control room and I found it fascinating and nerve-wracking. I was suitably impressed.

  In the course of the next few weeks, Alex asked me to dinner a few times. I enjoyed his company, loved his stories, but—what? Here was a handsome, upwardly mobile young man in my chosen profession who flattered me with his attention, yet I was either bored or ignoring him completely because one of Sky’s songs piped over the restaurant’s sound system. I found excuses the next couple times he asked me out. Obviously, he wasn’t too wounded by my rejection as he took up with one of the other interns.

  There were others—a cameraman, another intern, even a handsome model who did a catalogue shoot with me—but when they asked about my ambitions and I mentioned family and perhaps mission work, their eyes would glaze over as if I spoke a foreign language and their interest would cool. When those dates ended, I couldn’t help but compare those reactions to Sky and the way my dreams of the future had seemed to inspire him.

  I laughed to myself. If I ever saw Sky again I’d have to thank him for inoculating me against the newsroom intern chasers.

  In the meantime, I grew acquainted with the news anchors who were more than willing to tell me of their rise to success.

  This was a fast-paced, competitive field and the pathway to success would mean moving through small markets, honing my skills, and then aiming for one of the major markets such as Dallas, Chicago or, for the true elite, a shot at the west or east coast. It was exciting, demanding and decidedly not family-friendly.

  As I struggled with career misgivings, there was Jonnie, a serene oasis of sanity. Once, when I was in the floor of her office, knee deep in videos and filing labels, she took a phone call from her husband, Len. I was struck by how she spoke to him using the terms “Sweetie” and “Babe” several times in the course of a two-minute conversation. They had been married for decades and yet she acted like a newlywed. Honestly, I never imagined a marriage could stay fresh that long.

  When she hung up I asked, “How do you do that?”

  She smiled, still in the glow of her conversation. “Do what, dear?”

  “How do you stay romantic when you’ve been married so long? I’ve never seen that before.” As the words left my mouth, the tragedy of the statement struck me.

  Jonnie folded her hands and fixed her dark eyes on me. “Sweetie, you pray and you pray to find the right person and, once you’ve found him, you spend the rest of your lives out-spoiling each other.”

  One evening in February, I breezed into the apartment worn out from a non-stop day, hoping to make a major dent in mounting homework. Marti sat on the couch with Wally who stretched out his rounded belly for a scratch. I gave him a pat and turned toward the kitchen when the music on our stereo stopped me in my tracks. That voice—the one that haunted my dreams—broke into the achingly beautiful melody with a soft country flavor.

  Time return

  And bring you back to me…

  I froze and turned to Marti who grinned from the couch.

  “Ya like my music?” she asked with a devious smile as she held up a CD case with Sky’s picture on the cover relaxing under a tree as golden sunlight filtered through leafy shadows. The music continued…

  Sweetest Breath of spring

  As you stole my heart…

  Marti chattered away. “Yeah, I figured you were too busy and wouldn’t find out there was a new album ‘til summer or somethin’ so I helped you out.”

  I didn’t want to care, but I was so curious and had been a little starved musically. It was easier to cope with life if I tried to ignore the music industry altogether.

  “Take it,” she urged. “I know you’re dyin’ ta hear it.”

  I grinned back at her, secured the CD and case and retreated to the little boom box in my room.

  I perused the song titles as the first cut played—an upbeat number with an Israeli feel that spoke of tradition and family. I came across the title of the song Marti must have been playing earlier, “Enemy Time,” and skipped to that title. Instead of music, it opened with the sound of wind and rain building to the rumbles of a thunderstorm. I reached for the headphones to capture the full effect.

  Time return

  And bring you back to me

  Sweetest breath of spring

  You stole my heart

  Just one fleeting moment

  One mystery

  Hope like

  healing waters

  The magic of your touch

  Haunts day and night

  I am not the man

  That I used to be

  Enemy time

  Standing between you and me

  Shrouding all that I see

  Taunting every memory

  Enemy time

  A million stars in the sky

  A million dreams in your eyes

  Until the moment when you’re with me

  Images of that crazy hay fight flooded my senses, the music capturing the moment so perfectly I wanted to sneeze. Then came the chorus.

  And when we danced!

  Time stood still

  And when we danced!

  Time stood still

  One more chorus and the guitar faded.

  I pulled off the headphones. I should have been thrilled to hear a song that seemed to be a tribute to my time with him, but instead, it hurt. If our time meant so much, then why no contact? I could only read between the lines to assume something, or more likely someone, was more important.

  Sky had been able to carry on, perhaps with some therapeutic songwriting. But the stupid little girl who spent that short time with him still pined away.

  I paced my room as the walls closed in. I yanked on sweats and rushed out, telling Marti I would be at the rec. center—not inviting her to join me. I lost count of the laps as I ran and the sweat poured from my body.

  The melody of “Enemy Time” played over and over in my mind as the frustration and anger grew. Why did the time with him have to be so fantastic? And why did he insist on doing just enough to keep me dangling when I needed
to move on?

  I didn’t want a song. I wanted Sky. But when would I get it through my head? He didn’t want me—at least not enough.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  In Jonnie’s office the next day, that haunting melody continued to mock my every move. Finally, Jonnie finished a phone call and turned to me. “What’s wrong, Sweetie?”

  “Am I that obvious?”

  “Yes. And that dark cloud over your head doesn’t help. Need to talk?”

  “How much time do ya have?”

  “As much as you need.”

  Thus, Jonnie and I spent the next half hour in the station’s break room that, for some reason, always smelled of burned popcorn. Over a soda I gave the Cliff’s Notes version of my history with Sky. Jonnie let me ramble on until I came to the previous night’s experience with the new CD.

  She looked thoughtful. “So you were the ‘Texas Rose,’” she mused. “You know, I met Sky once. I believe it was during his first U.S. tour. He was charming and polite—a sweet boy.“ Jonnie’s brow furrowed. “Actually, I was quite disappointed that he would fall for someone like Karina. She struck me as the type who would do anything for fame. But to go back to her after being with you? He’d have to be crazy, and you don’t want to be with someone who’s crazy, do you?”

  Her teasing smile was infectious. I smiled back. It felt good.

  She reached to pat my hand. “Don’t worry, Sweetheart. God’s got a plan in all this. You’ll see.”

  A few weeks later, I rested in bed for the day nursing a horrible cold. In the evening Marti came in to find me wallowing in misery with fever, chills, and an impossibly runny nose. After heating up a bowl of canned soup, she plopped down on the bed with the day’s mail, waving a fat brown envelope under my nose with the return address of a management agency in London.

  “I’ve got something for you!”

  I struggled weakly with the envelope’s seal until Marti grabbed it from me and tore it open. A small letter fell out and I opened it to find a neatly written note… from Wally!

  Dear Esther,

  I was able to call your parents’ home and acquire your new address. My best to all of you. Jeremiah sends his regards along with a few questions as to why you never wrote back. He has probably grown a foot since you last saw him.

  As promised, here are tickets and backstage passes for the upcoming tour for you and your friends. I will reserve a space on my dance card for you!

  With kindest regards,

  Wally

  Marti shrieked as I stared at the letter. “How cool is this? You’ll get to see him again and we’ll all get to be backstage… this is so exciting! We’ll have to find something extremely hot for you to wear! How far away is it? Only a month! We better get on it!”

  Suddenly, she realized I wasn’t joining the excitement. “Man. Are you that sick?”

  “I’m not going.” I reached for another tissue.

  “Are you crazy? Of course you’ll go and you’ll make him eat his heart out with how cute you look!”

  “Marti, he’s never even called me. Please leave me some pride.”

  She was flabbergasted and I was frustrated by her lack of understanding. We probably would’ve fought if I hadn’t been so pathetic.

  After several minutes of heroic convincing she finally gave up. “Hopefully it’s the fever talkin’. Sheesh!”

  It had been almost two years. I would have loved nothing more than to see Sky again, but he had proven I didn’t mean much to him, right? Even with the necklace the Christmas before, the return address had simply said “England.” Not exactly an invitation to correspond.

  My attitude might have been a bit different if I had received the letter from him, but if I was simply going to be an uncomfortable reminder from the past, no thanks.

  Wally’s comment about writing back to Jeremiah was a mystery, so I dialed my parent’s number. Mom answered and, after convincing her I wasn’t on my deathbed even though I sounded like it, I told her about the comment in Wally’s note. She didn’t know anything so we hung up soon after I was admonished to take better care of myself.

  I spent the night blowing my nose every ten minutes and wondering restlessly what I should do.

  About a week later, I was spending a Friday night working on a research paper when the phone rang. I recognized Devin’s voice on the line although I hadn’t heard from him in more than a year.

  “Well, I’m officially out,” he reported. “I’ve been rejected by every available pro team.”

  We were both silent as I let the news sink in. “Devin, that’s pretty hard to believe, I mean, there’re lots of teams out there… ”

  “No,” he said. “I was down to the practice squads and this last coach finally leveled with me that none of the teams would touch me. ‘Son, that knee’s a time bomb. You’re just not reliable.’ Even my dad’s givin’ up.”

  “I’m so sorry Devin. Ya know, you’d make a great coach.” My words fell flat.

  “You just seemed to, ya know, have it all together with God and all. I’d appreciate it if, ya know… ”

  “Sure Devin, I’ll pray…” I didn’t get to finish. He had hung up.

  About an hour later, there was a knock at the door. I wasn’t expecting Marti back from her date this soon so I opened the door with the chain still attached and peeked out. Devin stood there, hands shoved deep into his jeans pockets. “Can I come in?” he asked without looking up.

  “It’s really late… ” I started to protest.

  “I won’t stay long,” he said.

  I relented, a bit embarrassed since I was such a mess—hair back in a sloppy ponytail, sporting an old t-shirt and my jeans with holes at the knees. Luckily, Devin didn’t seem in the mood to notice such things so I busied myself offering him cookies and a soda. I came back to find Wally, tail twitching, watching our guest. Devin lounged on the couch so I sat in the chair and took the feline pest onto my lap where his tail continued to dart from side to side.

  “It’s a surprise to see you,” I began. “How is it to be a college grad?”

  He gave a snort of laughter, “Oh, just great. But hey, my uncle offered me a job as a salesman at his car lot so I guess things are lookin’ up.” Sarcasm and bitterness fogged the air between us.

  “I’m so sorry Devin.” I leaned forward feeling pity for this former golden child. “Don’t give up, okay? God’s still got plans… ”

  I could tell immediately I’d said the wrong thing. Devin looked up with eyes full of anger. “I’ve had nothin’ but trouble since you and your God showed up.” Like an erupting volcano, he stood and hurled the can of soda, just missing my head. It smashed into the TV. Wally hissed and sprang from my lap.

  “Whoa! Hey!”

  “You really are green aren’t you?” His eyes looked wild and bloodshot. He moved toward my chair.

  “Look, Devin, calm down... ” I began, but his voice grew louder.

  “You really believe God’s looking out for you and if you’re really good things will be all perfect don’t you?” He leaned over me where I sat.

  I felt trapped and small looking up at his broad body.

  “Look at you. Sittin’ here doin’ your little homework, makin’ your little cookies, keepin’ yourself all sweet and perfect.”

  “You should go.” I darted under his arm and made a move toward the door, but he blocked me.

  “I know somethin’ that would cheer me up a lot.” He grinned, coming closer to pin me against the wall by my shoulders. I wanted to believe he was joking, but at the moment he seemed capable of anything.

  His mouth aimed for mine but I pushed his face away. “Oh, you’re gonna make this fun, huh?” He pinned my arms to my sides and pressed closer.

  “Devin, you’re hurting me.” I tried to keep my voice calm, tried not to panic, but when I looked in his eyes, I saw a raging, hate-filled stranger. I attempted to bring my knee up where it counts, but he dodged the blow so all I hit was a muscular thigh. I h
ad never really considered how big and powerful he was, but now my best efforts were a joke.

  “Come on Miss Goody-Goody, give it all ya got!” he laughed.

  “Devin! Stop!” I gasped and fought like a cornered animal. He seemed so determined, I was afraid I could only slow down the inevitable.

  I’m not sure when I started yelling, but I turned primal as he pushed me to the floor and I felt the full weight of his body crush my lungs. I yanked a hand free and scratched at his face. He had just wrapped one hand around both my wrists when I heard the door bang open. There was the sound of screaming as hands came down to pull Devin off.

  A man’s voice shouted, “Leave ‘er alone!”

  The weight was off my chest but still I saw the afterimage of Devin’s face; bloodshot eyes with large pupils, mouth snarling.

  Inhuman. Focused. Hate-filled.

  There was a scuffle and shouting.

  Marti was yelling something.

  More voices.

  Sirens. More shouting.

  I remained in the floor, dazed, still seeing only Devin’s angry eyes.

  Someone pulled me up to sit on the couch.

  Soon, police were at the apartment asking questions, repeating questions I didn’t hear, making notes, talking to Marti, Tom, and some neighbors, asking more questions.

  In the midst of questioning, another officer rushed in. “Looks like they found him.” The officers went outside.

  Marti, with tears streaming down her face, sat beside me on the couch and slipped an arm around my shoulders. I began to shiver and she brought a blanket. She put a warm cup of something in my hands, but I shook too hard to hold it.

  The first officer was back. He confirmed Devin’s identification and the make of his truck. “A man matching this description has been apprehended on the highway.” His radio crackled and he stepped outside again.