Different Circles

He pulled around to the back and parked amid the tractor-trailers and the roadie buses. He then walked up to the freight loading door, which was standing open. Inside, the roadies were hard at work. The stage had already been built and they were now working on raising the scaffolding for the lights up to attachment points where the climbing roadies known as “monkeys” would attach them. Dan Baldovino, head of tour security, was standing post himself, his all-access pass around his neck, his portable radio in his back pocket. He smiled when he saw Jake approaching him.

“Jake!” he greeted. “How the hell are you? Laura told me you would be showing up here today.”

“I’m doing good, Dan,” Jake said, shaking hands with him. “Just flew in from Providence and drove here from Bar Harbor.”

“A nice day for flying,” Dan observed.

“It was,” Jake agreed. “The scenery was incredible.”

“I bet,” he said. “Are you and Laura going to stay in Bar Harbor for the break?”

“Not at first,” Jake said. “We’re going to stay in the hotel tonight and then drive back to Bar Harbor after we get up. From there we’re going to do some exploring. We haven’t even picked a destination yet.”

“That sounds like fun,” Dan said. “The band is still out doing the meet and greet thing. They usually get to the venue around four o’clock or so.”

“Sounds about right,” Jake said. “Is it cool if I kick it in the dressing room until they get here?”

“Absolutely,” he said. “Let me just have someone bring an all-access down here for you.” He pulled his walkie-talkie from his pocket and began to speak into it.

The pass arrived a few minutes later and Jake put it around his neck. He was then led through the bowels of the arena to the dressing area. He felt a lot of nostalgia for the old days as they made the trip. This was the same arena he and Matt and Coop and Darren and Nerdly had performed their first tour date in after the release of their debut album thirteen years before. New Year’s Day of 1983, that had been. And they had had no idea of what they had gotten themselves into. He went through the same tunnel and to the same dressing room as that day. It really did not look or smell any different.

He sat down in one of the easy chairs that was arrayed here and took a little nap while he waited. He was awakened sometime later by a familiar female voice saying, “Well, look what el gato dragged in here.”

“It’s a fuckin’ hairball,” said another familiar voice, this one male.

He opened his eyes and looked up to see Celia and Coop standing there, looking down at him. He was about to make a witty reply—though he had not actually thought of one yet—when another familiar female came in just behind them. It was Laura, looking ragged and worn, dressed in pair of tattered jeans and a sleeveless t-shirt, with bags under her eyes and her hair in disarray. And she was absolutely beautiful.

He stood and they embraced warmly, exchanging a few kisses, one of which involved a brief touching of their tongues.

“It is soooo good to see you,” she told him.

“Yes, it is,” he replied, deadpan.

He hung out with the band for the entire evening. He watched the soundcheck and watched Laura change into her stage clothes (managing to slip in a couple of feels of her intimate parts as she did so, but nothing else). He watched the hairdresser put her hair into a tightly woven braid and blast it with hairspray. He even went backstage with them when it was time to meet the locals, though he stayed in the shadows to keep any of said locals from seeing him.

He watched the show from beginning to end, singing along with most of the tunes, taking several moments to appreciate the sheer talent that was out on that stage. Celia was breathtakingly beautiful, and her voice was absolutely stunning on every level. Laura could blow a saxophone and make you feel in your very soul the emotion that she was trying to convey. Coop and Charlie were masters of laying down the rhythm, could shift tempo so smoothly that one was left with a sense of awe. Eric the violinist was not only impeccable with his instrument, he was also an excellent stage performer, all of the shyness, anxiety, and self-doubt he was saddled with gone the instant he stepped onto the stage in front of an audience. Little Stevie, though not able to come up with his own original compositions, was a master of the guitar nonetheless, able to perfectly imitate any tune he had taken the time to learn and practice. And Liz the pianist was also in the groove, able to wrench emotion out of the audience and perfectly accompany or set a primary melody with equal skill. And then there were the sound techs and the roadies. They were firmly in the rhythm as well, able to do their jobs with precision and skill, able to improvise when they had to and adjust to any situation on the fly. He felt proud to be associated with such an act, proud that, although he was not out here night after night playing with them, he had had a part in setting the whole thing into motion.