Recently, at a Cub Scout event, a
friend of mine asked for an introduction to one of the other dads. I said I’d
be happy to try, but I warned him that I’d only met the other dad once a couple of
years ago and that I wasn’t sure he’d remember me.
My introduction to the requested dad
had come via an entirely different friend, a power-socializer who is known and
loved by at least half the population within a six-mile radius of wherever he
is (if he were from Genghis Khan’s time I am convinced that 0.5% of the earth’s
population would possess his DNA instead of Genghis’s). The gladhander had
informed me that there was a concert going on and, after he’d worked his verbal
magic, I quickly agreed to attend.
We arrived mid-way through the first
band’s set, and despite not knowing any of the songs I was enjoying myself,
tapping my foot and shouting loud “huzzahs” of approval along with patrons
who were clearly more familiar with this music. As the set finished, we milled
around and then my socially prolific friend recognized some people that he
knew. He introduced them to me and said that the man was the drummer of the
band we’d come to see. The musician was intriguing: barrel chested, he spoke
surprisingly softly with a British-lilt. He’d grown up in England but now lived in Seattle, along with his wife.
She was also intriguing: she was a stewardess. But I couldn’t really hear much
of what she told me over the din of the expectant crowd, so I did what any good
person with integrity and high moral standards would do: I pretended to
understand what she was saying, nodding and interjecting the occasional “Uh-huh”
and “Oh!” and with raised eyebrows.
The intermission drew to a close, and
we said goodbye to the musician and his wife. The musician’s band soon started
to play what at the time I would describe as some sort of “60s soft rock” –
amorphous, and as would prove later, quite forgettable. So much so,
that even today, I can’t remember anything about it other than the words “60s
soft rock.” And this is in no way a judgment of how good the music was – although
completely untrue, legend has it that even the Mona Lisa was hung for years
in someone’s bathroom before it received it’s due. Anyway, I’m pretty sure that
viewed through some prism that this music rivaled some of Mozart’s lesser-known
works.
Fast-forward a couple of years, and now
I was at the Cub Scout event and trying to execute a socially generous move. It
had been some time since I’d seen the musician, but I knew that he was there
and I spied someone that resembled him in my immediate vicinity. He had on some
sort of soccer outfit, and since I possess the American aversion to soccer, I concluded
that this was probably him. However, he was engaged in conversation with
another dad, and I was playing it conservatively: If it wasn’t him and I was to
make a fool of myself, I would do it alone and then pretend that it didn’t
matter if I was wrong, which would be ever so much more difficult to do if
there were two people assessing my performance.
As I waited, I noticed another
startling thing about him: His silhouette bore a subtle resemblance to Alfred
Hitchcock. This was an interesting development indeed: The accent, the profile…
Perhaps he was related? Wasn’t Alfred English? The confluence of events seemed
like too many coincidences and my confidence grew.
As far as making my move, unfortunately,
my mark was holding court and deeply enjoying it, as evidenced by his many
chuckles and the fact that he was doing 99% of the talking. I finally gave up
waiting, telling myself “humiliation be damned.” I walked up to what I hoped
was the musician and said, “Hi, I’m,” and then explained that I’d seen his band
and really enjoyed it.
This was not only the right person, but
this was the right thing to do – I’m pretty sure he had no recollection who I
was, but he acted as if he did and played the generous star, and I played the
sycophantic fan. I asked “Are you recording anything now?” “Oh yes,” he
replied, and went on to explain the important details.
And as I learned about the important
details, I was careful not to upset the delicate balance that I’d walked into:
I tried to preserve the 99% proportion, but now I split the remaining 1% with
the other dad that had previously been the sole beneficiary, making sure to
express interest in both of their comments out of a combination of guilt and
fairness.
In his stockiness, when our celebrity
turned, rather than rotating his head, he would swivel his whole body as he addressed
each of us. Our third participant, still taking advantage of his slice of the
1%, asked “So, what kind of music do you make?” The musician swiveled
towards me and asked in turn, “What would you compare it to?”
I hadn’t planned for this contingency, and
I was drawing a complete blank. The other dad was silent, and they both looked
expectantly at me, awaiting my comments. “Umm…”, I ventured, and then “Well…” I
was trying to think deeply about what to say, but at the time I could not
remember a single thing about the music other than it was some sort of mellow
60s thing. In fact, the only thing that came to mind was that this situation could
only be even more uncomfortable if I was wearing a mitre (the Papal hat).
When the musician had asked for my description,
he had only partially turned, but as each second ticked by without a response,
he continued his rotation until he was fully facing me. Both he and the other supplicant
were now waiting for me in a puzzlement that I feared would devolve into something
much worse if I didn’t pull myself together soon. I rubbed my chin, looked at
the sky, and said, “Ummm…”
And then, in what I thought was a flash
of inspiration, I pulled out the only soft 60s-style thing I could think of,
but carefully hedging in case it was a million miles off target: “I wouldn’t
say it was quite like the Grateful Dead, but…”, and hoped he would fill in the
color to put me back in the ballpark.
It turns out I was million miles off
target. He furrowed his brow and said, “The Dead? Wow, that’s the first time
anyone has ever said that,” and slowly shook his head. I struggled to regain my
composure and said, “And that’s why I said that I wouldn’t say it was quite
like the Grateful Dead,” and hoped that he would point out all the relevant
differences and forget that I apparently had no idea what I was talking about.
But instead an uncomfortable silence descended that felt like it would never
end, until I noticed my friend who’d originally requested the audience with the
musician approaching, and I seized the opportunity by saying, “Hey – there’s
someone I want you to meet! This is,” and I introduced my friend.
This was a real coup: My friend is
tall, very clever, and incredibly engaging. I was sure he would make my
previous faux pas disappear like “fumata bianca”, the smoke signals that the
Vatican sends out to let the believers know that the College of Cardinals had
chosen a new Pope, just by whatever he said. And he lived up to his full
billing: He smiled generously and said what a joy it was to meet the musician, and
then complimented him on some work that the musician had done for him.
As it happened, the business
relationship of which my tall friend spoke had indeed been going well but there
was an imminent deadline approaching, and, from high above us, he asked firmly about
the status of this. As if the College of Cardinals had reversed their decision
and now the signal had changed to the black “fumata nera”, the atmosphere took
a decidedly darker turn. The musician had swiveled back such that I was again seeing
him in profile, and he began to look like a fearful Alfred Hitchcock –
something I’d never imagined possible. He said, “Yeah, well, we need to talk
about that…” and moved backwards with tiny, nearly imperceptible steps. The
effect on my lofty friend was immediate: His expression darkened, his eyes
narrowed, and I sensed the earth about to shake.
But, ever the master of these situations,
my tall friend broke into a broad grin and said that he understood that this
weekend activity wasn’t the time to discuss such things and generously thanked
the now-shaken Hitchcock-silhouetted musician, saying that they would speak at
a more appropriate time, and then strode away valiantly.
And through this happy turn, it seemed that
my brainless fakery had been swept away by events. But, just to be sure, I quickly
said that it was great talking to the musician and returned the balance of my
1% to the other dad, taking my leave.
