4 - The Show

“You did what?”  Pearl virtually screeched, drawing the attention of everyone within a fifty-foot radius.  Considering that she and Delaney were in the booze line at Madison Square Garden, there were a lot of eyes watching them when she went on to obliviously demand, “How the hell do you tell Jon Bon Jovi he isn’t worth the trouble for anything?  You’ve lost your mind, girl!”

Delaney shrugged and shot an absent smile at the statuesque blonde who evidently shared Pearl’s opinion.  Why wouldn’t she?  It was an increasingly popular one, because Marilee had said nearly the same thing.  When Petra found out, she would undoubtedly jump on that bandwagon with both feet, too, but Delaney knew she wasn’t crazy.  In fact, she was totally at peace with the whole scenario. 

It wasn’t as though she hadn’t seen Jon Bon Jovi appear and cross both arms over his chest to lean in the doorway.  During the exchange with his behemoth bodyguard, she’d been fully aware of how his regular jeans fit looser than stage clothes and were long enough to bunch atop black shoes.  His lopsided smirk and humor-riddled eyes were a Kodak moment in her mind, and quite possibly the cover page for that “cool moments in life” book she was putting together.

Yeah, there was a split second in which considered making eye contact and slaying him with a coquettish smile, but it hadn’t felt right.  She wasn’t a skillful flirter, and he’d undoubtedly been accosted by hundreds of professional flirts.  Trying to be something she wasn’t would only get her an aloof smile and greeting that he’d wouldn’t remember after. 

So, she’d focused on taming the big-necked beast in black and verbally smacking Stan on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper.  It was sheer spontaneity that had her burning Jon Bon Jovi with a drop or two of seething indignation.

And it turned out okay.

“Uh, hello?” she scolded Pearl now, as they inched forward in line.  “You were the first person I called when Petra had to give up her tenth-row ticket.  You wouldn’t have a killer seat for this gig if it wasn’t for me, so could you wait until after the show to be a beach?”

Pearl tapped a finger on her chin and pretended to ponder the question.  “Hmm, let me think.  That would be a big, fat ‘no’, because you passed up the opportunity to say, ‘Oh Mr. Bon Jovi, I’ve loved your music for years and I give really good head.  Try me.’  You deserve to be raked over the coals.”

Delaney burst into surprised laughter that drew the blonde’s gaze again.  “I was there in a professional capacity, for freep’s sake!  If I was a prostitute that would’ve worked out fine, but since I like my real job, offering him a blow wasn’t an option.  Sorry to disappoint.”

If she’d played the scene Pearl’s way, he would have watched her leave without speaking word.  It was only her chatterbox mouth and lack of inhibition that had the rock star asking what would make it worth the trouble. 

He chased her.  Verbally, anyway.  Whether or not she got a lusty look or song tonight, Delaney would always know that Jon Bon Jovi approached her of his own volition.  She would’ve put up with a lot more than the likes of Stan and Lucifer to own that memory.    

Completely defying the stereotype of a stoic Japanese women, Pearl heaved a dramatic sigh and shook her shiny black curtain of hair in a move that would make Cher proud.  “I still say you fucking wasted your once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.  What are you drinking?”

“Wine.”

“Red wine.  Duh.  But which one?” 

Delaney dragged a speculative eye over the hodgepodge of bottles until one caught her attention.  It wasn’t one of her preferred cabernets or merlots but a rosè that was new to the market.   She’d been meaning to give it a try but was unwilling to schlep all over Manhattan in search of the fledgling brand.

“I’ll take the Hampton Water.  Make it a double.”

The bartender nodded and pulled the bottle’s glass stopper, pouring her drink into a plastic tumbler with the Madison Square Garden name and logo.  It was a pretty pastel that she hoped would be as appealing to her taste buds as it was her artist’s eye.

“That’s not red.”

“Brilliant observation,” Delaney droned, patting her jean pockets in search of her debit card.  She found the phone that had been missing this afternoon, but didn’t feel the plastic rectangles that would signify her bank card and ID. 

Mother chucker.  Did I leave them at work?

“So, what’s the deal with the wine?”

“Uh, it’s Jon Bon Jovi’s.  And his son’s.”  With a shrug, Pearl ordered one for herself as Delaney uselessly patted her rump and empty pockets again.  “Looks like drinks are on you, girlfriend.”

“Jesus, Delaney.  Again?  Why can you not keep up with the essentials of everyday life?”

“Just pay for my drink and shut up.  I’ll send you the money when I get home.”

This kind of situation happened often enough that Pearl was on her “quick transfer” list of bank accounts – along with her family members, employees and several casual dinner companions.   Her ex-husband’s ability to keep up with the debit card was one of the few things she missed about him, and she thanked God daily for electronic transfer of funds.

The two women slogged their way across the arena floor, shoulder to shoulder, wine in hand.  With each of them being only five feet tall, they were Lilliputians fighting their way through a forest of naturally tall men and women, not to mention the women made tall by their choice of footwear. 

The third time her ballerina flat got stepped on, Delaney cursed the son of a biscuit eater who put the bar in the back of the arena.   

“If there’s some NBA-height guy sitting in front of us, I swear I’m going to sit on his shoulders.  It would only take a couple more glasses of wine for me to climb somebody’s back.”

“I hear ya,” Delaney empathized.  Being short sucked unless somebody wanted her to crawl in a hole, and even then, it still sucked because she was in a hole.  Checking the number on her ticket and matching it to the one on the chair, she gestured to their seats.  “At least we’re on the end of the row.  We can always stand in the aisle if we have to.” 

“Unless Napoleon Cockblocker there decides to be an ass."  Pearl took a sip of Hampton Water, nodding toward the front rail and the little cocoa-skinned man who wore  a white shirt, tie and security blazer.  "Wine’s good either way, though.  Boyfriend can get me drunk anytime.”

The wine was excellent, in fact.  It was the perfect concert drink – light, cool and refreshing – and Delaney was going to fully enjoy the buzz that would come from drinking on an empty stomach.  Napoleon Cockblocker might as well just plan on joining the party.

{{{

Jon’s heart beat with pure adrenaline.  Sweat ran in rivers down his back.  His bones rattled with the beat of the drum. 

Damn, I love Madison Square Garden.

He beamed out at the crowd, pumping his fist in the air as the lights were doused between songs. 

This was one of the few places that represented both the comfort of home and the thrill of accomplishment.  Playing the Garden was one of those landmark moments that declared a band had “made it”, and it never got old.  It was a privilege to not only play here but sell it out time and time again.

While the arena was still dark, he took the opportunity to gulp some tea and swipe a towel across his face. 

He was working his ass off, but Jon wouldn’t have it any other way.  Doing his best was important in any show, but he liked to push himself a little harder in New York.  The home crowd always treated him like a Super Bowl champ, coming out in droves, and they needed to know they were appreciated.

Tonight, that meant a couple extra songs on the setlist, switching out some of the usual numbers for fresher material and mixing it up where he could.  It wasn’t a lineup for the history books but was different enough that the crowd should know they were getting something meant just for them.

The lights came up and, coaxing the crowd into the next song, his eyes flicked back a few rows on the floor.  Experience had made him so adroit at these covert glances that no one would realize he was seeking a specific somebody, but he easily found his target.  The flower delivery girl was still dancing in the same aisle as when he’d first seen her, and half a dozen songs later she was now following his lead by clapping overhead.

Honestly, he would’ve never noticed her in the first place had she not been wearing the same purple shirt from earlier and, more importantly, standing in that aisle.  She shone like an eggplant beacon, completely alone.  Everyone else who tried to block that walkway received a stern warning from Security and got quickly herded back into their designated row.  Not the delivery girl, though.  She merely, hip-bumped the laughing guard as he walked around her to chastise another offender. 

It was the damnedest thing, and Jon couldn’t help but think she sure had better luck manipulating that poor sap than she did Matt. 

The only exception the aisle police made was for the delivery girl’s exotic friend who joined her for a song here and there.  When Jon had fired up the maracas for “Keep the Faith”,  they raised their hands in the air, shook their asses to the beat and danced like no one was watching. 

Just as God intended a rock concert to be.

Plucking his mic off the stand, he started shaking his own ass and working toward that side of the stage.  As he waved one hand over his head and sang about “seven days of Saturday”, her eyes connected with his for a heartbeat.  In this crowd, the jolt of electricity between them was diluted to a static shock, but it was still undeniably there and he flicked back to hold a longer gaze.   

Silver rings flashed as she flipped her palms up to the ceiling in a gesture that plainly said, “Well?”, and Jon’s lips curved around the lyrics.  There was no denying that he’d seen and recognized her, so he touched the corner of one eye and tucked his chin down to sizzle her with an impromptu "lusty look".

Her head immediately toppled back in laughter, exposing her throat for a beat before she righted herself and adopted a scowl.  Loose hair that glowed plum beneath the spotlights swung freely when she shook her head and mouthed, “I don’t think so.” 

Obviously, Hall of Fame wasn’t buying it as lusty.

He’d have to give it a more concentrated effort, because if she wasn’t buying that, she also wasn’t going to buy that he’d added “I’ll Be There for You” to tonight’s roster in her honor.  The audibles on the list wouldn't fly, and he’d already done “Bed of Roses”.  There was no way he could pull “Wildflower” out of his ass for the flower girl, either.

He was screwed, but that’s what he got for assuming she wasn’t even coming to the show.

With the sassitude she’d given Matt and Stan, Jon pegged her as the type who would rattle off that list of flippant requests just to jerk his chain.  It wasn’t like she brought those posies as a gesture of goodwill or some such garbage.  She was paid to deliver flowers, and her paycheck automatically made him “worth the trouble”. 

The bottom line was that, while he’d been curious enough to ask the question, Jon hadn’t taken her answer seriously.   Hell, he hadn’t expected to ever see her again.

Now, though, watching her shimmy and smile without reservation…  

His unexpected visitor was much more welcome this second time around.

Next post: Sunday, August 5th