West of Mars -- the Meet and Greet

I had my head down, which had to be the dumbest thing I've ever done. I'm supposed to walk at the back of the line and make sure there aren't any stragglers. I'm supposed to be helping out. That's part of my job, part of the price that goes with the perks of all these backstage gigs. I'm supposed to be working.

Work is what I was thinking about, too, which makes this even stupider. It's been on my mind lately. Is this what I want to spend my life doing? Seriously?

When I looked up, I'd walked to the usual meet-and-greet area, right outside the band's dressing room. Only, no one was there.

This is a problem. The backstage area in this Civic Center is huge. There were only about twenty people lined up for the meet-and-greet, and twenty people can barely fill one of the corners in here. Not to mention, they can be practically anywhere. I could spend the entire night hunting for them and still be looking when the last of the production trucks pull out.

Fortunately, before I could panic, a woman came out of the band's dressing room. She wasn't much taller than me, but she was wearing these amazingly high fuck-me heels. Skinny jeans that rode so low on her hips, I knew she couldn't bend over and keep them on. And the hair. Jet black and hanging loose, halfway down her back and teasing the back of her bustier, which, o of course, laced up the front and pushed her boobs halfway up to her chin.

I don't think I need to mention she had the nails and makeup to match.

I was staring at rock and roll royalty, only I had no idea who she was. About all I can tell you is that she was not crew. Nor was she your regular, run-of-the-mill groupie. Not with that air of belonging that she had.

She frowned at me and put the backs of her hands on those skinny little hips. I could almost see her hip bones. I didn't even want to try to compare them to mine. "Hmm," she said. "Looks like you're lost."

I nodded helplessly. There were no words for her. There were no words from me at all at that moment, which wasn't the smartest thing. I should have been introducing myself to her; I had every right to be … well, at the meet-and-greet, doing my job.

"Well," she said and turned, taking her hands off her hips and motioning me forward with one, "let's go. I'll take you over there."

There was no sigh that showed she didn't want to be responsible for me. No nothing. Just straight matter-of-fact, no big deal. Maybe it wasn't. Maybe it was easier than letting me be in the wrong place when the band came out. They might get a big laugh out of the record label rep who had to follow the band to get to where she belonged, or they might go ballistic that I wasn't in my place. They were, after all, the band. I worked for them, and this one in particular wasn't one you pissed off or fucked around with. Not if you want to hang on to your job.

And don't you think that us local reps forget that. Once we do, we're done.

"Hey Charlie," my guide called when we'd gone around two corners and stood in a huge open space that would soon be filled with roadies pushing road trunks to their specific trucks for the trip to the next town. "I found a lost soul for you."

"I was wondering where you'd gotten to, Jen," the band's tour manager said. I touched the girl's elbow in thanks and went to stand with Charlie.

"Thanks, Val," the tour manager called as the woman strutted off.

"Val?" I echoed. Something about the name struck a chord, but I couldn't place it.

"The drummer's girlfriend?" Charlie said, giving me a look that told me I should have known this. I probably should have; when I'd started as a record rep, I'd known everything about every band on our label. I'd probably even met this woman. Hell, I'd probably talked to her at one point. Maybe even known her name back then.

After awhile in this job, names and faces start to blend together. The troublemakers and the divas, those are the ones who stand out, followed by the cool ones. My guide would be one of them now, too. She was the exact person I'd dreamed of being when I'd taken this job.

I began handing out cover flats and talking to the guests as I pulled Sharpies out of my purse, getting everyone ready for the band's appearance. Just doing my job, basically. But part of my brain wondered if this was really what I wanted to be doing the rest of my life. I'd passed the point at which I could morph into rock royalty, like I'd once dreamed of being.

I guess the question was who was I, and who did I want to be now.


You groupies may recognize Charlie and Val (and the mention of Daniel, too), but this is really Jen's piece. I'm not sure who she is, not really, except that I CAN say she's not autobiographical, as the Tour Manager asked. And while I'd like to get to know her more, I'm not sure there's a novel in her. We'll have to wait and see.

Labels: fiction, Sunday Scribblings, touring, Val, Writer's Island