She presses her lips into a thin line but doesn’t protest. As the roadies tear down the set, I wave one over and point at a setlist taped to the floor.It’s the one Sully used.
The roadie with shaggy brown hair and a scruffy beard sees the paper and carefully peels it off the ground, folding back the black duct tape. At least ten other fans eagerly wait for the same thing. There are four setlists in total and two were already handed out farther down the stage.
I reach my arm for the setlist and smile at the roadie as he dangles it in front of us like a fish on a hook.
The corner of the paper touches my fingertips. I lean forward and snatch it, nearly balling the page in my grasp as I hold onto it for life and bring it into my chest before anyone can steal it.
As Alice and I walk out of the venue, there are vendors right out the doors selling food and bootleg tour shirts.
“You want a hot dog?” I nod toward the cart, watching as a couple of brave—possibly reckless—souls buy food and eat it without a second thought. Bold move, considering those mystery meat tubes could be teeming with E. coli or whatever other horrors lurk in questionable street food.
Alice gags as we pass by the vendors. “I’m working tomorrow night. I don’t have time for explosive diarrhea. How about we hit the Korean BBQ down the street?” She points at the restaurant a few yards away with her drumstick.
“Maybe later. They’re open late, right?” I ask, pausing when we reach behind the venue where the tour buses are parked. “I want to hang around and see if we can meet the band.”
She sighs heavily and reluctantly follows me toward the growing crowd near the venue’s back door.
3
Thereareatleastthirty people waiting for the band at the entrance of the venue’s alley. I hope to squeeze in and meet every band member before they are whisked away to their next destination, but if I only speak to Sully then that is still a win in my book.
People around us clutch magazines, posters, and records for them to sign. I dig out the album artwork I carefully put in my purse and hold it along with my new setlist.
Alice chuckles, hitting my shoulder with hers. “Of course you brought something for them to sign.”
“Girl Scouts taught me to always be prepared,” I joke, pulling out a black Sharpie from the back pocket inside my purse. “This isn’t my first meet-and-greet.”
“Most people read or sew as a hobby. Then there’s you and concerts. I hope he’s not a jerk. You know what they say about meeting your idols.”
“What do you mean?” I’m honestly puzzled.
“Sorry to be a downer, but everyone knows Sully usually brushes fans off. He barely signs anything and never smiles for photos.”
“Oh…yeah.” I bite the inside of my cheek. My brain must have shoved that fact into a box and hid it from me. But Alice is right. Sully is wonderful on stage, but stiff as a board and cold as ice in person. People say he’s like a robot, with no moving facial features, and doesn’t like to talk much to fans.
In my concert-going lifetime, I’ve met super sweet musicians who ask you questions and wrap an arm around your shoulders for a photo, and I’ve met the don’t-look-at-me-I’m-only-here-because-I-have-to-be rock stars. You’d think the latter would chase off their fans, but it rarely does.
Fans have a way of turning famous people into gods in their minds. Not me. But it will be a crushing blow to have the man featured in my dreams brush me off as another face in the crowd. Or worse, he drifts by and ignores me altogether.
Fear closes my airway just as I catch the back door of the venue opening. My thoughts die because all four members of Scarlet Failure walk out together.
People swarm each person, thrusting things to sign and smiling for selfies.
Charlotte stands closest to me, and I’m about to hand her my setlist when a girl around my age steals her attention. They take a few pictures, and then the girl gives Charlotte a colorful beaded friendship bracelet she made and explains how their music saved her life and goes into this whole story.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy for her, but there are a lot of people wanting to speak to Charlotte, and a woman, who I'mguessing is their manager, is leaning against the building, looking annoyed and sighing as she looks at her watch.
The girl wraps up her story and hugs Charlotte. It’s finally my turn, and I hand Charlotte my album cover and setlist. She signs them, and says, “Thank you so much for coming. I hope you enjoyed the show.”
“It was great. One of the best concerts I’ve seen in a while,” I reply, before raising my phone and snapping a selfie with her.
“That’s wonderful,” she says, smiling at me before shifting her attention to Alice.
I use Charlotte as my buffer to get over my jitters before walking toward Sully and asking for his autograph. My nerves coil tighter with every step. He’s signing a magazine cover for an older guy, but his gaze keeps darting to the tour bus like he’s ready to escape at any second. I swallow hard, pushing down the anxiety creeping up my throat, and wait for my chance to step in.
The man thanks Sully and pats his arm. Sully stiffens instantly, his whole body going rigid, as if the touch burned him.
Another girl jumps in to meet Sully as I gather my strength to approach him. My heart flips seeing her glossy lips mouthing things. But I can’t make out her words because I’m staring at Sully. His jaw clenches as he lazily signs her magazine. As she babbles on, he “hmms” but doesn’t reply with words.
