“Is that the kind of person you are hoping is your secret person?” Our eyes lock. One thing that’s true about Martin and me is that we can sometimes communicate on a soul-level when words become tricky or tangled or awkward. You always know it’s happening because there’s an unblinking eye lock.
“Honestly,” I start, hoping our soul-link will translate correctly what I’m about to attempt. “I don’t even care. I’m here tonight to conquer my own thing, to be the me I think I can be, if I was less like me. You know, the regular me. At some point in my life I want to be the me that is the real me and not the mehiding behind some scared me, wishing for something better.” I break the eye-lock, hoping words alone will carry it from here. “If my secret person likes that, then awesome. If my secret person doesn’t, well at least I…”
“Ichi-go Ichi-e,” Martin says softly and I reconnect the soul-link. “You’re inspiring me right now, Liam. I don’t even know what to say.”
Duh. That’s the purpose of the soul-link!
With another jolt, my chair is suddenly moving beneath me and I hear another voice: “Sorry, bud.”
Turning, I discover that I must be in tripping-hazard central. This time it’s a guy. A guy with exceptionally wide shoulders. He smiles and laughs as he regains his footing. My brain begins to move in slow motion. “I haven’t been drinking that much, I promise,” he says laughing and placing a strong hand on my shoulder. Two guys with him are laughing, mostly at him, and they are all carrying bottles of beer.
He palms my shoulder like a basketball, or rather some smaller ball the size of my shoulder, and I think I become transported by his strong fingers. I remain speechless. I can’t stop staring at his eyes. And I certainly don’t notice how the edge of a spiraling tattoo is peeking out from the two open buttons of his shirt, nor do I imagine how far down it actually spirals. I struggle to gain control of my eyeballs.
He looks over at Martin and then back at me. “Are you singing tonight?” he asks, “Or just here for the show?”
I think I shake my head, I’m not sure. 5th grade flashes through my brain. I’m hyper-drool-aware suddenly, wiping the back of my hand on my mouth.What is wrong with me?
“Well, good luck. Sorry again,” he says smiling, then turns to nod at Martin and heads off with his buddies.
I suddenly have a fixation on watching my hands wringing together in my lap. Everything else is a blur.
I hear Martin: “Liam.”
My hands are so interesting they can’t be looked away from.
“Liam.”
I look up from my lap long enough to make eye contact with Martin when suddenly the room explodes in cheering and we both turn to the stage. The two performers are celebrating their singing finale with their arms around each others’ shoulder, mics in the air, as the room is reverberating, glasses are being raised and the KJ is complimenting their, um, bravery perhaps, because it couldn’t possibly be their pitch or tone. Nevertheless, we are cheering.
I find myself melting into the exhilaration of a crowd that can appreciate something so terrible. I cheer and am clapping when I look over to Martin, who is watching the stage, but looks like he’s seriously contemplating something important. I look away when I hear the KJ speaking again.
“For the first time on our stage,” the words reverberate through my left knee because I know what’s coming next, “Show some love for William, who will be singingCount on Me!” I think there is some cheering, some hooting, raising of glasses, and some general pell-mell, but I’m not sure because my senses stop working.
In my imagine-what-this-would-be-like version, I hop up from my chair, pump my hands in the air with finger horns, and swagger toward the stage while my fans cheer. In real life you might think I was on my way to present a book report, the way my arms most definitely do not pump, and my gait certainly lacks swagger. The cheering dies down by the time I reach the stage, and I catch a quick glimpse of Martin staring at me. If you could combine a look of pride, terror, and hopeful optimism into one, I think that’s what I see on his face. Have you ever had the feeling that time stops moving forward? Or starts moving backward even? I remove the mic awkwardly from the stand,which squeaks loudly, and hold it to my mouth. The squeak is a hit apparently, as the room explodes into more cheering. The soundtrack starts and I can see the first lines of lyrics on a screen in front of me, as the music begins to syncopate with my body.
I’ve actually spent quite some time studying and preparing for this pivotal moment in my life and, even though I didn’t want to psych myself out by practicing too much, I ran through it a time or two. Google recommended it as a great song for a “nervous first-timer” which happens to describe me in so many ways that it should be tattooed on my bicep, or perhaps somewhere a bit more private. What I hadn’t anticipated was the intoxicating, light, breezy syncopated bounce of this song that causes both me and the crowd to sway a little, and my knees stop fighting against me. I am suddenly transported into a world where I am confident there will be no drool.
I hit the first stanza with a squeak and loud puff, and then settle into the song. The room sways with me, some people start clapping along. The verse requires a little bit of focus on the screen, but when I get to the chorus, which is basically counting to three over and over, I am in my element! I scan the faces in the room. I’ve never seen so many smiles, or maybe it’s just that I never noticed. Martin is beaming and mouthing the words with me. Various people at tables have turned to each other, and are singing along. It is transfixing.
I am reclaimed to a state of focus when the screen suddenly repeats the words “ooh-ooh” about a million times.
Which looks stupid and confusing, but I just close my eyes and let the music take over, and it works. Mostly. Turns out some of those “oohs” require a falsetto skill which Bruno Mars possesses that I clearly do not. Doesn’t matter, though. I open my eyes to realize that my heart isn’t racing, and I feel like I can’t stop smiling, which makes it hard to sing actual lyrics.The next verse starts and I find myself with full body motions, pantomiming the song, pointing to the crowd as if I mean these words for them. The only person I actually know in the room is Martin, and we make eye contact as I find myself professing, through this silly song, how much he can count on me, and I, him. I watch him sing-smile back. Correction. He is sing-beaming, if that’s a thing. I start counting to three again with the song, of course, and I suddenly feel like I shouldn’t be up here alone. I couldn’t have done this for myself without Martin and it suddenly feels wrong for me to be up here Martinless. This overwhelming feeling is coupled with the stupid “ooh-oohs” on the monitor again and I stop singing, which is fine because most of the swaying room of people are oohing in my place, and I find myself saying into the mic louder than necessary, “Martin get up here!” I’m waving my hand in a universal get-up-here motion and I may or may not notice him slinking in his chair. “My friend Martin, everyone!” I announce just as the “ooh” section winds down. The crowd cheers when he stands.
Martin makes his way up to the stage and I hand him the second mic. He grabs it, leans into me like we are Donny and Marie, and we start counting together in song. It is moving. It is beautiful. The crowd is loving it, which I’m not going to over-think because they also loved the last performance, which was neither moving nor beautiful.
I throw my arm around Martin’s shoulder, he returns the gesture and I scream-sing with every bit of my heart, holding the last note longer than I have breath for. This particular song ends in a slow, melancholy way generally. Not our version. The room erupts in cheering and banging and raised glasses and hooting. I turn to see Martin beaming back at me before he takes my hand and forces us into the hokiest Broadway stage bow possible, chin to knees, arms flailing. I am dumbstruck as we rack our mics and make our way off the stage. There is nodrool. There is no knee-wobbling. Only tables of people smiling at us and enjoying life and each other and, most definitely, too much alcohol. As I approach our table it occurs to me that my secret person might be here. I scan the room again, but the KJ is already announcing the next singers, and the crowd is cheering on the next act. For a brief moment, I wonder if I should spend some time thinking about what just happened within the context of my secret person, but I just feel too good! I want to laugh with Martin and smack him on the shoulder and pound the table and clink our glasses together and just, um, be. For just a moment.
Which I do, and we do, and I am! It feels great.
“You’re something else,” Martin finally says. “That was so much fun!”
I smile and laugh because I don’t know what to say. “Thanks for doing this with me.”
“Come here,” he says, standing and walking toward me. I stand too.
He engulfs me in the strongest bear hug I’ve ever experienced and clings on like it’s life or death. “I can’t believe you. I love you, bud! That was great.”
I hold on tight, letting the adrenaline of the moment swirl around us. Words seem inaccessible to me. I feel his clavicle press into my neck and his traps firm up as he squeezes an extra measure and then lets go.
