Alicia
alicia
. . .
T he weather is stifling. My once curled hair is stringy and now up in a ponytail, not complementing my chosen outfit or the look I’m trying to achieve. Rarely in Los Angeles do we experience East Coast humidity. Today is another story. Growing up in Florida, I’ve grown accustomed to the constant wet feeling, the muggy and stagnant air. I hated it, which only fueled my desire to apply for school on the West Coast.
I have to ask myself if this concert is worth it. And the answer is yes, it is. I’ve been a fan of 4225 West since I moved out here. I thought if I hung out at the bars they played in, I’d get a chance to meet them. The bigger they became, the harder it’s been to get close. Scoring tickets and a backstage pass from a radio giveaway is giving me my opportunity to finally meet them.
Well, one of them... Harrison James. He was my first introduction to drummers. I saw him play a solo act at Metro only to find out he was just messing around, practicing before he played in his next gig. I also found out that he was in the house band there, but I was too late since he and his band had been signed and had moved on to bigger and better things. I found myself searching for him, seeking out their performance dates so I could watch him play.
I’ve entered every contest hoping for my chance to meet him and now I have it. My friends have been here before, waiting in line for the tickets that changed their lives. It’s no secret that when you crush on someone, you want that chance to make an impression. That’s what I’m going for. This is my one chance to show Harrison James that I’m worth his time, even if my therapist disagrees.
The girls in front of me giggle and talk incessantly about how hot Liam Page is. They only see him in that light because he’s the lead singer. I’m fine with that; leave the drummer to me. It’s better that way. I need a man who knows how to use his hands and isn’t afraid to add a little force to get what he wants.
After the twins receive their passes, it’s my turn. I square my shoulders and step forward with confidence. Even the ticket agent, who has no say in how tonight goes, needs to know I’m on a mission.
“Alicia Tucker.” My name is said with confidence as I slide my driver’s license through the small opening of the bullet proof glass. The man who holds my fate in his hands looks at it briefly before he starts fumbling through the envelopes in front him.
My tickets and backstage passes are slid under with the instructions to put the lanyard around my neck and to meet at the door marked C-6. I quickly slip the pass on and tuck the tickets in my purse. I won two, but opted not to bring a friend. I don’t want anyone to slow me down or tell me they need to go home after the show. It’s my intention to party with the band until we’re passed out drunk or so tired that we can’t keep our eyes open. If something transpires, I don’t want a tag along.
Once again, I’m behind the annoying twins in their 4225 West band t-shirts. That’s another no-no in my book. If you plan to reach the members on a different level, you don’t dress in their gear. They know you’re a fan, no need to broadcast yourself with propaganda. Be subtle and speak at the right time. Don’t interrupt, but be engaging. Everything they say to you is important whether you agree or not.
Those are my guidelines. My mantra. I’ll repeat them when necessary, even looking in the mirror if I need to. Nothing will stop me from achieving my goal - time with Harrison James. I’m self-assured enough to know what I want and with whom. Harrison is the perfect match for me and he’ll realize it tonight, after we’ve met.
The gray door swings open and a roadie with a clipboard steps out. There are four groups total: the giddy, annoying teenagers, a man and his girlfriend, two guys, and me – the lone ranger. One by one we step up, show our ID again and hand over our tickets. Once inside, we’re corralled like a small herd of sheep waiting for slaughter. The no-name roadie instructs us to follow him and even more giggling ensues. Shoot me now.
We’re shown to the front of the stage. Not my preferred spot, but the lanyard and badge that hang from my neck make up for it.
“After the first set you can go backstage. I’ll be back to get you.” He doesn’t wait for a response as he walks away with his clipboard tucked underneath his arm.
The other woman smiles and tries to make small talk, but I’m not interested. I can’t take my mind off the prize, off my goal. As soon as this no-name support band is done, I’ll be backstage with the man of my dreams, standing next to him and engaging in what is sure to be an intellectual conversation. I smile at her and convey I’m not interested before turning my attention to my cell phone.
When the lights dim and the crowd cheers, it’s not like you’d expect. No one is really here yet and why would they be? The main act isn’t on stage. I feel sorry for the opening act, the lackluster crowd of people who don’t know their songs either filter in late or are too busy mingling with their friends to pay attention. Not that I’m any better. I’ve sat through plenty of concerts just to hear the main act. More recently though, I’ve left after 4225 West has finished, only caring about their set. They’re worth the ticket price alone.
Five songs later and the opening act is done, promising to love the fans of LA forever. It’s the same ole song and dance. They love us. We love them. It’s a win-win for those who care. As soon as the lights are on, I’m looking for the roadie. I want to ask him why we had to sit through this act, but know it’s a requirement of winning. Liam Page is adamant that the winners support everyone. Noble, but it’s not why I’m here.
I’m third in line, behind the couple. One would think I’d be in front, but I don’t want to seem eager; being at the back shows that I’m a little blasé about the whole process. I must come off as if this is no big deal and that it happens all the time. Cool, calm and collected. I deserve to be here.
I do deserve to be here. I’m different than the women they reportedly take home. I’m not settling for the back up or taking someone’s sloppy seconds. I want the drummer and only the drummer. Anyone else just won’t do. I’m not a groupie, but a woman who has her sights set on a man. Call it love or infatuation, it doesn’t matter. The sight of Harrison James makes me wet.
The room we’re taken into is small but with three band members, who really cares? It’ll be more intimate when it comes to physical space and that’s when I need to turn on the charm. I’ve prepped for this moment.
Their agent, Sam Moreno, walks in first. I admire her for succeeding in an industry flooded by men, most of whom are pigs. I’ve only seen her in pictures, and she’s often on the arm of Liam Page. To see her in person, one could watch her in action and learn how to command a crowd from her. Her shoulders are square with her head held high. Four- maybe five - inch stilettos adorn her feet and her skirt is pencil thin. I know I’m dressed to kill but she’s making me second guess myself, which is why Liam Page favors her over the other women he’s been seen with. She has class, style.
“Congratulations on winning. The guys will be in shortly and this will be your time to take pictures and get any autographs you may want. On the table there is free merchandise, so help yourself.”
The teens clap and squeal and become all giddy. I don’t miss the sideways glare that Ms. Moreno gives them, and I deduce that I like her already. I can see her and I being friends, protecting what’s rightfully ours.
She turns her head and smiles as if she knows Liam is walking in. There has to be something more to them; they’re definitely a couple and if not, they’re fucking like jack rabbits. I don’t really care as long as Harrison is free, and if he’s not, I don’t know what I’ll do.
I expect the guys to sit on the three stools along the wall, but only Harrison does. It’s as if the Gods want us to meet. I strut over. My boobs are on full display. My ass is swaying the way it should be. I put one foot in front of the other until I’m standing in front of him. His eyes roam over my body until they’re dead center on my cleavage. I don’t mind. I know it’s what guys want. He finally meets my smoldering eyes and cracks the shyest smile.
I’m in.
Harrison James, the sexiest drummer I’ve ever laid eyes on, cocks his head slightly toward the empty stool next to him and I take that as my invitation. I stand there for a moment, contemplating my next move. I’m in a skirt, so I need to sit just right. He offers me his hand and I set my fingers tips against his palm as I take my place proudly next to him.
“Do you have plans for after the gig?” I quickly hide my disappointment that he hasn’t asked my name. He should’ve, or maybe he already knows it. I am on the list, after all.
“I don’t,” I tell him in the sweetest voice possible while batting my eyelashes at him. I uncross and cross my legs, making sure to touch him as I do. “We’re having a little party... be my guest?” “I’d be honored.” This was too easy.
The problem with sharing this moment with others is that they feel they can interrupt. And that is exactly what the two teenage girls do – interrupt. Harrison, being the gentleman he is, signs all their crap and poses for pictures with them. When one asks if I’ll take a picture so they can be with him together, I smile happily, showing Harrison that I can and will play along with his fans. It’s important that he sees this so he knows I’m here for him and his image.
I hold the camera up and focus on Harrison. Even through the lens, he’s staring at me. Yes, winning the tickets for the show and the backstage pass happened for a reason. I’m a firm believer in fate. We were meant to meet tonight. It’s our time.
The teens move on, leaving us somewhat alone again. This time I stand so that we’re touching. He offers me a beer and I take it, sucking down the contents greedily. Liquid courage has never hurt anyone. Every move I make, he watches with his emerald green eyes. His tongue darts out, moving his lip ring back and forth.
“It’s show time,” Ms. Moreno says. He winks and my hormones go into overdrive.