Chapter Three #2
“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 singing Count 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 no drool. 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.
We both sit and smile at our beer glasses for quite a long while.
We are broken from our smiling haze when the KJ approaches our table. His sudden presence, matched with the awkwardness of him out of his performance booth, startles me.
“You’re William?” he says to me.
I look from him, to Martin, and back. “Yes.” It comes out as several broken syllables.
“Great job, boss. That was fun.” He smiles a massive smile, looks to Martin and then back to me as he holds up something he’s been carrying. It’s a large envelope, swollen slightly by its contents. “I was asked to make sure you get this.”
He thrusts the object toward me and I grasp it quickly. It’s stiff and flat and I feel a series of ridges along one edge. He smiles, waves a small salute-like wave from his temple and heads back to the KJ booth.
I flip the envelope over in my hands several times, examining it in the pink shadows, letting my fingers find every edge and seam. Martin leans in.
“What is it?” he says.
I flip it over several times, building the courage to open it.
The envelope is white and sealed by a blue string that is wrapped around two cardboard tabs.
On the backside, right in the middle is written my name, William Everett, in the same sloppy blue pen I’ve grown to recognize, and possibly, love.
I carefully unwrap the blue string and open the tab, looking inside.
Martin leans in further, then flicks his eyes to me.
I discover that I’m looking around the room, thinking I’ll find my secret person smiling and watching me, but everyone in the space is caught up in their group or the singing, having a great time. I look back to Martin. He’s half-smiling, still trying to peer into the envelope.
“It’s a notebook,” I whisper as I pull out a spiral notebook with a blue cover and thumb through it.
All the pages are blank. The lines on each page are gray with blue margins, and the book is smaller than a standard sheet of paper, so it feels personal, not like I’m about to take biology notes.
I open to the first few pages and flip through them carefully, looking for a message or something. There’s nothing.
“What does it say?” Martin is asking, eyes searching through the page I’m flipping.
“Nothing. It’s blank.” I hold a page up to the pink light, thinking maybe there’s a secret message, but it’s blank in every light.
Martin sits back. “What do you think it’s for?”
I don’t know. I look around the room again. Oddly, my tripping-friend, the one with the strong hand on my shoulder, makes eye contact with me across the room, smiles, raises his glass at me, and then leans back into his buddies and their vivacious conversation. I look back to the notebook.
I’m not sure what to make of it.
“I guess I’ll have to wait,” I say. I’m not sure what my tone indicates, but I feel strangely at peace with all this waiting.
Normally, I’m a nervous wreck, over-thinking every detail, but one thing I’ve learned from my secret person is that I’m having a great time just enjoying the moment. This one included.