THE NIGHT I MET ROY ORBISON

It was a hot summer day, the kind of heat that would blister your backside if you were lying outside trying to snatch a tan au naturel. As I struck a match and waited for a flame to light my second joint of the day, the telephone rang. Sucking back a toke, I held my breath and slowly let it out. As a cloud of smoke filled my small art studio, I listened to the phone continually ringing. Wiping a film of sweat off my brow, I had another hit. Then, deciding it might be a potential customer, as soon as I exhaled, I answered the phone.

“Hello.”

A lengthy pause ensued followed by some heavy breathing before my friend replied, “I was about to hang up.”

“From the sound of your voice, what were you doing, jogging?”

“Hey man. You know I don’t jog.”

As the image of a man, with a belly the size of Buddha’s, tipping the scale at almost the weight of a Volkswagen Love-Bug appeared in my mind, I almost burst into laughter. “What’s up?” I snickered.

“You’ve heard Roy Orbison is at the playhouse tonight. I know how much you like him, so I thought we’d go see him.”

“I heard the concert was sold out, so unless you’ve got tickets, how are we going to do that?”

“No problem. I can get us in and for free.”

My friend was a DJ at a radio station and sometimes received free tickets from the entertainer’s agents for some airtime. However, from the tone of his voice, I didn’t think he had any tickets, so I said, “Unless you know someone at the door, I don’t see how we’re going to get in.”

“Let me handle that and make sure you bring your .35mm camera.”

Since I lived at my art studio, which was within walking distance of the playhouse and there was still almost three hours before the concert started, I thought I’d grab a beer or two or three at the pub just down the street. Although it was bustling with office workers just getting off work, I managed to claw my way through suits and ties and plant my skinny little butt on a stool in front of the bar. A good-looking woman with long straight blonde hair was sitting next to me and being of the artistic flirty variety, I said, “Bloody hot out, isn’t it? An icy cold glass of beer is going to hit the spot. Can I get you one?”

I’d only seen her profile so far and when she turned her head and smiled at me, I knew it was love at first sight. But then, almost every chick I looked at for the first time seemed like love at first sight. She had bedroom eyes, full sultry lips and when they parted, a smokey voice said, “No thanks. My boyfriend is finding us a table.”

I was about to say something else to her until I heard a man with long hair and matching mustache near a window calling out and I watched her head towards him, her tight pair of bellbottoms glued to her heart shaped ass. I had to admit I loved this era – flowers, beads, braless chicks, free-love – ruled!

After two more beers, I could feel my damp pants sticking to the imitation leather seat as I stood up and then headed towards the door. Although the pub was filled with armchair to armchair, shoulder to shoulder thirsty patrons, the dense smoky air felt cool in comparison to when I stepped outside, the heat hit me like an eighteen-wheeler semi transport truck. By the time I reached the playhouse, sweat was snaking down the back of my neck like a Medusa hairdo. If I was this hot, I could only imagine the state of my overly obese friend. He must be literally melting, could probably follow the trail of puddles to where he was standing.

My friend was waiting near the side door and motioned me to join him. After I wove my way through the crowd of Orbison fans he smiled and then said, “Oh good, you didn’t forget to bring your camera.”

Almost immediately after rapping on the door with a hand the size of catcher’s baseball mitt, it was opened by a tall man dressed in a suit that fit him almost like a second skin. He may have been tall and muscular, but he had to lean back and look up to see my friend’s face towering over him. My pal may have been roly-poly, a Michelin Man’s twin but he was a giant in comparison to the doorman and I could tell he was intimidated, especially when my friend slid his big size seventeen foot partway through the doorway.

“What can I do for you?” he asked politely.

My friend opened his wallet, flashed his radio ID card, and said, “I’m supposed to interview Roy Orbison during intermission,” and pointing towards me continued, “He’ll be photographing Mr. Orbison and his band.”

The doorman looked at my friend and then at me as slyly as a ferret and was about to say something when my friend said, “Don’t tell me. They didn’t inform you about us. Seems like they always forget to do that. So, are you going to let us in, or do I have to see the manager?”

The doorman hesitated for a moment and still looking curiously at my enormous friend, opened the door wide. The large auditorium was filling up quickly, and taking my friend’s lead, followed him like the wake of a giant freighter ploughing through the waves. We found some empty seats near the back, and unless they had been presold, we were about enjoy the concert sitting down. My friend’s bulky body not only filled the aisle seat but overlapped the armrests and I was a little worried that he was wedged in too tightly and it would take a crane to lift him out.

When the lights began dimming, the enormous red velvet curtain beginning to rise, a hush came over the crowd. When the spotlight was trained on the band, the lead guitar strummed the first chord, soon followed by the base, a low roll of drums and then, the melodic, almost the voice of an angel, filled the auditorium. No one sounded like Roy Orbison.

I’d never been to a Roy Orbison concert before nor had I ever seen him on TV, so I was surprised to see a live cadaver dressed entirely in black, a head full of raven black hair and huge black sunglasses perched on his nose emphasizing the whiteness of his skin. He stood in one spot the entire first set, not even tapping his foot to the beat, the only things moving were his hands as they played the guitar and his mouth as it opened and closed, every note of perfection mesmerizing.

When the curtain began slowly coming down, my friend pried himself out of his seat and said, “Let’s go.”

“Where to? I’d sooner just stay here till he comes back onstage.”

As if he knew the famous entertainer by name he said, “Wouldn’t you like to meet Roy?”

“Yeah?” I said questioningly.

“Let’s go then.”

The sea of mingling fans parted like the Red Sea as my friend strode down the aisle to a door near the side of the stage. The same doorman was standing there and not saying a word, simply let us through. After we climbed several staircases, my friend puffing like a steam engine every step of the way, we arrived behind a line of people, probably the media and possibly an ardent fan, like us, had finagled their way in.

We were the last to enter and there before us stood the famous Roy Orbison. Like his presence and demeanor on stage, he hadn’t changed. He greeted us the same as the others, a handshake as limp as a dead fish and just as cold, “Hi. Thank you for coming.”

There was a rumor that he was an albino and as I squinted, eyelids tighter than Clint Eastwood at high noon, trying to see through his heavily tinted glasses, all that I could see was my own reflection. However, as I looked around the dimly lit lounge, the band members almost like shadows, it almost seemed as if I was in Dracula’s lair surrounded by vampires.

As newspaper and TV reporters were asking a lot of questions, the occasional flashbulb lighting up the place and realizing it would soon be time to go back to our seats, my gargantuan friend hissed from the side of his mouth, “That’s enough of this shit,” and moved directly in front of the star blocking him from everyone’s view. I have no idea what the famous man wearing a thick pair of glasses thought when my friend wrapped his arm around him, but he must have felt like a hamburger patty squeezed into a giant bun.

I hadn’t bothered bringing a flash for the camera and as I turned the lens focusing in on my friend with his arm around Mr. Orbison, I wasn’t sure if the photo would be clear. When my friend stepped away, he reached for the camera and said, “Your turn now.”

I couldn’t believe I was standing next to Roy Orbison and didn’t dare put my arm around him because I was so intimidated by his presence. He must have felt my shyness and reluctance and it seemed almost like we were friends, the man who barely moved, sidestepped next to me and I could actually feel his body against mine.

After we were ushered out of the entertainer’s personal lounge back to our seats for the remainder of the concert, I couldn’t believe as I watched and listened to his beautiful voice that I had been standing right next to him. I must have heard songs like Only the Lonely, Oh, Pretty Woman and Blue Bayou but the only clear memory of that night that I still have, after so many years, was Roy’s super white complexion and my huge smile must have been bright enough for the camera to shoot a clear photo of us.