One Night With a Rock Star

by Chana Keefer

  “Just talk to me,” he requested, “like on the phone that night.”

  “So you weren’t too drunk to remember,” I teased.

  “It was weird,” he slurred. “That was from the Bible right? Everything got quiet when you were talkin’. Can you do that again?” He fumbled for my hand.

  So I ended up at the bedside of Devin Graves, a guy I barely knew and only a couple of weeks ago couldn’t have cared less about, quoting scripture as he struggled for every breath. I finished the twenty-third Psalm then quoted The Lord’s Prayer, moving on to the First Corinthians “love” chapter knowing as I quoted, “Love is patient, Love is kind… ” I drew to the end of my short repertoire of memorized passages.

  At a loss, I moved close to his ear and, keeping my voice barely above a whisper, sang “Amazing Grace.” That seemed to work, so I sang a few more standards. Whenever I thought he was asleep and I could quit, he would frown and fidget.

  After about an hour, I was convinced he was finally asleep and I really needed to make a trip to the ladies’ room, so I carefully removed his hand from my arm and edged toward the door.

  “Esther?” It was like tiptoeing from the bedside of a fretful baby.

  “I’m here.”

  “Am I going to die?”

  Woah. Was I ready for this? I gulped. “We all will eventually, Devin.”

  “What will happen to me? Will I go to hell or what?”

  Looking into his eyes, my heart broke for the scared little boy inside. I hesitated, wanting to give him comfort, but scared of screwing up.

  “Maybe I should get the hospital chaplain or somethin’,”

  “Come on.” He shifted, wincing in pain. “You tell me,”

  I took a deep breath, “Well, the Bible says God knew we could never be good enough to get into heaven, so He became one of us to give His life, to die in our place, so we could… know Him.” I faltered as I saw him frown. Could I blame him? I sounded like a sermon old men snore through. I hesitated, sent up a silent-spiritual-flare, and had an inkling of inspiration.

  “Can I tell you a story?”

  He nodded, so I began one I’d heard at church about a man who stayed home while his wife and kids attended a Christmas Eve service. During the evening, snow begins to fall and he notices birds floundering on the ground in the gathering whiteness. He thinks of his warm, dry barn and tries to lead them into it. He’s unsuccessful every time, scaring the birds and making the situation worse. As he stands in the snow, frustrated by his failure, the thought comes to him. “If only I could become one of them, maybe they would listen to me.”

  Suddenly it dawns on the man, standing there in the snow, that’s how God felt. He became human to show us the way home.

  Devin was quiet as I finished. His eyes were closed and I wondered if I had bored him to sleep. Finally, he licked his sutured lip, ”So, how do I get in the barn?”

  All the fancy words I’d heard at church like salvation and atonement were useless. “Just tell Jesus ‘thank you’ for dying for you, ask Him to fill you up on the inside and tell Him you want to live for Him.” Not theologically dazzling, but he seemed satisfied.

  Just then, a couple of nurses bustled in and I stepped out to the hallway hoping, somehow, my fumbling answers made sense.

  When I returned from the bathroom, Devin’s mom, Carol, stood with a doctor and a tall, tanned man sporting Devin’s chiseled nose and jaw. I walked closer, curious about Devin’s condition, but hesitant to cut in on a private conversation.

  When Carol saw me, she motioned for me to join them and placed an arm around my shoulders.

  “This is Devin’s girlfriend…” She hesitated.

  “Esther,” I prompted.

  I wanted to correct her assumption, but it seemed a minor detail at the time. The doctor was saying things like, “lucky the head injuries aren’t more extensive” and “amazing more bones weren’t broken,” which all sounded pretty hopeful until he moved on to “internal hemorrhaging.” They were going to operate in an attempt to stop the bleeding.

  Devin’s father asked how soon his son would be able to walk and train again. The doctor gave him a hard look. “I don’t think you understand. We’re fighting to keep your son alive.”

  Carol gripped my hand.

  Suddenly a loud beep came from Devin’s room and the doctor ran. More personnel rushed to join the sudden crowd around Devin’s bed. Carol reached for a nurse’s arm as she passed and begged to know what was going on.

  “His lung collapsed, we’re going to have to ask you to clear the doorway, ma’am. He’s being prepared for surgery.”

  Devin was already sedated as he was wheeled by so we didn’t even get to speak to him as he was whisked off to surgery.

  Most of the fraternity guys had gone by this time leaving Devin’s immediate family, two of his brothers, mom, dad… and me. How did I get myself into this? Carol held my hand so tightly I felt I couldn’t abandon her. Devin’s dad paced the hall. I got the feeling this was a man accustomed to being in control therefore helplessness was unacceptable.

  He stopped next to us on one of his trips. “Maybe this is for the best, he goes quickly, without pain, and doesn’t have to deal with the fact he might never play ball again.”

  I studied his handsome features in horror. Could he really mean that? He would rather lose his son than see him not able to play football? The color drained from Carol’s face and she leaned into me. Was she going to faint?

  “Please don’t say that,” I said, “Devin’s not going to die, and, there are worse things than not playing football.”

  I had put my foot in it now. His eyes fixed on me. “Being a pro player is his life! Since he was three he’s dreamed of nothing else. It would mean death to give that up. And I don’t remember askin’ for your opinion.”

  “John!” Carol admonished, “She’s just trying to help.”

  “Now isn’t the time for self-righteous comments from a little… girlfriend.” He looked me over with a sneer.

  I knew it would be wise to shut up, but I wasn’t feeling wise. “Look, I’m not his girlfriend and Devin needs to know he’s more important than… than… your ego.”

  I clamped my mouth shut as the muscles in his face twitched and his hands clenched into fists. “Why you little… Who do you think… Don’t you dare preach at me!” He turned and strode down the hallway.

  Great. I came to support Devin during a crisis and caused more crisis. I turned to Carol. “I guess I’d better go. I’m so sorry I made him angry. He doesn’t need more stress.”

  “Hush.” She reached to hug me, “Thank you. I’ve been wanting to tell him that for years.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  By the next day, it appeared Devin was going to pull through. He continued to request my presence so I became a regular visitor, often stopping by after trips into the city. He was charming when he was lonely and in pain and it was nice to feel needed.

  One afternoon, he even confided he decided to “get things straight with God” as he put it. I was very excited to hear the news having stepped carefully around that issue since the night of his accident.

  The weeks of summer slipped past in a haze of modeling assignments, visits to the hospital and preparations for the upcoming semester. Dr. Morgan, my venerable journalism instructor, offered me a position as one of the editors for the school paper. It would pay almost nothing, would soak up every bit of my time, and would constantly expose me to the razor’s edge of his criticism. Hmmm. Tempting. But, I was also told the experience gained would be worth the “killer” semester. I gulped and agreed to the task.

  In truth, I longed for a cocoon of busyness. It seemed everywhere I turned I ran into Sky—his music on the radio, his picture on billboards, his image on magazines—there was no escape.

  But one occurrence that summer blew my mind enough I hardly gave Sky a thought for almost a week.

  I was called in to meet with Sybil, the head honcho of my modeling ag
ency. With a huge smile she handed me a script. “You, my dear, are going to New York!”

  My mouth dropped and I stared down at the pages in my hand.

  “The casting director for “Desire” saw your audition tape and you’re the only one from our agency they invited. This is HUGE!”

  I stumbled out of the building in a daze. Since the brush with Sky, it seemed anything could happen. But, New York?

  After the shock wore off I began to relish the idea of being “somebody” in my own right. Perhaps Sky would see me on T.V. Not the best reason to desire fame, but it was there.

  So I prepared for the audition. I would play Elena, a girl from the wrong side of the tracks who had to hide the stigma of her convict brother. In the scene this guy, Vince, assumes she will be an easy conquest when he discovers her family ties. I began to see a trend—conflict and kissing—soap opera’s essential elements.

  I memorized the lines with Marti, who made an unconvincing Vince, and also rehearsed in the barn with Sammy who refused to even bark in the right places.

  When I told Devin the news about the screen test he pouted and asked how long I’d be gone.

  “It’s only a two-day affair,” I told him, but he remained in a funk for the rest of that visit.

  It was nerve-wracking and exciting and more than enough to turn a country girl’s head as I rushed through La Guardia airport and surveyed the Big Apple from the backseat of a yellow cab.

  Another girl, a pretty blonde named Ellen, a competitor for the same role, had a room next to mine. We ordered room service that night and chatted about this opportunity. She was raising a young son on her own; therefore, steady income would be a huge relief for her.

  We discussed how I struggled with the customary passionate love scenes. She felt that, as an actress, being someone else was her “job.” That job didn’t affect “real life.” I wished I could take such a simple view of the matter. Then again, if I had a child to provide for, would that fact override finicky convictions?

  The studio was amazing. Within twenty yards I passed the sets for a library, a jail cell, a garden complete with running fountain, a grass hut on a beach and a ritzy apartment. The latter was the setting for our screen test.

  The people we met, from make-up artist to wardrobe mistress, were friendly; a pleasant surprise since I had expected big-city snobbery.

  Considering how foreign it felt to perform the scene beneath bright lights on a real set with three monstrous cameras tracking my every move, I was pleased to remember the lines and thrilled to experience that moment when things clicked with the other actor, a handsome guy who was one of the favorites on the show. Look at me! Small town Esther was holding her own!

  But my bluff was called when he yanked me around for a passionate lip lock, tongue and all. I hadn’t prepared for that. My mind went blank and my mouth clamped shut. He pulled out of the probing kiss and delivered the next line

  Something closed in. I felt small, exposed, and insecure. I was a nothing, a joke among “real” actors.

  He was still talking, throwing in a bit of improv, trying to keep things moving. I tried to focus but the scene jumbled in my mind. The next words he said were back on script, but they flew at me with the force of a knock-out punch.

  “You’re just one of those girls guys use and forget. Get over it.”

  He was very convincing. The sneer sold it. And he was right. Sky couldn’t have said it better.

  I just stood and gaped, soaking in the poison. I was wasting their time. I was a waste of time.

  He came toward me again, flowing with the moment. “Hey, look. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

  He was so believable, so concerned, I choked up. He was an actor and he was good at it. Just like Sky.

  Hot tears spilled down my cheeks. A glint of excitement flashed in the actor’s eyes as he took hold of my shoulders, turning me a bit for a better camera angle.

  Okay. This is what they wanted. I’d give it to them.

  He brushed away a tear with his thumb and kissed me again. It was gentle this time and soft and… real. I opened my eyes. Up close I saw the film of make-up on his face.

  Something ripped in my heart. I wanted to hit him, kick him, slap that powdered cheek.

  “Cut!”

  “Good job.” He shook my hand as someone yelled, “Next!” and Ellen moved out to take my place, blonde hair fluffed, make-up perfect, skin-tight jeans and low-cut top. There was a whistle and she giggled as she met the actor with, “I’m such a huge fan!”

  It felt like I’d disappeared.

  The cameras rolled and I slipped into the library set two fake rooms away. Same scene, different girl rolled on.

  She didn’t forget lines, though and came away gasping, “Ohmigosh! I kissed Josh!”

  While Ellen gathered autographs for her mom, an avid fan, I roamed the halls, studying glossy photos of the stars, wondering what their lives must be like. I’d never know, of course, having forgotten half the scene.

  “You broke my heart out there.”

  I turned and gasped. Lilly Lawson, the gorgeous, reigning queen of “Desire,” stood before me.

  “Aw, I totally blew it.”

  She laughed, flashing those famous dimples and perfect teeth, “Honey, with technique like that, who needs a script! I was in the control room screaming, ‘Hit ‘im! Hit ’im!’” She laughed again, shaking her glossy, black mane. “Oh how I’d love to see that. What’s your name, Hon?”

  “Esther.”

  “You from the south?”

  “Texas,” I answered.

  “Lubbock!” She exclaimed. “Two years at U.T! Hook ‘em Horns!”

  She proclaimed me her new best friend and began a tour throughout the station introducing me to other actors, producers, scriptwriters, etc. until my head swam with names I’d never remember. Then it was down to the wardrobe room where I met her personal make-up artist. She was perfect already. His job was easy.

  She chatted while he worked, peppering me with questions and answering mine about the high price of rent and where to attend church. Wow. Church-going soap stars. Who’d a’ thought?

  That paved the way for my next question. “What do you do if there’s something in the script you don’t want to do or say?”

  She smiled. “You keep your mouth shut and suck up to the writers. They can love ya or kill ya!” The make-up artist joined in her laughter.

  “But what if you don’t want to do, like, a bedroom scene?”

  She gave me a sharp look. “Then you’re in the wrong business.”

  Soon Lilly was as glamorous as possible and I watched her tape a couple scenes, amazed at her professionalism—she did both two times without a single mistake—then Ellen and I left the studio for a quick lunch and cab ride back to the airport.

  Back in Texas, I had plenty to think about as I awaited the big decision. Once again, life came at me in colors that didn’t fit into my simple categories of black and white. I spent a great deal of time at the barn with journal and Bible in tow, trying to feel normal as the roller coaster of my life took forever to crest the hill.

  I went to see Devin the day after my return. He laughed at my tales of kamikaze taxi drivers and the colorful characters hanging around Time Square.

  “As you can see, I went way overboard on souvenirs.” I brought out the pen and notepad from the hotel where I had stayed and presented it to him. “There, now you have a taste of upscale New York right here in your room.” I reached to place the items on his bedside table.

  Devin grabbed my hand. “Thanks, I was bored out of my mind.”

  I felt a wave of pity. “We aims to please.” I grinned and ruffled his hair with my hand.

  He pulled me down to him where he kissed me hard on the mouth. How was I supposed to struggle against a man with an IV in his arm?

  “There,” he said. “I’ve been wantin’ to do that since I first set eyes on you.”

  I pulled back. “Oh sure! You get a
ll banged up and I forget you’re the campus wolf.”

  Truth was, I hadn’t totally hated that kiss. He was good at it and I was developing a bit of an attachment. Probably a Florence Nightingale thing, but it troubled me nonetheless.

  When I got home that afternoon, Sybil called with the news the soap decided to go with a blonde, meaning Ellen would be moving to New York. I admit I was a bit disappointed—although I couldn’t quite decide if I’d missed a great opportunity or escaped a close shave.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The craziness of that fall semester made it impossible to dwell too much on the number of days, weeks and, yes, even months, since Sky had collided with my life. Twenty-four hours became way too short to accomplish all that was demanded. Most days, I collapsed for four, maybe five hours of sleep before hitting the ground running at the crack of dawn. Inevitably, that sort of pace resulted in many mistakes, struggles, and frustrations, with the occasional weekend meltdown of exhaustion and tears.

  The tabloids continued their headlines about Sky and Karina; rumors of an impending remarriage, stories of Karina seen with some rich playboy and, finally, whispers of a wedding with her new flame. It was impossible to keep up and more impossible still to divide truth from fiction. I tried not to read the headlines, but it became a guilty pleasure, a welcome pain to pierce my numb heart.

  I wish I could defend what happened with Devin that semester. We didn’t have official “dates.” As he eased back into normal life, he just showed up a lot. Early on, I’d go for a jog with him or even help with some of the exercises the physical therapist had prescribed. He asked for my help with a tough English class, he “kidnapped” me a couple times for a forced work break, and sometimes we’d go to a movie or do something as dull as laundry.

  I admit, I enjoyed his company and felt emotionally “safe” since my heart was a useless appendage. He made me laugh and, in a lot of ways, filled a void for male companionship. Sometimes he talked about girls he was pursuing so I saw that as an indication we were “just friends.”