[My apologies to those sick of reading of my adoration of Bruce Springsteen, but when I saw the prompt for Sunday Scribblings this week, I knew there could be no other tale to write save this one. Do make sure you read of other chance encounters at Sunday Scribblings this week.]
Before there were children, there was just me and another. We had the funds to do whatever we wanted, with little attention needing to be paid to any other people in our orbit. So when I heard Bruce Springsteen was going to be touring, I set out to plot my path. Let's see, there were the California dates, of course, and then there was the one near my BFF's house in Maryland, and then there was the one in Chicago, which was really not that far from where I would be working for a few days in Detroit.
Lori able to dump her nine-month-old baby somewhere? Check. Tickets? Check. Places to stay? Check. And off we went.
In Chicago, Lori and I were hanging out in the lobby of the hotel, having a drink (or two or three) while we caught up with each other's lives. We were excited to be together again, and we were excited to be going to the show that night.
It was fairly quiet in the hotel at 2 o'clock in the afternoon. It was as if Lori and I were alone in our conversation. And then the quiet ended. A horde of more than a dozen people entered the hotel at one time. Leading the pack was a man in a black leather jacket carrying a black guitar case, followed by a tall gray-haired man seemingly holding back the rest. It was Bruce, of course, with his guitar. He was being pursued by fans who had clearly staked out the hotel in hopes of encountering him.
Lori and I jumped out of our seats and joined the rest of the faithful to get a closer view, following Bruce to the elevator banks. Lori boldly went up in hopes of talking with Bruce or touching him or getting his autograph or grabbing a piece of his aura. I hung way back, merely watching, too mindful of his tired look, his vibe of just wanting some space. Or maybe I was just too damn chicken s*£$ to get too close. He gave a couple of autographs, and then the tall gray-haired man prevented anyone else from entering the elevator car Bruce and he shared. And off they went.
Later, Lori napped in the hotel room we shared. When Lori awoke, she told me she had dreamt that he had come to our hotel room, where she was alone. She had excitedly told him to wait while she found me so we could both talk to him.
A lame dream, I told her, warning her that if that happened to me -- that Bruce came to our hotel room while I was alone in the room -- I would have bolted locked the door and enjoyed a romp with him, never giving Lori a second thought. What a chance encounter that would have been.
[The gray-haired man was Terry Magovern, Bruce's long-time main man. "Bodyguard" seems too little of a description of him.]