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Tim, being the epitome of Lovely, and an all-in-all general cutey-wutey, lovey-dovey, sexy-wexy boyfriend, had managed to hook Amy up with tickets to an intimate little gathering. A club in Las Vegas called Aptic. A venue housing only 500 people, where not everyone could be granted access. Not even on a "regular" night.
That was sweet of Tim. However, what made this special and something Amy would not forget for as long as she lived was the guest of honor. None other than Mr. Roger Daltrey himself, who was taking the stage for a one-night-only exclusive. Roger Daltrey, her first great love and the man who had promised her the world through the lyrics he sang. Words that had saved her life when no one had bothered to listen to her.
When no one had cared, he had, and she was in love with him.
Amy had rented a car and brought along her best friend and roommate, Annie, to keep her company on the 273-mile, approximately four-hour journey.
It all worked out great, too, because Annie's boyfriend, Dave, was working in Las Vegas at the moment, so they had arranged for Amy to drop her off at his place of work and then drive to Aptic.
They were currently passing through Barstow after a brief stop to refuel the car and themselves.
Amy — the lifelong, die-hard fan of The Who and Roger Daltrey — was shitting bricks, so Annie had to conjure up her bestie-duties and reassure her to IN EX HA HA LE LE, which made perfect sense to Amy due to their close-knit relationship. No other person in the world knew her as well as Annie did, and no other person in the world knew Annie as well as Amy did. At times, it was as if they had their own language. A language, which of course adhered to no sovereign state, so it couldn't possibly hold any currency. It had been forged through decades of mental proximity and shared interests, and it consisted of inside jokes and noises.
Nothing said "close sisterhood" like the spontaneous breaking-out-into-song in response to something and then laughing one's ass off.
A self-made, best-of compilation of The Who/Roger Daltrey CD was spinning in the car. So, of course, it had all the best songs. So eart-shatteringly awesome that it was hard to handle, and Amy was on overload. "Jeezy creezy," she exclaimed, drumming her fingers against the steering wheel.
Annie joined in and belted out the harmony while strumming her air guitar for a magnificent solo. The song and the made-up instrument reached a crescendo, and Amy white-knuckled the wheel as she high-pitched-roared; the realisation of what was to come in a few hours washed over her fangirl mind, making her tense up in her seat.
"Take it easy, Padawan," Annie said before taking a sip of her coffee. "Or you're gonna give yourself an aneurysm."
"Padawan!" Amy repeated back in an animated voice. She collected herself, took a deep breath and said, "Do you realise I'm gonna be breathing the same air as Mr Sir, Duke, Lord Roger Daltrey tonight?"
Annie grinned. "I do. Lucky you."
"You don't understand, Annie. This man was my first love."
"I know, Amy. Believe me, I know."
Amy's mind whisked her away into the early Who-days when it all had been new, and her ears hadn't yet grown accustomed to the melodies, the lyrics, or the voice of the man in question. Her little heart had been way too inexperienced to handle it. It was a cliché, but discovering The Who had really been like finding a home. Possibly her first one.
The best part was that the music made her feel less alone and she would be forever grateful for that.
***
Amy parked about a 15-minute walk from the venue. Reality had started to set in (once more) and her anxiety increased with each step; it was like she was walking to her doom — it was that overwhelming.
Constantly checking her bag for the ticket, she fiddled with her hair and the strap on her black faux leather hobo bag; anything to keep her whirring mind from going crazy and sending her to places she didn't want to visit, but she couldn't help obsess whether it would be crowded with people and how they would take up so much space that she would be pushed to the side. Maybe she wouldn't be able to get in because a big, demeaning sign outside would tell her it was sold out. Then she would have no other choice than to walk away, bereft of the experience of a lifetime, and that would leave her no other choice than not only to cry but bawl, but out of sight so no one saw her, and the final step would be to call Tim and tell him about her failure...
For fuck's sake, brain, shut up! You have a ticket! Calm the fuck down, she thought
She kept putting one foot ahead of the other, staring down at the pavement.
Voices and the general murmuring of people caused her to look up; her heart started beating a bit faster — her suspicions were right: a massive herd of people was milling around outside the venue. The majority of them wore some sort of The Who apparel.
She moaned internally.
Not wishing to be that obvious and advertise her love of the band, she had chosen to wear something a bit different for the occasion. Hence, she was breaking in her latest purchase: a vintage, oversized Woodstock t-shirt. She had the hem tied in a knot at her left hip. — Sure, The Who had played there and that wasn't news to these people, but she hoped it wouldn't be too obvious. — Plus her black jeans — cuffed at the ankles.
Amy walked towards the crowd of people. Slowly. There was absolutely no need to rush anything, seeing as the gig was over two hours away. The sheer volume of people stressed her out, and she was afraid she wouldn't be able to get in even though she had a ticket granting her the access she had longed for her whole life. Her mind started to take her away again, and to calm herself, she lit a cigarette and took a long drag.
She glanced around and saw merch spanning years: world tours she wished she had attended, tours she had heard so much about, tours that had taken place when she was much too little and had no idea about the grandness that is The Who. It made her smile.
Even though she wished all the people around her would just disappear, she knew she was among great minds and good people.
A guy with a guitar and a t-shirt from the latest Who world tour suddenly started a sing-along, and soon, about ten other people were singing Pinball Wizard. Amy tried not to get swept away, but seeing she was surrounded by like-minded people and obvious Who-fans, she couldn't help but melt a little and join in the song.
An hour went by, and the number of Marlboro Lights had — due to sheer gig-terror and the fact that she was embarking on an adventure she wouldn't experience again — dropped significantly. The mental stability she desperately tried to obtain by smoking had tipped over and instead of it calming her down, it made her fidgety and nervous; her body stippled with goosebumps. It also added to her apprehensive longing and fizzy expectation that the already large crowd had grown even bigger; she felt less significant the more people around her.
She tried not to look too closely because that would just upset her, but it was as if everyone with a ticket was already here, and that meant game on, and that everyone here had the same agenda and wishes.
A hungry murmur surged through the crowd as a door opened somewhere, and the music that had only been a dull background sound up until now suddenly got crystal clear. Every trained ear in the vicinity knew what it was, and the seriousness of the situation kicked in for every fan there. The song was Love Ain't for Keeping from the album Who's Next — her favorite. Amy's heart started hammering, a mix of excitement and dread.
He is sound-checking right now. My god! This is too overwhelming!
"I hope he plays some oldies tonight," one elderly woman said to the small group of people she was standing with.
To keep from keeling over due to the butterflies in her stomach, Amy cocooned herself mentally, trying her hardest to focus on the potential songs she hoped to hear tonight: hopefully some rare Who-tracks and songs that they usually didn't perform live, but also from Daltrey's solo catalogue. Seeing the small venue and stage, this would be a great opportunity for it. However, the only thing looping in her head was the lyrics from Love Ain't for Keeping. — Man, what a masterpiece of a song!
The herd waiting outside joined in with the music from the club, and several of them started singing aloud. Amy couldn't help but like it. — This was surely a surreal situation. It would be hard — if not impossible — to top this.
She closed her eyes and had a deep breath of clean air. Her body had thankfully returned to normal, and that twitchy, antsy feeling had lessened. Under normal circumstances, this would be the opportune scenario for a beer and a cigarette. Seeing she had no beer right now, only about four cigarettes left, she placed one between her lips. She walked a few feet away from the crowd to have some privacy and pump herself up with good thoughts.
Her eyes slowly scanned the unfamiliar environment and stopped when she noticed a coffee shop in the distance. She hadn't had any coffee in a few hours, and a tall cup of black pick-me-up surely did sound like a sweet melody right now.
She looked over at the crowd, contemplating leaving the festivities for a moment to treat herself, but decided not to. Even if she didn't know anybody there, she still didn't want to stray too far away. Somehow, it felt safe being here.
She had smoked about half of her cigarette when a familiar voice snapped her out of her thinking. The voice was so familiar that at first, it didn't register with her. She dismissed it as another mind-ghost. However, when the voice actually said her name, she spun around; an eerie feeling crept into her. This must be what it feels like to lose your mind.
The voice kept talking, hushed and hurried so as not to arouse any suspicion. "Amy! Hey."
Her eyes kept darting around, desperately trying to assess where the voice — who sounded uncannily like a certain Roger Daltrey, but that would be impossible, because he was inside, sound-checking and preparing for a gig, and if it was his voice, why would he be talking to her? — came from.
"Hello...?" she said out loud, her eyes flicking through the darkness. Desperate to try and find something solid to look at.
"Up here!"
Her eyes automatically glanced upwards, but all they could see was the outline of some sort of balcony or a landing. She frowned in disbelief. Suddenly, everything became clear, so much so that she had to put a hand to shield her eyes as lights poured out when a metal door opened, bathing everything in a sharp light.
Her jaw dropped and her body was once again stippled with goosebumps. However, now it wasn't because of too many cigarettes, and she dropped the one she was smoking on the ground.
The figure on the landing was Roger Daltrey, and he was gesturing for her to come closer.
What is happening?
"Amy, come here."
The scenario was so absurd that she found herself stepping toward him, her knees shaking so hard she had to force her brain to take each step.
What is happening?
As she reached the stairs, she grabbed hold of the handrail and squeezed hard. As much to help her walk straight as to keep her from keeling over.
A hand was extended and she took it, and she was finally allowed to have a good look at the person in question. Her brain fogged over because, yeah, sure, this was Mr Sir, Duke, Lord Daltrey, all right, and for some reason, she had her hand in his.
"Amy, hello."
"Hi?"
He helped her with the last few steps and as she had reached his level, he gave a smile. "Nice shirt."
She looked down at herself.
He gestured with his hand. "We played there. Great gig. Great times."
Of course, she knew The Who had played there. Woodstock was and had always been her dream festival, and whenever it was brought up in conversation, she could have kicked herself for not even being born when it took place.
Some people never got over the disbandment of the Beatles or when Kristin Shepard shot J.R — she had never gotten over Woodstock.
"I know," she heard herself say. Weird, it sounded like she had said it with confidence. "And I wish I had been there. No one would have cheered louder than I would have."
He gave a small laugh. "I am sure."
Okay, so she had managed to get control of her voice to the point where she could communicate with some sort of composure. However, she still had to reel her body in because her legs were shaking hard, and she was scared it would cause her to trip on her face and make an ass out of herself.
"What is happening?" she finally asked out loud, kind of laughing as she said it. "How do you know my name?"
"Oh, don't you worry, my dear," he said. "Tim pointed you out." He placed a hand on her shoulder to usher her inside. "He sent me to get you. He's waiting for you."
Her mind fogged over once more, and she made a face. "Wait? Tim is here?"
"Yes."
"My Tim? Tim Curry?"
"Yes. He's at the bar."
Okay. So Roger Daltrey — her first love — was not only talking to her but also ushering her inside the venue because her boyfriend was somehow also here. Right. This situation was completely typical.
"Follow me, my love," Roger said.
"Okay..."
Amy did as she was told. Her mind raced in line with her heart; she wanted to ask him so many things now that she had him so close; she wanted to know if he had done this for another fan, which songs he would be performing tonight, if he though that she was doing an all right job at the fan department and if she ticked all boxes on how to behave as a Who-fan (she couldn't bear to be construde as an obnoxious, loud fangirl. She wanted his respect) She glanced up at him and found that, to her own surprise, was quite content walking slightly behind him through the long corridor. She smiled. Her mind had time to think about how perfectly English he was by calling her 'my love'. She had learned that it was a very British way of speaking. Tim did it all the time. The only difference between the two was that Tim's came from a place of endearment. She doubted Roger had the same agenda. Even though it was very sweet of him to speak to her that way.
"So, Amy," he said, taking her out of her little bubble. "I gather you're a Who-fan?"
"Oh, yes. Very much so. I have been since I was about five. My dad introduced me to the music. I even named my teddy bear Sally Simpson." She was rambling, but it was hard to stop.
Roger didn't seem to mind, though, and gave a smile. "Isn't that nice. I can tell your dad is a nice lad. Great taste in music." He winked at her and it settled straight into her heart. She was now confident she carried herself with composure.
"Do you live in Las Vegas?" he asked.
"Oh, no. I live in Los Angeles." She gestured with her hand, as if L.A was just outside the door. "So this was very much of a road trip for me," she quipped.
"Los Angeles, that's quite a drive."
"Yeah, well..." She felt bolder now and wanted to confess the truth to him. "I would have driven across the country for an opportunity like this..." Her lips curved upwards.
He gave a little laugh. "I appreciate your commitment, Amy. It's thanks to people like you that we've become the band we are. That has allowed me to do what I do today. So thank you."
His sentiment first struck her cheeks, which grew hotter — then crashed through her ribs, where it tickled her heart. What a lovely thing to say. His words made her feel special and important. Not that she was, really. She was just one of millions of Who-fans throughout the world, and her love was nothing remarkable when it was thrown into the big mix of it all, but right now it felt that way. Right now, she was very much aware of how she wanted to help create a great night for him. To help him understand how important he was.
The music from the other side of the wall grew louder the longer they walked, and before she had time to react, Roger had pushed open a door. "Here we are," he said. The music was even nicer now when it was allowed to surge through without obstacles. They stepped straight into the venue through a door that didn't open on the other side. (So no fans could stalk after whoever was playing through that door.)
Not many lights were on, apart from the bar area located on the opposite side of the stage, which illuminated everything near it, using several strands of twinkling lights hanging from the ceiling, blinking at a slow pace.
Tables and chairs were put in front of the stage, and just like at any little jazz club in the movies, a tiny lamp burned at the centre of every tabletop. Amy couldn't tell whether it always looked like that or if it had been placed there due to the unplugged kind of gig happening tonight.
A handful of people were scattered around the little room, presumably working on getting tonight's gig ready and running.
The music churning from the speakers was turned to a comfortable level. Amy couldn't tell what it was other than that it was catchy, and the decibel level made it easy to have a conversation using just a slightly above-speaking tone.
She didn't need a deep inhale of breath to sustain her and make her realise this was her kind of place; the smells just sort of filled her by their own: smoke, beer, stale sweat and perfume. The only scent not really belonging in the mix was the subtle whiff of cedar coming from the countertop running along the bar. She dragged her fingers over it; it was completely smooth.
"Have a seat, love," Roger said, pulling out a chair for her.
Amy thanked him with a smile as she slipped down on a pedestal bar stool. It was difficult to tell if she had gotten used to this bizarre situation by now or if she was simply too stunned still. One thing was absolutely clear, though, and that was how she acclimated to his pleasant and kind nature and the fact that he made her feel exclusive and appreciated. Not only for taking the time to be there tonight, but also for being a fan of the music.
Wearing a smile, he opened his mouth to say something when his gaze moved to a point behind her. "The man of the hour," he said, nodding his head to someone she hadn't seen yet.
The man of the hour, isn't that you? She turned and saw Tim strolling in their direction. Amy's mouth split into a grin for several reasons. One: Tim was wearing a Roger Daltrey t-shirt she hadn't seen before, and she guessed he had bought it from the merch booth. Two: It was him, and she had missed him. Three: She was eternally grateful to him for making this come true for her and four: Damn, he looked good!
Tim matched her grinning face as he opened his arms. "Surprise!" he said.
"Tim, hi!" Amy beamed as she wrapped her arms around his neck. "What are you doing here?"
"Hey, babe," he said before kissing her. "I've missed you." He slipped down on a chair next to her.
"I've missed you."
He chuckled as he extended his hand. "Roger, good to see you."
"Tim, good to see you again."
The way they talked and behaved with one another, Amy could swear they had been buddies for years.
"Thank you for doing this, Roger," Tim said. "I owe you one."
"Nah, not a problem. Happy to help."
Amy's heart was doing cartwheels in her chest; her two favorite men in the world were at an arm's length.
"Besides, this was great fun. Amy here is lovely."
Okay. Roger Daltrey just called me lovely.
Tim looked over at Amy, who was practically levitating off her chair. "Yes, she is."
He gave a smile.
"I hope you'll enjoy yourself tonight, my love," Roger said.
"Thank you."
He stood in front of her, so relaxed and easy on the eyes. Amy marvelled at how unpretentious he was, even after all the years doing what he was doing. It would be easy to have it all go to your head and be a douche, but not this one. He was this genuine and did not need to put on an act.
"Anyway, I need to head backstage." Roger checked his wristwatch. "I'll see you both later on, yes?"
"Yeah, yeah, sure," Tim said.
Amy nodded along.
"Amy, it was lovely to meet you." Roger offered his hand, and without realising, she took it. Again. Now she was aware of how it felt, though. It was rough but warm, a hand which have held a thousand mics and shaken as many hands. "Take care of this one," he said with a smile, pointing at Tim.
"Oh, absolutely."
They watched him walk off and disappear behind a curtain. That's when Amy turned to Tim, her soft eyes mapping his face for a second or two as her smile got even wider.
"Would it be fair to assume I've got competition?" he quipped.
Amy huffed a loving snort. Sure, Roger Daltrey had been her first love and The Who had been her first "band" and he had been a perfect gentleman tonight, she couldn't wish for anything else. Even without the gig, this would still be one of her greatest moments, but no. There was no competition. Her heart belonged to one man and one man alone: Tim, and he had nothing to worry about.
The corner of her mouth quirked. "No, baby," she said, her fingertips tracing over his cheek. "My heart belongs with you."
By the look on his face, his question wasn't totally serious, but her words made his lips curve into a pleased smile.
"I love you," she said.
He dipped closer. "I love you," he whispered against her lips before pressing a kiss there.
As he leaned back, Amy got a better look at the T-shirt he was sporting. It made her heart dance. Not only was it out of character from his normal day-to-day wear, but it also marked a special, once-in-a-lifetime evening. She was thrilled they would be sharing it together, especially since Tim said he wouldn't be attending and that he had business back home.
"Look at you," she said, a hint of a catcall in her voice.
He puffed up a bit. "You like it?"
"I love it! I want one."
He pointed a thumb over his shoulder. "They are selling merchandise over there."
"Let's check it out," Amy said, sliding from her perch. "Before the doors open and the place will be swarmed."
*
Roughly three hours later, Mr Sir, Duke, Lord Roger Daltrey stepped off stage, visibly ecstatic over how the night had turned out. Amy shared his enthusiasm since he had just treated her to something so magnificent it was hard to put into words. She had been on her feet for the entire last song, clapping and singing with 499 other fans.
Love Ain't for Keeping was the perfect song to cap it off, and she couldn't believe her luck that she got to hear it live.
A pool of happy tears had formed in her eyes; one blink and they would spill. She beamed with elation and ecstasy.
Tim put an arm around her shoulder; no words were necessary right now — he knew what she was feeling. He also knew she needed all the support he could give her to tackle this beautiful, overwhelming experience, and a physical body to lean on was a great place to start.
The roaring, amplified applause and whistles didn't seem to want to die down — an absolute contrast to the unplugged gig — and the place boiled with energy. So palpable you could feel it. Amy blinked and the tears she had been holding on to ran down her flushed cheeks.
All of a sudden, the lord himself stepped out on stage again, and the already loud decibel level increased as a wall of sound was thrown his way. He seemed noticeably taken aback. Amy's skin stippled with goosebumps at the sight of it.
Who knew 500 fans could produce this kind of volume?
With his arms raised in gratitude, Roger waved with a huge smile on his face, then just stood for a few seconds, soaking up the appreciation the fans showered him with, before leaving again. It took several minutes before the applause died down.
The bubble that had been created tonight burst when the music from the speakers came back on, and the room got a different set of lighting — indicating he wasn't coming back on again.
Amy's cheeks were wet with tears on a euphoric face. She looked over at Tim.
"You happy, honey?" he asked, rubbing a hand on her back.
She nodded. "Yes. So very much, yes." She sighed as she wiped her eyes. "I can't believe you did this, baby." She wrapped her arms around his neck with a giggle. "Thank you so much, Tim. You have no idea how much this means to me."
He gave a small laugh as he rose to full height, effectively bringing Amy's feet off the ground, where he wrapped two strong arms around her, as much so as not to let her fall as to show her affection. He pressed his lips to the crook of her neck; she tasted faintly of salt.
"I think I do," he whispered, seeing her shimmering face.
Her smile grew even wider. "Thank you, Tim." She leaned in to kiss him.
"However..." he said when he broke the kiss. "I hope you're not too tired just yet..."
Amy's fantasy started projecting images to her, beginning with Tim, who she believed had something naughty on his mind and that he had booked a hotel room for them or something, and that he wanted to take her there and fuck for the rest of the night. She liked what her mind granted her.
"No, the way I'm feeling now," she purred against his lips. "I can keep going for a long while..."
"Great," he purred back. "Because the night isn't over just yet..."
"It isn't, huh...?"
"Nope." He gave her a chaste kiss. "First, we have somewhere to be..."
Amy's head jerked back, and she held his gaze. "Where...?"
"Oh, I didn't tell you?" he said, his head jerking back also to see her better. His voice had that tone; he was up to something.
"Tell me what, Tim?" She eased herself down on the floor, but kept holding on to him. She had a feeling she needed to. Both of her hands were cupping his elbows.
"We're going backstage." He had a quick look at his wristwatch and felt her grip tighten. "In fact," he continued matter-of-factly. "We're already late." He grabbed hold of her hand and dragged her along, zick-zacking his way through the milling sea of people with her behind him.
Amy was grateful for Tim's strong hand; otherwise, she would have tripped over her own feet as she tried to keep up with him.
As she mumbled something to herself about the absurdity of the situation, she noticed the stalker-proof door opening — the very door that had led her into the room in the first place — by a brawny man with Security written across his T-shirt. She and Tim slipped inside and the door closed behind them with a bang.
Her mind had finally caught up with her heart, and both of them were racing.
Game on.