Yankee Doodle Dixie (16 page)

Once at the front door, I pull out our comp tickets and hand them, along with our backstage passes, to the girls. We all follow Virginia’s lead and pin our passes to our shirts. The ticket taker, an older man with a bow tie, smiles when we hand him our tickets and sees our passes. He’s been working here as long as I’ve been patronizing this theater. “Enjoy,” he says and shoots us his best Polident smile.

“Oh we will,” Virginia says, and prances inside with her jacket over her arm, proudly flaunting her backstage pass on her voluminous chest.

If you ask me, the Orpheum, originally built as an opera house in the Roaring Twenties, is the prettiest theater in the South. The lobby, opulently decorated with tasseled brocade red draperies, enormous crystal chandeliers, and gilded moldings, has a grand staircase that leads to the mezzanine. I couldn’t count the number of times I’ve been here to see Broadway shows, ballets, and concerts if I tried. These red velvet seats have been witness to childhood memories like Jameson class trips to the opera, my one and only bobbed hairdo (which made me look more like a coiffed French poodle than a preteenager), and even summer dates with Baker to see old movies on the big screen.

Tonight the lobby is filled with people our age and older. Not too many twenty-somethings, let’s put it that way. Virgy and I each order a chardonnay and Alice and Mary Jule order beer. While glancing around the lobby I notice another girl wearing a backstage pass but she and her date are wearing theirs on the thighs of their blue jeans. “Look how that girl is wearing her pass,” I say to the rest. “Should we move ours down to our legs?”

“NO. Leave it right where it is. He’ll have to look at your bosoms.”

“
Virginia
. I don’t want him to do that.”

“Of course you do,” Alice says. “They’re one of your best features.”

“Suppose he’s
married
?” I say, and use my fingers to indicate little quote marks for the word “married.”

“Suppose he’s not,” says Mary Jule, looking me straight in the eyes with a cocked brow.

Inside the theater, more gilded molding and a tremendous red velvet curtain hanging in the wings enhance the proscenium. There are 2,500 seats in the Orpheum and several boxes on both the mezzanine and the balcony. I’ve always dreamed of getting to sit in one of those boxes for a concert or a play. The mighty Wurlitzer pipe organ, played before each movie in the summer, usually sits majestically on a hydraulic lift, just to the left side of the orchestra pit. Tonight it’s in its cradle, tucked safely away under the stage.

After handing our tickets to an usher, we follow her down the center aisle. I can’t help but wonder if she’s even heard of Liam White. I’m guessing she must be at least seventy. Alice, who always walks like she’s on one of those moving sidewalks, is blazing down the aisle when someone reaches out and touches her on the leg. She stops and leans down toward the seat. The closer I get, a very familiar profile comes into view. Tootie Shotwell, dear lord almighty, is blabbing away to Alice. I stop, dead in my tracks, and whisper to Virgy, “I’m turning around. I’ll just walk down that other aisle.” I point across the theater.

“And deprive her of seeing your backstage pass? You are not.”

She has a point.

Mary Jule, Virginia, and I pause long enough to wave at Tootie (and slightly push out our chests so that she sees our passes) before continuing behind the lady usher. Closer and closer, we creep to the front of the stage. It’s got to be a mistake, I’m thinking, when she leads us past the front row and into the orchestra pit, which has been raised from the bottom and is now level with the rest of the seats. Virginia goes in first, followed by Mary Jule, then me, and finally Alice. Once we’re settled into our row, after exchanging titillating looks, Alice leans forward and asks the couple in front of us about our seating.

“They open the orchestra pit when the show is otherwise sold out. It’s a way to fit in more people. Kind of cool, huh?” the lady says.

I’ll say. So here we are. The four luckiest girls in town. Fourth row, center seats. Free seats, no less, right up under Liam’s nose.

Mary Jule holds up her beer. “To Leelee. The best excuse for a new outfit I’ve ever had.” I’m not really the Talbots type, but on Mary Jule, the new brown and pink wraparound looks adorable.

The concert begins seconds later, with a roar from the crowd. Liam White strolls out on stage and the audience goes berserk. No introduction. No warning. No musicians who walk out first and take their places behind their instruments. Just Liam. He’s got to be forty-five, I’m thinking, even though he doesn’t have a gray hair on his head. He’s so close I can see his dark chest hair poking out of the top button on his flannel shirt.

“That’s exactly what he was wearing today at the radio station,” I yell to my friends over the applause, as the crowd rises to their feet.

Virginia reaches down to her purse and pulls out a pair of binoculars. She’s bending them to fit her face when I lean over Mary Jule and pull on Virgy’s blouse. “What are you doing with binoculars?” I have to keep yelling over the screams. “We’re practically on top of him.”

“No wedding ring,” she yells back, and tries handing them over to me.

“I don’t need those. I can plainly see his ring finger,” I scream back over the roar of 2,496 other ticket holders.

She says something else but I can hardly hear her.

“Huh?”

“I said, wouldn’t you rather I made sure?” Virginia yells back.

I’m cupping my hand over my mouth and talking very loudly. “This is not about me going out with him. It’s about enjoying the show and getting to meet a rock star that we’ve loved for years.”

Virgy shrugs her shoulders.

When the applause dies down Alice asks me why Virginia was using binoculars.

“She was looking to see if he’s wearing a dang wedding ring,” I say, with exasperation at my lovingly relentless friend.

“Rock stars don’t even wear wedding rings,” she says with a shrug.

Three guitars circle a stool in the middle of the stage. Liam picks up the guitar nearest him from its stand and strums a few chords. We’re so close that as he turns the knobs on the side, I can read the word “Taylor” on the tip of the guitar head. He chats freely with the crowd, completely comfortable alone on the stage. “How’s everybody doing tonight?” he says with one foot on the floor and the other resting on the footrest of the stool.

People scream and whistle.

“Happy to be here in Memphis,” he says, before belting out the first line of one of my favorite songs. “I know a young lady who lives down the hill.” Once again the crowd goes wild. “Please Be Mine” is one of the biggest hits of his career. Virginia, Alice, Mary Jule, and I sing along with him to every word, as does everyone else in the audience.

For the first three songs Liam enchants, acoustic only, alternating between the three guitars circled around him. Finally he puts down the third guitar and stands to welcome his bandmates onto the stage. They all take places behind their instruments. The guitar player sure is cute, I’m thinking. So is the saxophonist. There’s even a girl in his band—the keyboard player.

Our preshow cocktail hour has brought out the best in every one of us. Mary Jule thinks she’s Jennifer Beals in
Flashdance
all of a sudden and Virginia is singing so loudly, people are staring at the poor thing. I’d never tell her to her face, but she sings off key worse than Alfalfa from
The Little Rascals
. Alice’s wine keeps sloshing over the top of her cup as she sways to Liam’s melodies. As for me, I can’t take my eyes off the handsome singer who personally invited me to his concert.

Two songs later Liam lifts the guitar strap off his neck. I see him notice someone in my direction and smile, followed by a wave. I turn around behind me to see whom he’s waving at, as does everyone else in the first three rows.

A lobster claw reaches over and pinches a chunk out of my arm. “He’s waving at you, Fiery. He is waving at YOU!” Mary Jule nearly deafens my eardrum with a high-pitched squeal in my ear.

I whip my head back around. “No way.” Alice grabs my knee.

When he continues staring straight at me I slightly lean into Mary Jule. “Oh my gosh, I think he might be.” Shyly, I wave back. Just in case.

Fifteen minutes later, the guy sitting next to Alice taps me on the shoulder from behind and points toward the center aisle. I turn my head in that direction and as God as my witness, Edward Maxwell and family are standing in a single-file line. He’s beckoning me out of my seat. Virgy and Mary Jule are so busy dancing they don’t even notice. I whisper in Alice’s ear, “Oh crap. There’s Edward.”

After a quick glance toward the center, she mouths two words. “You’re. Lying.”

“Excuse me, excuse me,” I say to four people who all have to get up and move into the aisle so I can pass around them.

“I’m switching seats with you,” Edward simply says, once I’m in front of him and hands me his ticket stubs.

What am I suppose to say to that?
No, I refuse? Over my dead body? We like our own seats, thank you very much?
I have no choice but to turn back around, ask the same four people to please move out to the aisle, yet again, so I can grab my purse and my best friends and leave our orchestra pit fourth-row seats.

Three minutes later, we’re seated back in row R.

Alice Garrott is fit to be tied. She taps me on the shoulder and screams over the music. “What a jerk!” I just shake my head. There’s no point in my making a comment. Besides, I’ve already told them every detail about my bombastic bully of a boss.

Liam White plays for a solid two hours. When he returns for a third encore, every single person is on their feet hollering for him to continue. “‘My Turn,’” someone yells. “‘Turn It Up,’” another person calls from the audience.

His final song, a version of “Heartbreak Hotel,” sends the crowd home happy. While on Elvis’s turf, many a singer feels the need to pay homage.

When Liam does leave the stage for the final time the house lights go up and most in attendance head out the exit doors to our right. I have no earthly idea where the backstage entrance is located so I flag down another elderly usher. “Excuse me, please,” I say, “do you happen to know where we’re suppose to go with these passes?” I point to my chest.

She throws her thumb over her right shoulder and turns her head. “The far right of the stage. See those folks?”

I glance around.

“They’re all doing the same thing. They want to meet Mr. Liam White, too. Might as well get in line.”

The four of us move to the back of the long line, ironically right behind the grand-prize winners from the radio. Kathy Warren recognizes me and after introducing her to my friends the six of us can’t stop chatting about the phenomenal concert. I’m right in the middle of telling Kathy the story of meeting Liam at the station when I spot Edward. He and his wife and two kids are at the very front of the line. He must have left his fantastic seats early to ensure his spot. Edward seems very peeved that he has to wait to see Liam like the rest of us (I can tell by the way he’s shaking his head while talking to the head usher) but he’s not given any preferential treatment whatsoever.

When we’re all finally escorted back, almost everyone stops to admire the backstage area. Signatures from stars who have performed at the Orpheum are all over the place. Logos of Broadway shows have been meticulously etched on the walls and cast members have signed their names all around them.
Les Misérables, The King and I, Phantom, Rent, Cats,
they’ve all been here. Eddie Murphy, Carol Channing, Hal Holbrook, Cary Grant, Mickey Rooney, Stevie Ray Vaughan, Jackson Browne, Michael McDonald, B.B. King, Christopher Cross, Jay Leno, everywhere I look there’s an autograph from another one of my favorites. Still firmly planted in the front of the line, Edward and family never bother moving around the room to admire the artistry.

Deke, the guy who had been with Liam earlier, appears at the head of the line and leads everyone into a large green room where he explains that Mr. White will arrive shortly. A laminate hangs around his neck, designating his authority. He glances in our direction but doesn’t say hello.

Finally, Liam moseys in. I notice right away that he’s changed his shirt. Edward runs right up to him and appears to be introducing his family. Liam shakes hands with Edward’s wife and two kids but I can tell by the way he’s looking around the room that he’s not exactly thrilled to see them. I can’t help but wonder if he noticed Edward exchanging seats with us.

“There’s
ole Eduardo,
” Virginia says, speaking softly, as if Edward might hear her from across the room. “The first one to talk to Liam White.”

“Has he no shame?” I say. “He’s the one telling me not to hound the stars.”

“He’s a joke,” she says.

“The other day he asked Johnny Dial if Aruba was part of Spain.”

“He did not,” Mary Jule says.

“Honestly, that’s what he said,” I tell her.

“Maybe you should apply for his job,” Alice says.

“Never going to happen. It’s a man’s world among program directors. But you can’t help but wonder how he got the job in the first place.”

Liam continues to work his way down the meet-and-greet line, signing autographs and posing for pictures. Every once in a while he scans the crowd.

“Wonder if he’s looking for you, Fiery?” Virginia says.

“Nooo,” I say. “What time is it anyway?”

Mary Jule glances at her gold Ebel watch. “Eleven thirty.”

“Is everyone good to stay?” I ask.

“Al’s probably expecting me by midnight,” Mary Jule says.

“Then you need to tell him to come get you. We’re not leaving until we meet Liam,” Alice says, indignantly.

“Oh Alice, I’m sure we’ll be home close to midnight. Look, he’s almost to us,” I say.

When there are only four more people in front of us, Edward strolls up, never mentioning the seat exchange. “Enjoy the concert?” he asks me.

“Oh my goodness, yes,” I tell him.

“He didn’t play ‘Shaking All Over.’ Disappointing,” he says.