A Kiss and a Cuddle (2 page)

I
secretly peered out from behind the curtain to scan the crowd.  There were five
minutes left until I went on stage to perform, and I wanted to size up the
audience.  I could see Derek up front and ready to cheer me on.  He was always
there at all of my shows, and it was comforting to see his smiling face at the front. 
There must have been over a hundred people in the dimly lit lounge, and many
people had cameras and notebooks.  I figured that those people must be reporters,
waiting to discover me and make me an international success!
 
The
thought sent a chill through my body, and I forced myself to step away from the
curtain and focus on my pre-game routine. 

I
breathed in and out, and thought about the big field behind my childhood home
in Texas.  Daydreaming about that park always calmed me down, especially before
my big performances.  I pictured the flowing grass, the effervescent trees, and
the ethereal clouds.  I remembered being four or five years old, running through
the park, laughing with my mom, and making myself a princess tiara out of
dandelions.  We would sing our favorite songs while lying in the grass, and she
called me her sweet singing princess.  Even at that young age, my favorite
singers were Elton John, David Bowie, and Mick Jagger.  I remember performing
in front of my music classes in elementary school, and I would always sing
bizarre songs like David Bowie’s ‘Kooks’ or Elton John’s ‘Bad Side of the
Moon’.  Songs that no other elementary students knew, and I was sure my
classmates and teachers thought I was a strange little girl indeed.  My mother
raised me on real rock and roll music.  There was no ‘Old MacDonald Had a Farm’
for me.  Back then, I was such a happy, carefree little girl.  And now, I was
all grown up and ready to entertain hundreds of people, without a magical
dandelion tiara.  This was it, Rose.  I had been waiting for this moment for
all of my life.  I could do it!

Reggie
Murphy squeezed past me backstage and walked towards the curtain.  He whispered,
“Your eyebrows are looking fierce, girl”.

“Ohh,
thank you,” I laughed and awkwardly stroked my eyebrows.  Was this guy for
real?  An eyebrow fetish?

Reggie
gave me the thumbs up to gesture that we were ready to start the show.  I gave
him the head nod, and he stepped through an opening in the curtains to walk on
stage.  I could hear the roar of the crowd soften to a hum as they watched the
presenter step towards the microphone.

“Hello,
Denver!  How is everybody doing tonight?” Reggie yelled at the crowd, and they
cheered out in a unison response.  I could feel my palms getting sweaty, and I
tried to breathe slowly.

“I
saaaaid, how is everybody doing tonight?” Reggie said again, egging the crowd
on for more.  The crowd’s second cheer was shockingly louder and made my heart
beat faster.

“That’s
more like it….” Reggie chuckled.  “Now I know this little lady who lives in
Denver and is ready to give you a sneak preview of her new album tonight.”  A
few people whistled and called out in the crowd. 

Reggie
put on his most climactic presenter voice and boomed, “Please give your warmest
welcome and put your hands together for…. Rose……West!” 

I
walked out on stage to be blinded by the flashing lights and deafened by the
crowd’s cheers.  I grabbed my guitar off the stand and walked towards the
microphone.  Once I was on stage, I forgot about my sweaty palms and fast
beating heart.  I was born to perform, and I was going to give the audience all
of me during my show.  “Hello, Denver!  Thank you so much for coming tonight. 
Here’s a little song that I call ‘In Your Eyes.’ ”

I
began strumming the guitar chords, and I could see heads in the crowds bobbing
along.  They liked it!  I prepared myself to hit the first high note of the
song.  At the end of the chord progression, I paused briefly before I started
the verse and let my voice sing out, “
Oooooh, I can see the Christmas lights
reflected in your eyes…
”

I
closed my eyes so I could feel the words erupting from my soul, the melody
coursing through my veins, and the rhythm surging within my body.  Everything
in that very moment felt right.  As I neared the chorus, I opened my eyes to
tell the audience to clap along, when I noticed that I was singing to the backs
of everyone’s heads.  Why was everyone turned around?  Was there a new trend
for watching concerts backwards?  Maybe this was a practical joke?
 
I
continued to sing, albeit very perplexed.  I could see a small group of people
moving through the crowd.  Cameras were flashing everywhere, which lit up a
tall boyish figure with tousled hair and a cheeky grin. 

“America,
I have arrived!” the boy shouted in a posh accent, as he was pushed by his
entourage across the room into a private roped-off area.  It was hate at first
sight.

Of
all nights, of all places, this pompous man-child had to show up here to ruin
my big night?  The crowd dissipated from the stage and followed Rex towards the
roped-off VIP area of the lounge.  Apparently they preferred to watch a boy
sitting on a couch with two balding bodyguards instead of me putting on the
show of a lifetime.  In a stunning lace dress, I might add.  All reporters and
journalists eagerly turned to capture the heir.  Sitting on a couch. 

My
heart dropped.  My stomach was in knots.  The image of seeing the audience turn
around and walk away from my performance would stay with me for a lifetime. 
And it hurt.  But I continued to play my songs to an empty lounge, except for
Derek, who continued to watch and clap along, almost too eagerly.  I hid my
pain with a weak smile and sang loudly so my voice would not quiver.  The set
seemed to drag on, and I was almost embarrassed to continue to play to a
disinterested crowd.  It was like Rex’s arrival was the real performance, and I
was some lame girl trying to steal his show.  I felt like yelling, “This is my
show!  He is the one stealing
my
show!” I was never big into
competition, and I wasn’t about to compete with a multimillion dollar heir for
the spotlight, so I quickly and apologetically finished my set early by cutting
a few songs short.  There went my big break.  You won, Rex
.

When
I finished my last song, I received a few lonely claps from within the lounge,
presumably from Derek, before I went backstage in defeat.  I walked silently to
my dressing room.  I passed Reggie in the hallway, but couldn’t bear to make
eye contact with him.  I was not in the mood.  And he could tell that.  I just wanted
to get out of there, go home, and get into my bed.  Then everything would be
better.

I
sat down in front of my mirror, and rubbed my hands over my face.  My makeup
was smudged, but it didn’t matter now.  Not much mattered now.  I looked at my
reflection and could see the tears pooling in my eyes.  I tried to stop myself
to wait until I was home before the tears started, but there was no stopping
it.  The disappointment and embarrassment was too much, and soon my eyes were red
as hot tears spilled over, making my mascara run like black pathways down my
cheeks.  I finally gave in and let my face fall into my hands when someone
knocked aggressively on the door.

“I’m
coming, I’m coming…” I managed to say, while quickly wiping my eyes and
mascara.  My performance may have been a complete mess, but I didn’t want
anyone to think I was.  I opened the door to see a tall, solid man with a bald
head and a black jacket. 

“Miss
Rose, yes?” the man asked me, revealing a strong British accent.  Without
allowing me to answer, he pushed a note towards me and regally breathed, “From
His Royal Heir, Miss.”

Bewildered,
I grasped the note and opened it to read, “
Miss Rose, Your singing is
mesmerizing.  I must say, you stole my heart tonight.  Can I have it back,
please?  Rex xxx”

I
gasped, crumpled up the note, and threw it back at the man.  The note hit his
black jacket and fell straight to the ground.  The lightness of the paper made
it surprisingly undramatic, which was not my intention.  “He makes you call him
a
royal
heir?  Is that even allowed?  This is ridiculous.  He had the
attention of the whole lounge tonight, he doesn’t get my attention too.  Who
does he think he is?”  I was so upset that my voice cracked.

“Well,
a famous, very wealthy man, I suppose, Miss,” the man replied in a snooty
manner and turned to walk away.

“Well…
well… I don’t care!”  I shouted and slammed the door.  That was a great
comeback, Rose.  I don’t care?  So clever.
 
I was obviously so furious
that I couldn’t think anymore.  I just needed to get home and get the night
over with.

I
finally plopped my head on my pillow and pulled my white, fluffy duvet up to my
face.  My head was spinning with thoughts.  Mostly angry thoughts.  I used to
think that I was a fortunate person who had good luck.  I always tried to
spread good karma by smiling at strangers, giving spare change to the homeless,
and being a caring listener for those in need.  And usually, this good karma
served me well.  Why did I deserve to have my big gig ruined by that arrogant
twit?  Was this a sign that I was not meant to be a singer?  Did I not deserve
it after all?

I
thought about the series of events that had led me to my current place in life
as an aspiring singer in Denver, Colorado.  I had enjoyed singing as a little
girl, but there was a turning point, when my father left, when I let music
completely envelop my life.  Not in a studious way; I didn’t know how to read
sheet music, nor could I tell you the difference between a treble clef and a
bass clef if I wanted to, but in a natural way.  My mom had bought me a
cassette player with headphones when I was about three years old, and I would
listen to it constantly.  I put them on when I was playing with toys, when I
was outside, when I wanted to daydream, and before I fell asleep at night.  The
songs of my mom’s favorite cassettes from the 60’s and 70’s played endlessly,
and of course, I would sing along.

My
mom would sing along as well, and we would have a great time together.  She didn’t
realize the extent of my singing talent until she invited friends over to the
house, and they would comment on my singing voice.  “That girl has a knack for
singing.  You had better put her into singing lessons!” they would say. 
Unfortunately, my mom didn’t have the money or the time to put me in singing
lessons, since she had to work full-time to support the two of us.  But as fate
would have it, I didn’t need singing lessons.  When I would perform songs at my
school and for talent shows, the music teachers would proclaim that I had a
“raw, God-given talent” and that I sang with “perfect singing technique.”  I
had no idea of the technicalities behind it, but I had a three octave voice
range and could transition from my chest voice, to my head voice, to falsetto
in a way they said was “as smooth as honey”, and I was only in elementary
school.

Throughout
the rest of my student life, I joined the choir, sang at music competitions,
and performed in musicals to continue to hone my art-form.  At any moment of
the school day, I would be listening to music through my headphones.  I was a
nice girl, but I was also a shy girl, and music was also my way of coping with
not having many friends.  I was never loud or flirty enough to be popular.  I
wasn’t enough of a genius to hang with the nerdy crowd.  And I definitely
wasn’t athletic enough to be a jock.  But I did have my music.  And I had a
small circle of friends from choir and theatre.  Just enough friends so that I
never had to sit alone at the lunch tables, but I was still shy, and there
wasn’t anybody I really connected to.  Not the way I could connect with Mick
Jagger from The Rolling Stones or Roger Daltrey from The Who.

During
the summer after high school graduation, I won a singing competition in
Houston, Texas.  My mom had driven me from San Antonio to watch me perform.  She
was always there to watch my performances to support me as I grew up.  No
matter what.  When she was younger, she was a talented ballet dancer with
offers to attend Juilliard in New York after high school.  Dancing was her
dream, and it was all she knew.  She explained to me later that she had
received an even greater gift during the last semester of high school, which
was becoming pregnant with “a lovely baby girl named Rose”.  She and my father
married that summer, and I was born the next February.  She always explained it
to me with the most loving eyes, and even though she told me I was the best
thing that ever happened to her, I wondered if she ever thought of how
different her life would be if she had attended Juilliard.  I was always
excited for her to watch me perform, and I felt that when I performed well and
won competitions, it was like she was winning too.  Somehow, my musical success
was for the both of us.  More than anything in the world, I wanted to make her
proud. 

The
winner of Houston competition would receive a month of “Singer Songwriter Music
Camp” in Boulder, Colorado.  I didn’t know much about Colorado, as I had never
visited that state before, but I had heard that Boulder was a very eccentric
place.  There were artists, musicians, and free spirits everywhere.  And that
excited me.

I
told my mom that I would be singing one of the songs from our high school
musical for the Houston competition, but secretly, I wanted to surprise her
with her favorite song, “Tiny Dancer” by Elton John.  Whenever that song would
play when I was growing up, my mom would be whisked away to another world,
where she was a young ballet dancer, twirling and being lifted into the air,
with her long hair pulled back into a meticulous bun, her trusty well-worn
shoes, and her flowing skirt.  She sang along to the song with every part of
her mind, body, and soul.  Sometimes, I would notice her red-rimmed eyes or a
single tear run down her cheek at the end of the song, and I knew.  I knew that
she had given up her passion to have me, and I was going to do everything I
could to let her know that I appreciated that.

As
soon as the delicate piano introduction of “Tiny Dancer” began to play at the
competition, I looked at my mom in the crowd.  At first, she looked confused,
and when she saw that I was perfectly calm and smiling, she knew that I had
chosen this song for her.  I sang to her in the crowd, and she sang back to
me.  When I started singing the words, “
Hold me closer, tiny dancer.  Count
the headlights on the highway.  Lay me down in sheets of linen. You had a busy
day today
,” we were both singing with every part of our minds, bodies, and
souls.  The words of this simple love song told the story of my mom’s passion
for dancing, her lost career, her new baby, and new life as a mom.  By the end
of the song, we were both tearing up.  It was such a powerful performance that
most of the crowd and judges were misty-eyed too.  All three of the judges gave
me a perfect ten score, and in the end, I won the contest.  But most
importantly, I made my mom proud.

After
winning that competition, my singing and song writing seemed to take off.  I
attended the camp in Boulder, Colorado and learned about how to make a career
out of singing.  They taught me about singing at open mic nights, doing radio
interviews for promotion, and they praised Denver’s music scene that supported
numerous artists with no shortage of places to play, record, and perform.  When
they took us on a field trip to see the Red Rock Amphitheatre, it was love at
first sight.  I knew I wanted to play there one day.  I had a strange feeling
come over me, and I could feel that this was the right move.  The occurrences
and coincidences in my mother’s life and my life had led me to this place in
Colorado, and it seemed serendipitous.  I felt like I could make it big in
Denver.  I decided to wholeheartedly pursue my singing career for both me and
my mom. 

I
trusted my instincts and moved to Denver during the fall.  Of course, I had no
money and no family there, but I picked up a couple of jobs waiting tables at
restaurants downtown.  On my nights off, I would seek out open mic nights, and
sometimes, I would just bring my guitar down to Sixteenth Street and play for
people walking by.  It seemed as though my instincts were right, because I was
quickly picked up by a major record label in the city.  A tall, handsome
gentleman by the name of Richard Holloway passed me his card after an open mic
session at Mercury Café one night.  He took me under his wing, and I was
grateful that someone cared and wanted to mentor me.  I signed with his record
label, and we began recording in the studio almost immediately.  Within a year,
I had three hits that made it into America’s Top 40, but they peaked around the
25
^th
spot.  It was still a big enough success for me to perform at
Red Rocks, gather a large fan base in Denver and throughout the nation, buy
myself a condo, and invest a rather large nest egg that earned enough interest
to support myself.

Richard
was a highly influential person in my life, and I noticed that he was pushing
me in a different direction with my music.  He was trying to convince me that
in order to reach the Top 10, I needed to popularize my music and sexualize my
image.  I had no intentions of changing my music into the average mediocre pop
song, and I certainly wasn’t about to start twerking on stage.  He was not
happy to hear this and pushed the issue.  I threatened to leave the label, and
Richard let me walk.  It was unfortunate that I no longer had his guidance, but
by dipping into my nest egg, I was finally able to record and produce my own
songs and craft my own image independently.  I was certain that this album
would be my breakthrough album.  I kept my heartfelt lyrics about real life, my
powerful and raw vocals, and my lacy dresses and cowgirl boots.

Everything
had come together perfectly in synchronicity to lead me to my gig last night. 
It was my big moment.  So why, suddenly, was my hard-earned dream snatched away
by such a spoiled rotten man?  He was born into a rich family and had probably
never done a day’s work in his life.  I had worked my whole life for that gig. 
I slowly started to drift asleep while still questioning the fate of the night. 
There was nothing synchronous or serendipitous about Rex barging into the
lounge.  It was just plain bad luck.