Part II

By Felton McLaughlin

Have you ever had a close encounter with a celebrity superstar (in this case a rock star) where you wish it had gone a little differently? Sadly, I’ve had several. When it’s someone whose music you know intimately and for whom you have deep respect, it’s a real bummer when you blow your chance to communicate your admiration properly. On the other hand, when it’s someone whose music you enjoy but feel no deeper attachment, those close encounters gone awry can be a source of humor and merriment in your personal library of stories on the cocktail party circuit. The following story is one of those – and feel free to include it in your own library if this rock star’s name ever comes into the conversation at your next gathering of friends.

The rock star of this story is Rod Stewart. “Every Picture Tells a Story” is an all-time favorite and often overlooked for all the other hits on the album of the same name. But for me, the luster faded quite a bit after Rod’s disco detour in the late 70’s. That said, he’s still got a very respectable catalog and a random encounter would have been a welcome opportunity to trade a little witty repartee and shake hands without fawning all over him in an attempt to get an autograph.

As fate would have it, the chance encounter took place about 20 years ago at the rooftop penthouse of the Parker Meridian Hotel in Manhattan. The solarium pool area had been roped off for Rod who was lounging there with an attractive blonde woman and his manager. On the opposite side of the roof was a banquet room where my employer at the time had hosted a lavish business lunch for our biggest customers. Have you ever been to a trade show where all employees are wearing the same outfit? These days, the corporate uniform is usually a bland but tasteful pair of khakis and polo shirt w/ the company logo. Not so back in the pre-dot-com days. Our corporate uniform was a tuxedo topped off with a fire-engine red polyester blazer. We looked like restaurant maitre’d’s trying really hard to stick out from the crowd.

With the lunch over, I walked with some colleagues out to the elevator bank. As you might suspect, Rod and his entourage were already there waiting to enter the same single elevator that served the penthouse. Upon seeing us three ridiculously attired men, Rod immediately averts his gaze and tries his best to ignore us. I’m feverishly wracking my brain to come up with the witty repartee I thought would come so easily, but I’m at a loss to concoct the appropriate excuse for why I could be mistaken for a maitre d’. To my horror, without even uttering a “hello”, one of my colleagues, slowly reaches over to shake Rod’s hand. It was bad enough that he did this in silent slow-motion, but there were a few other socially awkward elements that were working against him. He was a good five feet away from Rod and a few inches shorter. Both these handicaps of height and distance required him to lean quite a bit into the handshake. Hand fully extended, he then began to wait for Rod to kindly respond. Rod wanted nothing to do with him. The outstretched hand hangs….and hangs… and the seconds begin to tick. Finally out of disgust and maybe an ounce of pity, Rod shakes his hand very briefly.

An opening for witty repartee? Not exactly. As my colleague launches into a little chit-chat, whereupon the burly manager nips that effort in the bud. A very thick and heavy silence ensues. If silence can get louder, this became a deafening silence as we all remembered there was only one elevator serving the rooftop. And when the penthouse elevator finally arrives, it’s one of those old-fashioned tiny elevators where the six of us had to crowd into it, inches apart. And yes, silence the entire 30-floor trip down. My grand vision of witty repartee and urbane sophistication had dissolved into utter humiliation. So Rod, if you’re out there reading this, I promise (and so will Mike) that maybe we’ll enjoy a little witty repartee or just a respectable greeting the second time around!

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