Fifteen Minutes of Fame

It seems that everyone searches for fame or notoriety at some point during their life; and many get it, either by being controversial, criminal, or just plain crazy. I never achieved celebrity status, crushing my ego but saving me the cost of hiring a publicist.

Growing up at the monastery, we often had the opportunity to meet the nuns' family members who came to visit on occasion. When I was in my early teens, my mom, knowing my love of music, told me that she had met Sister Antonio's great nephew, who was in a band. The group was playing in Memphis that weekend and he had come to town a couple of days early to visit his great aunt. Mom happened to be coming out of the monastery as he was going in, and she asked if she could help him. He had explained his relation to Sister Antonio and they chatted for a moment, during which he mentioned his band.

Of the twenty-something nuns at the monastery, Sister Antonio was my favorite. In her early seventies, she was soft-spoken and never without a smile on her face. She always seemed glad to see me, calling me "Little Alan" in her strong Portuguese accent. It was hard to picture anyone in her family being forward enough to be in a band.

"He's such a nice young man," Mom continued. "I really enjoyed meeting him."
Unfortunately, she couldn't remember his name or the name of the band, but she remembered that they were playing at the Coliseum. The Mid-South Coliseum was, at the time, the premiere venue for mammoth concerts. Not just any band would be booked for such a huge place. A quick phone call to the Coliseum revealed that Journey would be taking the stage that weekend.

"Mom? The band's name - it's not Journey, is it?" I asked, automatically knowing she would say no.

Celebrity encounters eluded my family instinctively, the way a herd of gazelles gracefully part to avoid a boulder or tree. There was no way a member of Journey was related to one of my favorite nuns. The "nice young man" was probably a road crew member for the band opening for Journey.

"Yes," Mom said. "Journey. I believe that was it."

I began to tingle all over, and a knot formed in my stomach.

"And it seems like the fellow's name was 'Steve' something." I began to go numb. "Parker? Parnell? Perrin?" Mom mused.

"Perry?" I suggested hoarsely. "Was it Steve Perry?"

"Why, yes! That's his name! How did you know?"

As I lay on the kitchen floor, overcome, I explained to Mom that Journey was the biggest and best band of the decade, and that Steve Perry, with his signature raspy tenor voice, was their front man.

As she placed a cold cloth on my forehead, Mom commented, "Well, maybe you can go over and meet him the next time he's here."

A celebrity encounter had been almost within reach, but not close enough to grasp. Not only had it escaped me, it had touched someone close to me who had no idea how close she was to greatness. She couldn't even remember his name, for Pete's sake.

And when would he ever be back? There was no telling. A year? Two years? I could be dead by then.

"Why don't I call and see when they're coming back?" Mom said, picking up the phone.

It was a lovely gesture for her to pretend that she could just call someone and find out Steve Perry's itinerary, but I knew it was just that—a gesture. I stared up at the plywood ceiling, wallowing in self-pity. He was here. If I'd stayed home from school today, I could have met him. To think of how close I came to meeting him made my stomach turn flips.

"Thank you, sister," I heard Mom say. She hung up the phone and, stepping over me, said matter-of-factly, "He's coming back over Saturday around two with his parents and his girlfriend. You can meet him then."

I sat bolt upright, smacking my head on the underside of a kitchen chair, nearly knocking it over.

"He's coming back Saturday?"

"Yes. His parents and his girlfriend are coming to the concert and they wanted to stop by and see Antonio while they were in town."

My heart was pounding so fast and was so loud in my ears that it drowned out the sound of my screaming.

"I can't wait to tell everybody!! Tony and Roger and Kyle will never believe it, and Dana's going to just lose it when I tell her!"

"No, you can't tell anyone," Mom added. "He's very protective of Sister Antonio. She doesn't need people finding out and bothering her or the other sisters. You'll have to keep it under your hat."

I couldn't believe it. Now I was finally going to get to meet him, but I couldn't tell anyone? That's not the way it was supposed to work. A brush with celebrity had two distinct and immutable parts: part one was the actual brush with celebrity. Part two was enjoying your own celebrity status when you told others you had had a brush with celebrity. Part one without part two was like lighting a match to ignite a huge Roman candle only to discover that there's no fuse.

Mom, as if reading my mind, said, "Well, at least you'll get to meet him. Maybe Dad will let you borrow his Polaroid and you can get your picture with him."

A picture? I hadn't thought of that. That would definitely be proof that I had met him. And I wouldn't have to tell anyone where I'd met him; I would just casually mention it as if it were just another day in my life. I would be pressed for details, at which point I would feign aloofness and disinterest. "I don't know, we ran into him at a party or something."

The problem was getting the Polaroid from Dad. Technically, it belonged to the insurance company where he worked. It was supposed to be used only to take pictures of damage to cars and houses for claims purposes. We were never allowed near it, as he was never at a loss when imagining ways in which we could destroy it, leaving him to pay back the insurance company out of his own pocket. Dad would never loan it out to one of us kids for anything, certainly not something as frivolous and vile as having a picture made with someone who played rock and roll—what he was convinced was the devil's music.

Saturday was only two days away—an eternity in terms of waiting to meet my rock hero, but a mere blink in terms of how long it would take to get far enough onto Dad's good side to borrow the camera.

“Please, Dad? Steve Perry is so cool and Journey is so awesome and if I could get my picture with him it would be so … awesome.”

No, that wouldn’t do. I cleared my throat, looked back into the mirror, and tried line after line until I had the perfect one.

I decided not to use colloquialisms or slang , as it could unnecessarily agitate Dad, sending him into a tirade about what was wrong with the world and why rock and roll was responsible. I didn't have that kind of time.

"Please, Dad? I've never met anybody famous before. It would be really nice to have a picture with him."

Eventually—and not without with some much-appreciated help from Mom—Dad agreed to let me borrow the camera only long enough to take pictures with Steve Perry.

"Then it goes right back in the case and on my dresser," he said, pointing a finger at me for emphasis.

I had the camera. I was ready.


"What color is his limousine?" I called to Mom from my bedroom. It was one o'clock on Saturday and I'd been sitting on my bed staring out the window toward the monastery since eleven. What color is his limousine? What a stupid question. If a limousine, any limousine, pulled into the parking lot it would likely be his, regardless of color.

My mom laughed. "He's not in a limousine, he's in a rental car. I think it's a Chrysler. Or maybe an Oldsmobile. It's blue, whatever it is. Come help me fold towels. They're not coming until two, remember?"

Why in the world would Steve Perry drive himself? And in some crappy rental car, no less? Then it hit me. He was keeping a low profile to avoid being accosted by hordes of adoring fans. I imagined him in the parking lot pushing his way through a sea of bodies, all screaming and reaching for him until he made his way into the safety of the monastery's guest quarters, slamming the door behind him and leaning against it, panting.

I would be sitting calmly on the couch, waiting. He'd smile and shake his head. "Crazy people," he'd say, then I would respond with a clever quip and we both would throw our heads back and laugh. We would watch TV, order a pizza, and talk about girls. I would accompany him on the piano while he sang “Open Arms,” “Don't Stop Believin',” and “Who's Cryin' Now.” He would invite me to go on the road with Journey, sending keyboard player Jonathan Cain stomping off in a huff. I would be on stage with Steve and the other guys while the crowd roared and the music thumped in my chest. The lights would be hot and I would have to wipe my face and neck often to keep from sweating on the racks of keyboards that surrounded me.

"Quit wiping your face with that towel and fold it," Mom said, popping the wrinkles out of the one she was folding. I obliged, putting the corners together and folding it end over end.

"So what are you going to say to Steve Perry?" Mom asked as she smoothed a towel before folding it over her hand.

"I'll tell him what a big fan I am and how much I enjoy his music, and I'll ask him what it's like on the road and playing in front of such a huge crowd..." I trailed off. Mom had gotten up to look out the window.

"I believe that's them that just pulled in," Mom said calmly.

I sprang from the couch, ricocheting around the house like a pinball.

"He's here! He's here!" I went into the bathroom and ran a brush through my hair, grabbed the camera from its place on Dad's dresser, and ran to the door.

"Wait just a minute, Alan," Mom said.

"For what?" I asked.

"Give the man a chance to park, son."

"How long do I have to wait?"

"Let them get inside and visit with Antonio for a little bit. Give them about a half hour."

A half hour?! Was she trying to kill me? My head was about to explode as it was. Now I would have to sit. And wait. For another half hour. Thirty minutes. 1,800 seconds. One forty-eighth of a day. And it passed. So. Slowly.

I could see the windows of the guest quarters from my room. I knew that he was in there, sitting and chatting leisurely with his family in that living room. Near the end of my wait I became so anxious that I was actually vibrating like a Chihuahua in a thunderstorm.

Finally, Mom stuck her head in the door to my room and said, "Why don't you go ahead and get the camera and head on ov—" I was at the front door instantly, camera already in hand.

"Don't be a nuisance. And don't stay long!" Mom called after me as I headed across the parking lot.

I wanted to run, but I knew that if I put even a scratch on the camera case, Dad would "knock me so cross-eyed that I could stand in the middle of the week and see both Sundays," one of his more creative warnings.

I stepped into the foyer and up to the turn, ringing the bell and listening to its chime echo through the still halls. I peeked down the short hallway that led to the guest quarters. I couldn't hear any voices, but the louvered doors that were usually closed now stood open. A moment later I heard the familiar sound of footsteps shuffling toward the small room.

Sister Marguerite's face appeared at the turn, and she smiled. "I bet I know why you're here," she said. "You can go ahead into the guest quarters. They're expecting you."

Expecting me? Steve Perry, the coolest guy in the free world, was expecting me.

My stomach churned violently as I walked down the hall. As I got closer I could hear voices laughing and talking. I fluffed my hair one last time and knocked on the door.

"Come in," a female voice called.

Stepping into the room, I saw six people but only one stood out. It was him. Steve Perry. He wore blue jeans and a gray muscle shirt with a large black concentric circle on the front. His hair was jet black and went down to just past his shoulders.

I opened my mouth to speak but nothing would come out. Say something, idiot, I thought, but it was as if someone had erased the chalkboard in my mind. As if sensing this, he stood up and extended his hand.

"Hi, Steve Perry, what's your name?" I shook his hand and I think I said my name but I'm really not sure. I managed to say, "I love your music," to which he smiled and said, "Thanks, I'm glad you enjoy it." Then, gesturing to the people around him, he said, "This is my mom, my dad, and my girlfriend, Sherrie." (The song Oh, Sherrie would not be released until three years later). The other two people in the room I already knew. Sister Antonio and Sister Jude.

Sister Antonio, who was seated on the couch, reached her arms up toward me, my cue to step into them for a hug. She gave the best hugs. Sister Jude was in her early thirties and was more like an older sister to me. We were buddies, always cracking jokes and giggling at things we found funny. She was also a fan of Journey, and, as I later learned, regularly borrowed their albums from the library.

His parents asked about his tour schedule, so for a few moments he chatted about where Journey was headed after Memphis. He ticked off cities on his fingers, looking up as if the schedule were written on the ceiling. "Mobile, then Baton Rouge, then Little Rock, then two shows in Houston, then Dallas, then ... I don't remember after that," he said with a laugh.

Noticing my camera case, he said to me and Sister Jude, "Would you guys like to get in a picture?" I nodded, still unable to form a lucid sentence.

Sister Jude, never one to be shy, hopped up from her perch on the arm of the couch and plopped down on the arm of the chair he was sitting in. Turning to face him, she laughed and said, "This is my good side." Everyone laughed, and gesturing for me to join them, Steve's mom said, "Why don't I take one of the three of you?" I sat on the other arm of the chair and she put the camera to her face and said, "Smile!" The flash popped and the camera whirred, spitting out a blank film card with the familiar milky green square.

As it developed, she said, "Let's do one more so you each have one." We assumed our poses and smiles again, but the flash didn't fire the second time. It turns out that the flash bar on top had only one bulb left, and we had just used it. The resulting photo was just a blur of dark, unrecognizable figures. I wouldn't let my disappointment show, but Sister Jude must have known.

Handing me the first photo, she said, "Swap with me. You take this one." Sensing my hesitance to take the one good picture, the one that she knew that I knew she wanted, she added, "Hang onto it for a while and you can give it back to me later, ok?"

As I was putting the camera back in its case, Steve said, "Alan, I need you to do me a favor. I need you to keep this to yourself. My aunt is very old and she doesn't need people disturbing her. Know what I mean?"

I nodded. "I won't tell anyone," I said. "I don't want anyone to disturb her either."

He smiled and patted me on the shoulder. "Thank you. I appreciate it," he said.

I slung the camera case over my shoulder and said, "It was really nice meeting you."

He shook my hand and said, "Very nice meeting you too, Alan."

I said my goodbyes to the others, hugging Sister Antonio again. I wouldn't let anyone bother her. I swore to myself that I would keep my promise. And I did.

A few years later, Sister Jude was diagnosed with end-stage cancer. She never lost her wit and spark, even in her final days. She passed away one night as we all slept. I tried to be sad and cry at the loss of the nun who, at the time, was my best friend, but she was always so fearless about death that I couldn't make the tears come.

As Dad and I prepared her grave, I pulled out the now-faded photograph of her and me with Steve Perry on that Saturday in October. I had promised to give the photo back someday. I would keep that promise.

Opening the casket, I tucked the photo beneath her cool hands, then lowered the lid, closing it with a click that echoed in the quietness of the crypt. We rolled the casket into its slot and began a task we had done so many times before, sealing the grave.

Sister Antonio died just a few years later. Again, it was like losing a family member. I remember seeing an enormous arrangement of red roses at her funeral. It was so massive—ten feet across and nearly seven feet tall—that the florists had to deliver it and bring it in a piece at a time and then assemble it.

Many people asked who could afford to send such a huge arrangement. Those of us who knew just said that it was from her great nephew, who was in a band.