Yes, this is the story I was talking about. I very much hope you like it, and if so, leave a comment or send me an email. I would really love you for that!
Oh, and all the english and american guys: Please, please correct any mistakes!! I tried to maintain the expressions I used in the original version, so maybe there are a few strange words you would never use in that context, in this case, please tell me. Thanks!
Now, enjoy. Would be perfect in a teenage mag, wouldn't it? ;)
Since 9 a.m. I am painfully saying goodbye to my back. Volunteer at a rock festival- a fantastic job for a student like me, but that my part would be the one of the pack animal- I actually didn’t expect that. I moan and groan and carry around loads of peculiar devices, while every ten minutes there appears a fat guy with a walrus moustache and barks at me. And then I go and play ants again.
“Well, now this crate here, it has to be in passage C,” says my colleague, who is also wiping sweat from his forehead, “then we’ll treat ourselves to a break, I suggest.” I don’t have any objections to this and have a look at the crate in front of me- massive and black. “And what’s that supposed to be?” I ask. “It shouldn’t make any difference to you, mademoiselle, you’re here to pitch in, not to philosophize!” Aha. Moustache-time. “That thing hasn’t got handles,” I say. “So what, shall I conjure them up for you?! This is work, not a party! You get paid for it!” The fat guy continues scolding. “And at 7 p.m. everything is to be tiptop, got it?” Oh really, I think, tell me more. Share your wisdom with me, fatso. My colleague gives me a ‘hold out!’ look; we grab the indefinable box at its corners, as far as it’s possible, and slowly move towards the exit. The unidentified, unfortunately not flying object is unbelievably heavy and we, the pack donkeys, wheeze and groan, my back screams silently and I roughly calculate whether my monthly budget allows a few hours of Thai massage. Then three things happen at once: the crate slips out of my sweaty fingers, hits my feet with a muffled sound and I yelp, the fat guy starts shouting and in the doorway there appears my greatest rock idol and looks around.
The capacity of my diversely branched brain allows three thoughts at once: “Bloody hell, my feet!!!”, “OH MY GOD, that’s really HIM!!” and “Right now, I am bathing in sweat, whimpering like a dog and wearing an ugly shirt with ‘Volunteer’ on it. And HE is standing there.”
I ignore fatso; my colleague hasn’t yet seen my idol standing in the doorway and gets something like a large skateboard from the side. “That’s more humanely, I think,” he says, and together we lift the box up. I am constantly staring at the guy in the doorway. My face is probably even redder than before and somewhere in the area around my stomach a little firework show is going on. We start rolling. Now or never, I think, and while he steps aside to let us pass I give him my brightest smile and start babbling: “Hi! Um, don’t be surprised, um, I’m one of your biggest fans, but if I don’t move on with this thing here, they’ll stone me, so please, wait a minute, I’ll be back immediately!” Then I’m in the passage without even having waited for his answer. My fellow sufferer is gazing at me- obviously the just right now realized who actually has been polite and let us pass by- and I wish I could multiply myself by two to kick my own butt. What the heck was that, I think, grinding my teeth, as if he didn’t have anything better to do than to wait for every passing groupie, just because they are busy at the moment! Oh dude, where’s your famous creativity when you need it?!
At least, stopping by and just taking a photo with the mobile, not even the walrus guy could have complained about that! Ah, damn, damn, damn! I am more and more disappointed with every step, which seems to be skilfully visualized by my physiognomy. The other donkey is grinning. “Geez, was that really him? Awesome... He looks different in the video clips, though.” I grumble something indefinable even for myself and continue pushing. Actually, I’d rather turn around and sprint back, but the embarrassment would be even worse in that case.
We finally arrive in this bloody passage C and, as soon as the crate is at its place, I take a deep breath and start running. Sure, it’s a crackpot idea, but maybe, maybe he’s still there, I think. Don’t be silly, my pessimistic brain half thinks, after all, there aren’t any unicorns running around outside, either. Indeed, the room is empty. Damn, I think again, and angrily I kick the doorframe. Immediately my toes have a déjà- vu, and I’m just about to start crying. You naive idiot, that’s all I can think. My pity figure trots along to the ‘rest room’- a broom cupboard of the bigger sort containing a table and a few small chairs- hoping to be able to mourn my failure in silence. I give the door a shove, it swings open- and I get a heart attack, respiratory still stand and hypertension all at once. My hero is sitting at the table and looking bored. As he sees me, he says:”So, that’s ‘immediately’. I have been waiting for you.” The fireworks in my tummy start a new round and the muscles of my face are beyond my control now. “Oh...um...yeah...” I stammer, “well, I... um...wow!” A happy smile spreads across my face and in my mind I take on the consistence of a puddle. I have been waiting for you, he said! Now I can die in peace! He points at a chair in front of him. “So, why are you standing around? I’m not the queen. The catering here”- he grins- “is not exactly haute cuisine, but drinks and meals are served.” On the table, there are a packet of cookies and a bottle of water. Still beaming over my whole face I sit down and keep smiling at him. He smiles a bit, too. “So, what’s up?” After like half a minute he breaks the silence. So now, please, utter something intelligent, I remind myself, and get started: ”Yeah, well, I have been admiring you since years, I mean, you write lyrics, so... real, and honest, and intelligent. And the music is phenomenal, anyways, and, er, that you worked your way up to the top all alone, and made it there from the very bottom, and you’re still so down to earth, that’s amazing. I mean, you know, all these rock star excesses, you just don’t do that...um.” I shut up because I feel like a total fool again. He has listened, looking down to the ground and chuckling.
“Thanks,” he says. A few seconds of silence, I am just about to disappear in the ground. Why the heck do I waste his time? “I bet you’re busy, I’m-““Do you make music?” he asks at the same time. Music? Oh god, just silly beginner’s stuff... “Er...well, I...I just play here and there a little...and I actually sing, too, but my songs aren’t good...” He looks up and watches me attentively. “You write own songs? Let me hear something.” My eyes widen with terror. Not here, not now, and definitely not in front of him! My infamous self-consciousness is long gone and has left an uncomfortable feeling of naivety. He laughs and touches his hair. “Come on, don’t be shy! Come on. You know, I don’t have the whole day for you.” I start moving again; I think of my last lyrics, which were not so bad actually, I just don’t have a melody for them yet. That’s what I tell the guitar hero in front of me about. “Do you have them with you?” he asks.
Hesitating, I pull my bag out from under the table, take out my note book and push it with open pages towards him. He reads, his chin resting on his hand. His eyes are running over the lines, sometimes he raises an eyebrow, sometimes his hand runs over his chin, and I watch him and die a thousand deaths, while my opus is being examined. I haven’t shown it to anyone yet, and I didn’t have that in mind, to be honest, and now, out of sudden, I show it to the last person on earth I’d want to think that I’m stupid and incompetent, the person I just quietly admire. He points at a line. “Now, you can’t leave it that way. That’s unclear, dishonest...that sounds incredibly intended.” Bam, the bird has been shot and tumbles to the ground. I’m finished with my life! “W-why? You can’t know that, can you...” I start. He looks at me. “I see that, little snotnose. At least, I’ve got the feeling I can read it here,” he smiles. I curl my lips. “I’m not a snotnose. I’m not weeping. I just... I just wish they were like yours.” He smiles again. “But you’re not me, and that’s, for heavens sake, not an offense. You’re yourself, and the lyrics are yours. And they’re not bad, honestly.” That comforts me a little, although ‘not bad’ still sounds like ‘could be better’. “You know- just to help you- write if you feel like it, write when it comes to you. And the raw material can always be revised. For sure you know that. But where there is no raw material- well, you know. And I think,”- he points at the miserable line again- “from here on you ran out of it.”
The part he is talking about I’ve been working on for hours. Is that so apparent? I can’t hide my admiration. “You know how to perform magic,” I say. “That’s why your guitar sounds so good!”
He laughs and leans back on his chair. “Perhaps.” He seems totally different from the video clips, I think, somehow wiser and more thoughtful. And the voice in that he speaks- stunningly deep. I say: “In reality you sound absolutely different from what I imagined. Deeper. I mean, how you speak,” I add. Now it’s his turn to be surprised. “Didn’t you hear me talk before?” I shake my head. “Don’t watch TV. Only read all the interviews.” “Aha. That’s something new,” he says, and gets ready to stand up. I stand up, too. “Thank you, honestly,” I say. He pats me on the shoulder. “What for, don’t talk nonsense. I didn’t say anything you didn’t know before, and nothing that thousands of clever people hadn't said before I did.” Now I’m grinning. “I didn’t mean that. I’m talking about your music. About what you achieve. Thank you for being the guy you are and for being famous, so we can witness it and receive what you can give.” I feel relieved after pronouncing what I had already thought a million times. He acts as if he was wiping a tear from the corner of his eye in affection, but he smiles. “At your service,” he says. “No, really,” I insist, “sometimes I’ve got the feeling the guitar you play is inside of me!”
That very moment, my colleague enters the room and stops, thunderstruck. I show him a big smile. “We were just having a little coffee party,” I say, “would you mind taking a photo, as a souvenir?” Still astonished, he takes my camera and the hero and I are posing. He puts his arm round my shoulder and I’m beaming like a light bulb. My colleague curses. “What strange setup do you have here?! Wait...” Don’t you dare to destroy the moment, I think. The wonder next to me sighs and his arm sinks down to my hips. I twitch a little bit- what’s that gonna be..?! I probably look like one of the famous timid fawns; he notices it, winks at me impishly and starts laughing. “Girls,” he says with a slightly sardonic smile, and the impishness stays. There he goes, the MTV rock star, the naughty one, who always says what he thinks, who is untamed and unique, and whom me and thousands of other people adore. The master photographer has finally managed to take a picture and now wants one, too. But that’s what rock stars are used to. He leaves and winks at me again for goodbye, I wave back enthusiastically. I take my notebook and touch the pages. Oh my, I think, he really touched it. Somebody pinch me.