Page 6 of Intoxicating Pursuit

The Concert

SAMMY

“ H ubba hubba!” Tina called approvingly when I stepped out the front door.

I had genuinely tried. My top, with its thin shoulder straps and layers of white, gauzy ruffles, fell past the waistline of cropped, faux-leather leggings that I had purchased at the insistence of my discerning teenage daughter.

I had blown my red hair out smooth and kept my makeup light but sultry, with a touch of blush across my freckled cheeks and just enough smoke and definition for my brown eyes.

It was all reasonably classy. . . with the exception of a last-minute decision to leave my bra at home.

After seeing my red, blotchy face and ruined hair this morning, I needed to reclaim a little womanhood and sex appeal. I wasn’t dead yet.

I was eager to tell Tina about my morning, but as she pulled away from the curb and headed toward the freeway, she grew unusually quiet.

I scrutinized her more carefully. Her curly brown bob obscured her face somewhat, but her gaze seemed far away.

She wore no makeup, and her eyes were puffy and pink.

“Are you okay?”

She spared a glance in my direction, before refocusing on the road.

“Tina, what’s going on?”

She stared straight ahead as the blocks fell away, then eventually shook her head. “Andrew finally did it. The papers arrived an hour ago.”

A chill swept over my skin.

“I never thought it would actually happen.” A mottled red flush crept up her neck, her telltale sign of distress.

Andrew had walked out a million times, stormed away in anger, but he’d always come back quickly. I wasn’t sure how to respond, but going out to celebrate definitely didn’t feel right. “Should we stop the car? Go back home?”

“There’s really no point.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I didn’t say anything to the boys, and they're happy as clams right now, eating pizza with their favorite babysitter and starting a HeroBots marathon. It’s probably best I’m not there, frankly.”

My mind raced, trying to find the right thing to say. “Do you know what you’re gonna do?”

She shrugged. “Tomorrow? Make breakfast. Help Noah use the potty. Take the kids to the park. I don’t want to think farther than that yet.”

We pulled up to a stoplight, and I grabbed her hand. “I love you, and I’m here for you. Whatever you need. I can help with the boys anytime.”

She took this in. Nodded. “Let’s just try to have some fun, okay? I need to forget this mess for a bit.”

We drove the rest of the way in silence—my mind on nothing but my friend, her young sons, and the road ahead.

***

W e found parking without trouble and walked to a local deli near the pavilion. Once our toasted Italian hoagies were warm and securely wrapped, we carried them to the venue, prepared to picnic while we waited for the gates to open.

“Same drill as always?” I asked.

Over the years, Tina and I hammered out a process for getting a decent spot in the pit.

We showed up early, got in separate lines, and assigned whoever made it in first with running to claim our spot.

The person in the slower line grabbed drinks for us both, then worked their way in.

The culture of the concert pit accepted one friend joining another, but that was about it.

Otherwise, everyone defended their turf.

Today, after a long wait outside the gates, our effort paid off. We were just a couple of rows back, to the left of center stage.

The summer air was still hot, and a noisy crowd packed the pit as we waited for the band.

Tina remained off, so I tried to keep the conversation light as we sipped slowly on spiked lemonades, knowing one drink was all we’d be able to get our hands on for the next few hours.

The dense throng of people in the pit grew, crunching us in more and more tightly.

We chatted with our neighboring fans, bonding over shared excitement and speculating on which songs the band would play.

Eventually, a wall of violet light came to life from high above the stage, and musicians trickled out from the wings, prompting an escalating ripple of cheers and applause as everyone realized the show was about to begin.

Years ago, when the Gabriel Walker Group suffered losses and Smith Town Soul was on the verge of splitting up, the bands merged.

Walker Smith Revival was born, yielding a legendary mix of blues, soul, and rock—as well as a juggernaut of talent.

Two percussionists, a bassist and lead guitarist, backup singers, and a collection of musicians on brass, woodwinds, and keys slowly gathered on the stage.

Sauntering toward their instruments, they waved to fans amidst a growing roar of excitement.

Gabe came out last, with his ankle in a bulky air cast and a crutch under one arm, spawning a subtle groundswell of reaction.

Fans leaned into each other’s ears, snapped photos, and scrolled on their phones.

I imagined them typing quick Googles: “Why Gabriel Walker crutches,” “Injury Gabriel Walker.” If the Internet didn’t yet know what happened to him today, the news would spread soon.

Tina leaned in. “Doesn’t look good. Wonder if we’ll get a full show.”

“Yeah. I dunno.” I winced. He had to be tired and hurting.

A stool awaited Gabe at center stage. He settled in and pulled the mic close. “How you doing tonight, Philly?”

An eruption of excitement rose in all directions.

He let it reverberate until it eventually died down, the crowd expectant. “I spent the afternoon getting my leg fixed up by your fine doctors today. So, we’re gonna need a little extra love tonight to get this rocking for you.”

The crowd exploded and definitely showed all the love a performer could want. Then the lights swooped down, smoke machines kicked on, and the band dove headlong into the night.

***

W alker Smith Revival usually played one long set, and tonight was no exception.

In between powerful songs that blasted us with energy, the band sometimes dropped back to quieter numbers, highlighting intricate, heart-achingly beautiful melodies.

From this close, we could see the physicality of the drumming, the sheer breath required to blast horns into the atmosphere, and the sweat-drenched effort each of these amazing musicians poured into their music.

Gabe’s focus stayed on his bandmates and his guitar, but during slower numbers, he would look through the blinding stage lights in the direction of the crowd, creating a sense of connection.

In the closing verse of Tina’s favorite song, his gaze wandered our way and seemed to hesitate a few moments before Gabe closed his eyes and lifted his voice to hit the big final notes, the veins in his neck bulging with effort.

Tina took pictures and recorded videos, and we sang the lyrics we knew, wishing the troubles of the world away.

The band was deep into the set when Tina tiptoed to my ear. “Sammy, I don’t think I can make it,” she shouted above the music. “The cocktail was too big. I’m gonna burst.”

“You’ll never get back in.” Concert pits collapsed forward as soon as an inch of space opened up. You could sometimes leave. . . but you couldn’t return. “I’ll come with you.”

“No, it’s fine. I’ll listen from the steps and meet you after. Sing extra loud for me, okay?”

Tina forced her way through the crowd as the band went on full tilt, thrilling the gathered masses with several more songs and two encores.

The whole pit vibrated with whooping cheers when the final notes landed, and the amphitheater exploded with applause as everyone used their last opportunity to show the band appreciation.

The love was offered right back. Gabe’s lead guitarist tossed handfuls of monogrammed guitar picks into the pit and I pocketed a few.

Drumsticks and set lists were gifted to folks closest to the stage.

Gabe was helped to the ground so he could scoot to the rail, where he signed posters and snapped selfies with his admirers.

He practically glowed with charisma and talent, and I watched as fans reached to touch his arms, his hands.

As enthralling as his company had been this morning, he so clearly lived in an entirely different world, and this was just a tiny fraction of it.

More cities, more fans, more listeners awaited—eager to bask in the power and energy of his band and their music.

Eventually, the band left the stage, and the tidal wave of the departing crowd grew in strength. I gave in to it, thinking that at least I would have a good story to tell at parties. Plus, if no one came by the brewery to claim his bike, maybe I could donate it to charity.

The teeming mass of humanity poured out of the pit, spreading out on the wider blacktopped area, where concessions and merchandise awaited.

It was time to return to the joyful chaos of my undeniably full, very blessed life.

Tina had said she would watch from the steps, so I got refreshed then headed in that direction.

I climbed to the first landing as hundreds of exhilarated, inebriated fans made their way down the steep stairs, bumbling in the afterglow of a great evening.

I scanned the passing faces—too many to make sense of—but Tina was nowhere to be seen.

I tried to be patient; I knew she could be hard to spot.

Scarcely more than five feet tall, with short, dark hair that disappeared into the night, my best friend was not the easiest mark.

I finally realized calling would be far easier. I picked up my phone and saw her text:

The sitter called. Nathan is throwing up. I have to go. Can you take an Uber home? Hate leaving you. . . and I’m worried you’ll worry. Call me.

My heart pumped.

I hated being alone in cities at night.

Look around, Sammy.

Plenty of people still poured from the lawn and milled about the pavilion, providing safety in numbers. I could easily catch an Uber before the crowd thinned, but I didn’t have time to fool around.

Feeling a quiver of unease, I descended the stairs and hustled to the exit, cracking open the app as I walked.

My phone vibrated and a message popped, blocking the ride share screen:

Sammy, this is Charlie- the guy who picked up Gabe at the brewery. He thinks he might have seen you in the pit. He has something for you. If you’re here, can you stick around a minute?

I stopped short and stared at my phone, bewildered. I opened the messaging app and scrolled up. The sender was the same as this morning.

Could Gabe actually have spotted me amidst those blazing stage lights? And had I really just received an invitation to spend a few more minutes with him?

The idea of enjoying Gabe’s company was more than appealing, but I also knew with each passing minute, the safety of the crowd was dwindling.

Hi Charlie. Am here. Would love to see Gabe, but worried about catching an Uber. Lost track of my friend.

The reply buzzed in quickly:

Is that you by the front gate? White ruffly shirt, black pants?

I looked around, and sure enough, the young, brawny man who had rescued Gabe from the brewery this morning was heading my way.

He waved and hustled over. “Sammy?”

“Yeah. Charlie, right?”

“Yup.” He smiled and handed me a security lanyard. “I saw your text, but I’m sure we can get you home safely. We’ve got more vehicles than you can believe. Wanna come with me?”

I considered my options, but it was so tempting to see Gabe, and with the promise of a ride, I couldn’t resist. I followed Charlie back into the now empty pit.

We stepped around discarded plastic cups and spilled puddles of beer left by overexcited fans, to the far edge of the stage.

Charlie guided us past heavy metal barriers, flashed his credentials at the security team, and led me behind the scenes.

Backstage was a beehive of activity. Spotlights lit the black walls and floors, and a dozen plus people scurried about, breaking down equipment and unplugging amplifiers, hustling everything into huge rolling crates.

Ropes and chains dangled from the rafters above, where fearless riggers lowered gargantuan, wobbling speakers and lights to the floor below.

Charlie guided me past the frantic workers, down a set of stairs, and through a door to an air-conditioned hallway with vinyl floors and plain gray walls.

It eventually emptied into a similarly appointed open gathering space, adjoined by a network of branching hallways.

Staff bustled about with tablets and food trays while band members lounged on couches, downed cool drinks, or simply ambled back to the peace of what I presumed were private rooms. I managed to suppress any fan-girl behavior, but inside, I was elated to see these extraordinary musicians up close.

We turned down a narrow hall, our footsteps falling quietly on the vinyl, and a tall figure hobbled out of a doorway. Gabe turned our way on his booted foot, dressed in a fresh shirt, his hair damp from what must have been a quick shower.

“That was an amazing show!” I gushed before he could get a word out. “Thank you so much!”

A quick smile spread across his lips, and he leaned on his crutch for support. “Thanks right back at you, Sammy. Show wouldn’t have gone on without you today.” He looked me over as we approached. “Boy, I can’t believe it’s you. This is great.”

“And I can’t believe you performed a full set after the day you had. That’s some legendary endurance.”

“Well, I’ll definitely sleep well tonight.”

I chuckled. “I bet.”

He scanned the hallway. “I have something for you. I just need to find my tour manager. Give me a second?”

“Of course.”

He swung his crutch in the opposite direction and poked his nose into a few rooms until a forty-something, pony-tailed, blonde stepped out of one, a tablet in her hand. They had a quick exchange, both looking a little miffed, and Gabe came tottering back my way.

“Well, I do have something, but evidently, it’s back at the hotel,” he said in his low timbre. “Wanna come? We all get drinks at the rooftop bar after the show. It’s a good time.”

Did Gabe Walker just ask me if I wanted to have drinks with him?

At his hotel? The answer was yes. Hell yes.

Heat flushed my skin, and I felt suddenly aware of his proximity, of the strong arms he’d wrapped around my shoulders that morning, of the powerful legs that had biked up the steep hill behind me.

“I’d love that.”

I said it casually, but my mind raced a thousand miles an hour. And poor Tina! I couldn’t believe she was going to miss this.