|
“Encounters”
In the heart of the main business corridor of Arlington County, Virginia, which is celebrating its bicentennial this year, lies Olsson’s Books and Records, a small bookstore nestled in a corner of a brick office building away from Wilson Boulevard, the main street. On a normal Saturday, Olsson’s has a decent number of customers, many of whom take time out to have a beverage in Olsson’s Café or browse their somewhat limited selection of books, magazines and compact discs. This particular store is like a satellite branch, with somewhat larger stores elsewhere in and around the Washington, DC area.
A distinct late-afternoon chill began to erode the warmth of a balmy, sparkling clear spring day, portending the frosty night forecast by the National Weather Service. Parking, as usual, was terrible, so I ended up a ways on Veitch Street and had to walk through a grassy field toward the office building where I spent parts of two semesters at an internship during law school. This time, however, was different. A special Guest was scheduled to appear at Olsson’s this particular evening. Worn out from an exhaustive and trying work week, I looked forward to a relaxing evening.
I arrived at Olsson’s at around 6:00 pm Eastern time. The store was abuzz with activity, with Olsson’s representative Alicia Green briefing a couple of building security guards and other curious onlookers about their Guest. There were six or seven people lined up in a corner of the store, lead by a short, middle-aged woman holding a stack of eight or nine books. Within minutes of my entry into the store, the PA speakers began to play the Guest’s second album. Armed with a camera, CD insert, and a gift in a manila envelope, I walked passively around the small store and pretended to browse the CD section, listening and observing what was going on, trying to plan how I wanted to proceed. Finally, after a few minutes, I went to the counter where a large stack of books was set up on a table. I picked up one and laid it on the counter.
“Your total is $23.98,” said the cashier, a teenage girl. I handed her my debit card.
I noticed another checkout person sticking a yellow dot on the corner of my purchase. “What’s that for?” I asked, indicating with a nod.
The girl smiled. “That’s so we know you bought it here,” she said pleasantly.
“Oh, okay,” I replied. I turned to the girl who took my card as she handed it back to me. “Thanks,” I said, and she had me sign the store copy. I then returned to my “browsing” for a little while longer. It was now almost 6:20.
For the next few minutes, I continued my observations as the line slowly grew and began to snake around a shelf, then two. A couple of other Olsson’s employees began to direct traffic, clearing one of the aisles so that the line may stretch unhindered by stragglers. At about 6:30, the room buzzed with further activity. The Guest had arrived with a small entourage
and was quickly whisked through a back door and into the employee lounge. I quickly made my way to the checkout counter where the Guest would be signing. When I got there, the area directly in front of the counter was manned by two building security guards.
“This area here,” began Alicia, pointing to where I and two other people were standing, “is where you can take photographs. Unfortunately, there will be no posing, but if you want your picture taken with her, you can ask someone standing here to take it for you.”
I was a little disappointed, hoping for some leeway from the Guest’s entourage, but that was beyond my control. With sweet music playing over the PA system, I waited patiently for the Guest to begin accommodating the fans that have served her well over the past two-plus years.
Meanwhile, Alicia had picked up a handful of pens and slips of paper. “We have some great news!” she began. “She’s going to personalize autographs!” Excited “oohs” and “aahs” emanated from the now-fidgety line. “Please write your name clearly on a slip of paper,” Alicia said.
One of the other attendants set a box next to one of the cash registers. “If you have any gifts, please place them in this box,” the attendant said. “We don’t want to have things shoved at her.”
“You may have one CD, DVD or tape signed for every book purchased here,” Alicia continued. “That is all. This is not Olsson’s policy, it’s theirs.”
Alicia and other bookstore staffers repeated the last directive several times over the next twenty minutes, as employees walked in and out of the small room where the Guest had been led. The line had grown to about 25-35, not a large crowd. Finally, as the clock struck 7:04, the Guest walked out of the room and was greeted promptly by camera flashes and well-wishes from nearby onlookers. She was a diminutive teenager, with long straight brown hair parted in the middle, dressed in a blue top and black pants. Smiling brightly, she sat down on a stool behind the counter and made herself comfortable, while her father, a tall, lean gentleman with dark brown hair and dressed in a black button-down shirt, stood to her right, fiddling with a Palm Pilot. Another man, dressed in a sport coat and tie, took a position directly to her right. The receiving area was flanked by two beefy building security guards, while another gentleman stood guard in the aisle toward the front of the store, acting as a sentry and stopping people who wanted to cross.
Finally, the first people at the front of the line were allowed to advance. The Guest smiled brightly, greeting the people as they presented her with books, CDs, DVDs and tapes. She signed them all, conversing with people who asked the usual questions: “When are you doing a concert here?” “How’s school?” “How has your concert tour been?” “I saw you at (insert location).” “When did you start singing?” Et cetera.
Meanwhile, I stayed in the designated camera pit, taking photographs and chatting with others in the aisle.
“When is she going next?” asked one man.
“Well, she’s going to be in Boston and Minneapolis, and, uh…Chicago, then San Diego, Auburn Hills, near Detroit, and then two concerts in LA,” I answered.
“Three, she’s doing three at the Hollywood Bowl,” the man corrected me.
“Oh, yeah, that’s right.”
“How about here?” he asked.
“Well, after LA, it’s probably back to school for her,” I said with a light chuckle.
The man snickered. “Yeah, school—what’s that?”
The crowd was rather homogeneous—mostly white Anglo-Saxons—but there were a couple of Latinos and Asians interspersed. And more than a few children. One of the younger kids—about six or seven years old, I estimated—presented the Guest with a bouquet of flowers as her smiling mother looked on.
“Oh, wow! These are lovely!” the Guest lilted as she accepted the flowers. Those appeared to be the only gift I saw anyone give to her.
Finally, the line shortened to just a few people. I handed my camera to a lady standing in the camera pit with her young daughter.
“Would you mind?” I asked. “It’s the red button,” I continued, pointing to the shutter release on the camera.
“Sure,” she answered.
I hurried to the back of the line, which meant walking back toward the Café and around a rack of CDs. I was the last person in the queue, and when my turn finally came, I stepped up for my encounter.
“Hey, Charlotte,” I said with a smile.
“Hi!” she said with the distinct lilt. I handed her my book, which had been marked by the cover flap to the designated page, and my slip of paper with my name. “To…” she began as she wrote.
“Wait…look over,” I said. She looked up and leaned forward as the lady took our picture. After she was finished with my book, I handed her my CD insert. “This is for me, too.”
“Do you want this personalized, too?” she asked.
“Well…hmm,” I answered, thinking. “It’s up to you. Your choice,” I finally said.
The Guest smiled. “Well, I’ll just sign it so you can do whatever,” she said, scrawling on the CD cover.
“OK, that’s a good idea,” I said. “I’ll probably send it to Mark at CharlotteChurch.net or something. You meet him?”
“Oh, yes!” she exclaimed. “I met him after a concert…”
“At West Palm,” I said, finishing her thought.
“Yes, West Palm Beach.”
“He says ‘hi,’” I said.
“You talk to him?” she asked.
“Yeah, in fact I have done some stuff for him on the site,” I said. “Including this.” I pulled the manila envelope toward her and opened it, partially pulling out the contents—manuscripts of a pair of short stories. “This, Charlotte, is for you.”
The Guest’s eyes brightened. “Oh, really!”
“Yeah,” I said. “I am an aspiring short story writer. Though I’m in the legal profession in real life,” I explained as she chuckled. “I write as a hobby, and I was inspired by your music to write these,” I said as she looked down at the pages sticking out of the envelope. “Mark has posted one of these on his site, and the other one will be posted soon.”
“Oh, really! I’ll have to read them,” she said.
I pushed the contents back into the envelope and handed it to the Guest, who held it for a while before I lost track. “So,” I continued, “how long have you been in this country on tour?”
She looked at me thoughtfully. “Oh, about four-and-a-half weeks now.”
“You’re not getting homesick, are ya?”
“Yeah, very. I miss my friends back home,” she said, with just a touch of sadness in her voice. “I was home for only about a week before that.”
“Yeah, well,” I said, my voice trailing off. I noticed that there were a couple more people waiting. “So it was very nice meeting you,” I said, extending my hand.
“Yeah, you too,” she lilted, shaking my hand and smiling brightly.
“I’ll tell Mark you said ‘hi.’”
“Yeah, of course!”
I picked up my book and CD insert, thanked the lady who took pictures with my camera, and walked off. The Guest greeted another person as I left the checkout counter, armed with an autographed copy of her book.
After a long and extremely trying week, I finally felt pretty good. Relaxed. And ready to face what lay ahead. Life will go on, but I’ll always remember an encounter with a special Guest, who once had enchanted me with her music, and now had enthralled me with her radiant personality. The walk back to my car was not nearly as weary as it was at my arrival. I smiled as I started my car and drove off in the deepening mid-spring twilight toward home.
4.29.01
|
