The Boy from the Band

The Last Waltz

They've decided to hold their final concert on Thanksgiving at Bill Graham's Winterland. It was already scheduled and most of the tickets sold, but now things have changed. Either ticket holders will have to shell out more money or accept a refund for their tickets. The new price for admission is now more than twice the original fee.

Their hardcore fans are not discouraged but pony up the extra money. News that this concert will be more than a mere performance resulted in a flood of new ticket sales. Soon the event is announced as sold out. I wonder how many people wished they'd forked over the extra money.

No one in the band is really happy, except for maybe Robbie. He sees their going out as one big party like it's something to celebrate. I think he is the only one celebrating. The rest of them are trying to treat it like just another show although they all know better. There's a finality in the air that no one can avoid.

I hate this, I hate even thinking about it. I don't want to go but I've promised Rick--I know Elizabeth will be there, but he told me he needs me there too.

I've poured my first cup of coffee when someone knocks at my door. I open it to find a courier standing there holding a big box which I have to sign for. I scribble my name and he hands it to me, tipping his hat as I shut the door behind him.

I tear off the wrapping to find a box labeled "Nordstrom". I open it and lying on top is a VIP backstage pass on a gold ribbon with my name written on it. With it I find two business-sized envelopes, one holds airline tickets and the other the reservation and confirmation for a hotel room at the San Francisco Hilton. I wonder if he's staying in the same place or had put me up elsewhere as a precaution. I hope it's somewhere else.

Underneath is a black jersey dress with cutouts decorating the long sleeves. The same cutout pattern borders the edges of an open back. Hidden in the folds of the dress are a silver necklace and earrings set with turquoise.

I read the note that lay on top of the dress. "Find yourself a cute hat. You'll be the prettiest girl at the ball." I don't know about that but the hem is short enough to draw attention to my legs. If he wanted me to be ignored he chose the wrong outfit.

I love the dress but this whole thing makes me sick, it's nothing but a farce that will make a great party for the attendees. Bill Graham's milking it for all it's worth, but who could blame him? They'd always been one of his biggest drawing acts. He promoted their very first concert in the same venue where they'll be performing their last. It would look like they were going out with a bang, but if you paid close attention, it was really a whimper in disguise.

Rick showed up that night—at his usual 3 a.m. and wanted me to try on my dress. He tried to cajole me into modeling it for him, but I refuse at first, saying,

"It's bad luck to see the dress before the date—or something like that. Anyway, I want to surprise you."

"I already know what the dress looks like, I bought it for you! I want to see it on you, now, and don't bother with any underwear."

"Oh, so you're going to go all male chauvinist on me? Is that an order, sir?" He ignores my mocking tone.

"Yes, it's an order—especially the no underwear part." He wriggled his brows as if to emphasize what he was saying.

I hadn't tried the dress on yet. I slide it over my head, the jersey feels erotic gliding over my bare skin and I've always looked good in black. I come out to the living room and turn around slowly so he can see me.

"Do you like it?" I flutter my lashes at him then come and sit on his lap.

"Oh yeah," he breathed, "Almost as much as I liked that nightie I got you." He begins to roll up the dress above my waist and I have no desire to spoil the mood. Part of the reason he's here must be a desire to see the dress on me because he should be at the studio rehearsing. We've had so little time together lately that we were willing to grab whatever we could.