I was too young! I didn't know what it was about. All I knew was that I was standing in a room with one of the most drooled over popstars in the country, offering him a free sample of shampoo. His hair wasn't dirty but when he was done for the night a wash would not go amiss.
That's where I was. Where he was, other than in the moment, I would never know. I handed out my samples to the entire band and went downstairs to do the same for the crew, and another band who seemed to be a little more ahead of the program than their mates.They may have been wearing skin tight denim jeans and leather jackets but I was the one that caught the eye as I was let back on to the street by a security guard. My parachute fabric tracksuit, in turquoise, never let me down.
I walked up the street to where I had heard things were happening, and life was in full swing. I walked to where those who occupied the streets at night, lived by day.
I lugged my bag of samples to the highest two-story block of flats. I filled the post boxes with samples, and piled what was left into the light fixture of the elevator. It took three trips.
I stepped onto the street. Lighter of bag but heavier of soul. I had not done my best.
But I made good with all the telephone numbers I created for the questionnaire, dialing code correct.
And with my last bit of product I approached an open house. Met by a loud, hoarse-voiced, red headed woman, my sweaty hand in hers.
Every hippie in town had clean hair the next day.
I had a hangover.
I hoped, as I made my way through the morning mist, that once I had had my coffee and she had had hers, that the lady in the second hand record shop would remember me and consider selling me the record she had carefully stapled to her shop wall. That maybe she would offer me a bit more than the opportunity to light her cigarette.
Maybe my ubiquitous green track suit would jiggle a little more in her mind than the impression of a small town clown with Gothic aspirations she had already formed. Maybe the noise in my soul would speak to the noise in her head.
I had some tea and a spinach pie on the verandah while I waited for myself to filter into her consciousness.
I went home with a record.
Not the one I wanted, but the one I deserved.
.
