What Can Browne Do For You?

So, we are off to see Jackson Browne in just a bit. Mr. Browne and I have a very deep and meaningful relationship, owing to the fact that he once saved my life.

Really.

Mom was there. She saw it.

We had just seen Mr. Browne give an incredible solo acoustic performance in South Bend, Indiana (of all improbable places). As we exited the theater, I walked past the car and around the building, straight for the stage door. (The place was tiny. There were only two ways out – main entrance and stage door. I wagered Mr. Browne would be coming out the stage door. There was a really, really big bus parked next to it.) Mom had no choice but to follow, as I had driven (because Mom doesn’t like to drive further than the grocery store if she can help it). My intent was to wait for Mr. Browne to leave the venue, and then…. Okay, I wasn’t sure what I would do, but I hoped something not totally lame would come to me.

It turned out I was not the only one with that idea. Or maybe I just started a trend. Because as I positioned myself, several other women came along and began to do the same. This would not have been such a bad thing (I’m totally not a Jackson Browne hog or anything), but these women who joined us were, um, staggering drunk. And loud. And clumsy. And dressed WAY too young for their age (okay, that was a mean comment to make, but it doesn’t make it any less true – they all had at least a decade or two on me and appeared to have been shopping at Hot Topic). Mom took her leave and waited in the back. I held my ground.

And then Jackson Browne walked out of the theater.

And all of these drunken women came surging forward, apparently intending to go through me. (I do tend to go invisible from time to time.)

But Mr. Browne would have none of it. He saw what was happening. He stepped forward. He reached out his hand. He took my hand in his. He looked me straight in the eye. He smiled. And he pulled me up from the massing throng of drunks.

I swear it happened just that way.

I would have been crushed by inebriated, fashioned-challenged women if Jackson Browne had not intervened.

And what did I do? I smiled back and said “Thank you.” And he nodded, gave my hand (which he still held) a little squeeze, and moved on.

We are forever bonded because of this moment. I am sure he thinks of me often.

And while I don’t imagine that we will meet again this evening (after all, the venue is bigger and in a city and I’m sitting on the lawn and with Hubby and all), I can only hope he will not only play For a Dancer, but, at least in his mind, dedicate it to me.