Rod Stewart and Me
In case you believe I am not occasionally star-struck, let me lay that idea to rest. I am, as I write, sitting next to Rod Stewart. To some of us (of a certain age) he is a living legend. If you are too young to know him, I suggest Maggie May enlighten you.
On this brief encounter on American Airlines, I had summoned up the courage to ask to take a photograph of him. He misunderstood, and quickly volunteered to pose for a picture with me! And just like that, the flight attendant snapped a shot.
“I grew up with you,” I remarked, as if I’d known him forever.
“I grew up with you.” He was totally charming and disarmingly understated.
I showed him the photo.
“It’s nice,” I assured.
“You look nice, “ he smiled. Maybe it was a mercy complement. Whatever.
He went back to his beads, the ones he was holding from the moment he embarked.
“Are you nervous?” I asked, as he fondled the Buddha beads. He looked like someone who he knew his way around Rosaries.
“No,” he shook his head. “Just bored.” I swooned from his adorable British accent. Even at sixty-something, he was adorable.
Rod Stewart was bored? I wanted to say, “When I’m bored, I like to write a song.” Was I really gonna suggest that to Rod Stewart?
“We saw you perform at Jones Beach in a torrential downpour.” I was relentless. “Under an umbrella. It was romantic.” Still agreeable, he smiled. His eyes sparkled. I swear he remembered that concert.
Our time together was dwindling. As we touched down, I took one long last look.
He wrapped his beads around one hand and crossed himself with the other.