(Scene: Seattle’s grand city music festival, Bumbershoot, on a
pleasant late-summer evening. As opening day comes to a close, I and my
camera squeeze in with the other photographers to see legendary gospel singer
Mavis Staples perform. It’s been a long day, my eyes and feet and back are
tired, but I am excited to once again see Mavis Staples and her band. The
lights dim, the crowd roars, and Mavis Staples begins to sing. I raise my
camera and begin to take pictures as the music plays. Two songs into the show,
I am disturbed. Feeling tiny bumpy things hit the back of my head as I
photograph, I touch the back of my hair. It is mildly wet. Whipping around, I
see other photographers working, and a blissful, attentive crowd.)
Me: (tapping a photographer on the arm and yelling) Hey,
Colby, did you feel something wet?
Colby: What?
Me: Is it raining or something?
Colby: What? No. Maybe someone sweat on you. HA HA!
Me: (frowning) Thanks, man.
Colby: No prob.
(We return to shooting. Once again, the back of my head is
peppered with drooly BBs. Even more irritated, I reach back to my hair again,
this time pulling out a small gooey ball. Mavis Staples raises an eyebrow in my
direction very briefly. I now fully turn towards the audience, enraged. As I
look to my left, a monumental spitball hits the middle of my forehead, and
sticks.)
Small Crowd Of Girls Nearby: EWWWWW! GROSS!
(I shake the disgusting missile off me, eyes burning with
fire. About 10 feet back, standing next to a large Bodyguard, David Bowie is
hunched over in convulsive laughter. In his right hand is a spitball tube. I
march towards him, forcing my way through the dense crowd by smashing my
70-200mm lens with attached lens hood side to side, causing mild arm bruising
to crowd members. Mavis Staples raises an eyebrow again, and squints. I
confront a clearly giddy David Bowie with howling anger.)
Me: BOWIE! DID. YOU. SHOOT. ME. WITH. SPITBALLS?????
CONFESS!! NOW!!!
David Bowie: (barely suppressing giggles) Whaat? No! Never!
It’s obviously hailing on you, and only you. You just have the worst luck,
Marianne, simply awful. Poor old cow! There, there!
(I turn red, then purple.)
Me: What in the HELL are you doing here? Didn’t you retire
or something? Don’t you have some bocce ball or shuffleboard to play now?
David Bowie: (miffed) I am not a performer this evening,
merely another rapt fan. Mavis Staples is sublime, is she not? Toodles, Mavis,
hallo! (waves to Mavis Staples; Mavis Staples raises both eyebrows, and then
furrows her brow)
Me: (eyeing up David Bowie’s bodyguard with derision) What’s
your name, pal? Skippy? Giorgio? Hamlet?
Bodyguard: That’s classified.
Me: (pointing behind Bodyguard) OH NO, LOOK! PAMELA DES
BARRES IS HEADING THIS WAY IN A SEE-THROUGH SHIRT AND HOT PANTS!
(The Bodyguard turns his head. I quickly hand my camera to a
nearby gawker and proceed to grab David Bowie around the waist and knock him to
the ground. We wrestle on the grass amidst an aghast crowd and assorted trash
items.)
Bodyguard: (turning back) HEY!! KNOCK IT OFF OR I’LL...
(A small girl then takes a flying jump at Bodyguard, hitting him full force in the
crotch with her tiny motorcycle boots. The Bodyguard is toppled, moaning.)
MissEight: (defiantly) DON’T YOU TELL MY MOM WHAT TO DO!
Me: YOU TELL HIM, HONEY! THANKS, PUNKIN’!
David Bowie: (attempting a leg lock on me)
You…have…a…daughter? God help us ALL!
Me: (pinning David Bowie’s right shoulder) HOW DO I KNOW
YOUR SPIT DOESN’T CONTAIN HORRIBLE GERMS AND VIRUSES! YOU’VE BEEN AROUND!
AROUND, I SAY!
David Bowie: THAT’S THE CLOSEST YOU’VE GOTTEN TO A HEALTHY
RELATIONSHIP IN YEARS!
Me: RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAA!
Mavis Staples: STOP!
(The band halts. The crowd is instantly silenced. David
Bowie and I stop wrestling and look up at the stage.)
Mavis Staples: DAVID BOWIE! YOU STAND UP NOW!
David Bowie: (contrite) Yes, ma’am.
Mavis Staples: MARIANNE! THIS IS NO WAY FOR A LADY TO
BEHAVE! STAND UP!
Me: (sheepishly) Yes, ma’am.
(Colby stifles a laugh.)
Mavis Staples: Now you both listen to me! We came here to
give these good people a good time with good music! You
are disrespecting everyone!
Crowd: (as one) YEAH!
Mavis Staples: You two have been fighting for years! Tonight
we are gonna change things up! Bowie, brush yourself off, apologize to Marianne
and give her a kiss! Marianne, apologize to David and give him a kiss!
Crowd: (Springer-ish) OOoooooOOOoohhh!
David Bowie: (horror-stricken, turns pale) Oh dear god, no,
please, no, I…
Me: (anguished, wailing) HORRIBLE GERMS AND VIRUSES!!!
Mavis Staples: (forcefully) DO I HAVE TO COME DOWN THERE AND
GIVE YOU BOTH A WHUPPIN’?
David Bowie, Me: (simultaneously miserable) No, ma’am.
Mavis Staples: (puts hands on hips) I’m WAITIN’. These
people paid money to see me and you both are holding up the SHOW! This ain’t
Altamont! GET ON WITH IT!
Crowd: (as one) YEAH!
(David Bowie turns toward me, defeated. I look at him,
equally grim.)
David Bowie: (quietly, in a monotone) I regret insulting
your personal space with molded wet pieces of paper.
Me: (quietly, slightly snarky) I am sorry I knocked your
skinny ass down on the hard ground in front of a little girl.
Bodyguard: Mmuuuhhggggggh…
(David Bowie kisses me quickly on the cheek as I wince. Then, spontaneous and divine inspiration hits me, and I grab David Bowie’s face with both my
hands firmly, and give him the open-mouthed kiss of a lifetime, while the
crowd lets out a deafening cheer, and I feel his very life essence drain out of
him.)
Me: (finishing the kiss, and pushing back his face,
triumphant) HA!
(David Bowie turns a whiter shade of pale, and drops to his
knees in stunned silence. Pamela Des Barres walks up behind him and rubs his
shoulders. MissEight helps Bodyguard to his shaky feet.)
Mavis Staples: 1-2-3-4!
(The band resumes.)
© Copyright 2008- Marianne Spellman