Tina was waiting.
“Nothing.”
The executive from Helping Hands, Brenda Rosner, arrived pre-show with half a dozen young kids, most around eight or nine years old.
I took Violet with me. “I want you to see what it’s all for.”
We congregated in the green room with a slew of photographers and reporters. Pictures were taken for photo ops, and Violet hung out with the kids, talking and laughing with them and making them feel less intimidated by the surroundings.
Brenda shook my hand, thanking me for my contribution.
“I don’t know how many shows I’ve got left in me,” I told her. “My doctors,” I said with a nod at Violet, “are saying I have to slow down.”
Brenda smiled. “We’re all so grateful. We don’t need to ask anything more of you than what you’ve already given.”
I believed her, but it still stung to have to quit on those kids. I signed autographs and took pictures with them. They thanked me, never knowing that I got more from them than I could ever give.
One kid stood apart from the others. Brenda told me he’d had it particularly rough and held himself aloof from the others. A boy, eight years old, he’d been shuffled around from shelter to shelter before being taken away from his parents and put in foster care. While everyone was partaking in the spread of food and drink, he leaned against the wall by himself. I moved to stand with him and leaned against the wall too, side by side.
“Your name is Sam, right?”
He nodded, his eyes on the commotion around us. “I’ve never seen that much food all in one place.”
I swallowed hard at the sudden lump in my throat. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”
He looked up at me with a depth in his brown eyes
that should not have been there for an eight-year-old. “I heard you didn’t have a home when you were a kid.”
“That’s right. My mom and I lived in our car for about six months.”
“Was it hard?”
“Hell yeah, it was hard. I had to wash my hair in a gas station bathroom. That sucked.”
“But now you’re this world-famous rock star.”
“True, but a lot of lucky shit had to happen for me to get here,” I said. “What do you like to do, Sam? If you could do anything in the world, what would it be?”
“I want to be a photographer. I know that sounds lame…”
“Doesn’t sound lame. You like taking pictures?”
“Yeah, I do. Annie, that’s my foster mom right now, she says I’m pretty good at it.”
“Do you have a camera?”
He shook his head. “Annie lets me take pictures on her phone sometimes. But it’s not the same as a real camera.”
I looked over at one of the press photographers snapping photos of the kids and gave a sharp whistle between my teeth to get his attention. He looked up, and I jerked my head to call him over.
“Sam, here, would like to be a photographer. Do you mind if he takes a few pictures with your camera?”
The photographer looked dubious about handing over his very expensive, professional camera to a kid.
“I got it covered if anything happens,” I said. I didn’t often use my status—whatever the fuck that was—to get favors, but this kid was worth it. I gave the guy a “Do you know who I am?” look that Violet would have rolled her eyes at, had she seen it.
“No, yeah, of course,” the photographer said. “Do you know how to work one of these?” he asked, looping the strap around Sam’s neck. “This is the aperture—”