The rafters

I put up a Facebook post recently about my trip back to New York to see Springsteen On Broadway. In the comments, I saw my good friend Shivaun put one up asking me if I saw anything in the rafters. I was startled by it, not because of what it said, but because she remembered. It was a reference very few people in my orbit know about, and an experience I hadn't thought about in many years.

And Shivaun, if you're reading this, I'm grateful to you for reminding me of it.

It begins, as so many of my stories do, at a Bruce Springsteen concert. Bruce was doing a five-night gig at the late, great Los Angeles Sports Arena. My girlfriend at the time—now my wife—would always go with me to the opening and closing shows of his multi-night gigs. So it didn't come as a surprise that she didn't want to go to all five shows this time—two were enough for her.

Yeah, I know, but I married her anyway.

Naturally I wouldn't have missed the shows for any reason, but this tour it was more important than usual that I be there. My dad had died unexpectedly a couple months earlier, six years after my mom had passed away. Being an only child, after I lost my dad, I jokingly (kind of) referred to myself as an orphan. My spirit—sad, defeated, lost and feeling very much alone—was in dire need of the kind of lifting only a Springsteen concert can give me.

I don't remember which show in between the opening and closing one it was, but with me that night was an art director, friend and one-time roommate of mine named Monte Hallis.

Now anyone who knows me knows I'm long past believing there's any concert worth a few hours sitting in the nosebleed seats. Unless of course that concert is Bruce Springsteen. If it means the difference between being in the building and not, I'll sit wherever I can get a seat.

Monte and I sat in the very definition of nosebleed seats: the very last row where you could reach up and touch the ceiling of the arena, at the complete opposite end of the building from the stage (may I direct your attention to the yellow arrow in the top picture).

It was just after intermission, and Bruce came out to start his second half of the show. Because I'd already seen it two or three times, I knew the first song was going to be Cover Me.

My Bruce tramp pals and me have a name for his songs we're not crazy about. We call them bathroom songs, because if we have to go, those are the ones we don't mind missing. And, I know you never thought you'd read these words from me, but there are songs of his I'm just not crazy about.

Working On A Dream is one. So is Outlaw Pete, or as my friend Kim appropriately calls it Outlaw Pee. And at the top of my list, Cover Me.

So the lights dim, Bruce rips into Cover Me, and I'm just removed from it all. I'm watching Monte watching Bruce. I see the entire arena in front of me rocking out.

Then it happened.

It was like a fog set in, figuratively speaking. Movie like, the sound slowly faded way, way down but not out entirely. The crowd jumping up and down and pumping their fists seemed to be doing it in slow motion. Scanning the building, I tilted my head up and peered into the darkness that lay just up above. Moving my eyes along the rafters from one side to the other, my vision landed on a beam above and a little in front of me.

And a smile came across my face, because that's when I saw him. My dad was sitting on the rafter waving to me.

He was sitting on a horizontal beam, legs crossed and dangling below him. His right arm was wrapped around a vertical beam, and he was wearing the new purple plaid bathrobe my girlfriend and I had given him at Christmas—two months before he died. He had his blue striped pajamas on underneath, and his brown slippers with the fleece lining on his feet. His glasses, like always, were sitting askew on top of his nose that'd been broken years ago and never set correctly.

As our eyes locked in what definitely was a moment out of time, I realized he wasn't just waving randomly at me.

He was saying he loved me.

He wanted me to know everything was going to be okay.

He was telling me he was at peace.

He was waving goodbye.

I understood, and I smiled and nodded up at him. Then, I slowly looked away from him and came back to the room. The sound dialed back up again, the fans were moving in real time and Monte was enjoying herself immensely.

I looked back up at the rafter, and he was gone.

One and only

I'm an only child. And I'm okay with that.

Sure, I don't really understand the whole sharing thing. Or not having my way when I want it. But for the most part it hasn't held me back.

Naturally there's been one or two times in my life where it would've been nice to have a sibling. For example when my parents died. As you'd expect, an extremely tough time. It would've been nice to have somebody who knew exactly what I was going through because they were going through it too. Another tough time: when Springsteen tickets go on sale. A brother or sister would double my chances of getting the good seats.

When I tell people I'm an only child, I usually get one of two reactions. They'll say, "Oh you're so lucky." Or they'll give me a sad, sympathetic look and say, "Oh that's a shame."

It's not a shame. For the most part, it's awesome.

I have lots of friends with siblings. Some of them get along, some don't. Many of them have found a way to negotiate a truce because they have family obligations and joint decisions that have to get made, none of which happens if they're fighting like cats and dogs all the time. But it always seems like an uneasy truce.

I also have people I don't get along with. The difference is when I don't get along, I can get away. I don't worry about having to see them at home, or running into them at family events or holiday dinners.

Also, I think because I'm an only child my friendships take on even more importance in my life. Well, some of them anyway (you know who you are). I tend to invest time and energy to nourish and grow them, and find myself getting more than just a little out of sorts when that investment isn't returned in kind (you know who you are).

Anyway, I'm not making an argument for being an only child. I'm just saying there are worse things that could happen in the world.

That would be the world that revolves around me.