August 26, 1985. It began as an evening of high hopes, grand dreams, towering expectations. It ended in dashed hopes, bitter disappointment, and crushing guilt, on almost every front.
But at least the music was good.
It was the Sting concert at ParkWest ski resort (now called Wolf Mountain) in Park City, Utah. There were four of us in the party: Andy Kilmer, my good friend from junior high and high school; Janet Mulrooney, Andy's girlfriend and the woman he would later marry; yours truly; and my date, the lovely and talented Miss Darla Bond.
Now, I'd had a long-distance crush on Darla for many, many moons. (I guess I'd been mooning for her.) She was descended from Scandinavian stock; she was very fair, and very blonde—but only in coloration, not in the sense of being airheaded. For about three years, maybe more, Darla had been the squeeze of one of my school chums, Jordan Bergstrom. I had always envied Jordan that. When the news hit the street that Jordan and Darla had split up, I didn't feel much sorrow. I felt like the opportunity was ripe.
I pursued Darla for months—while my Catholic friend Connor actually managed to get to first base with her on a couple of occasions. (Darla was a quite strict Mormon girl, of course.) I became friends with her younger brother Dan in the process, and since Dan is still my friend today, I don't count the process as a complete failure by any means.
But at last, with this Sting concert, I was managing to get Darla out on a date—much to Dan's consternation, because he was a much bigger Sting fan than his big sister, but his parents wouldn't let him go to the concert. I was so nervous trying to work up the courage to ask her that I actually called her on the phone and let a synthesized computer voice do the asking for me. (Macintosh as John Alden.) She laughed and said yes, and we were set.
The other exciting thing to me about that concert, besides seeing Sting himself, was the chance to see Sting's backing band, which at the time consisted of the young jazz lions Darryl Jones, Omar Hakim, Kenny Kirkland, and Branford Marsalis. Especially Branford Marsalis. I been listening to Wynton for a while then, but about a month earlier I had picked up Branford's first album as a band leader, Scenes in the City, and I was really blown away by it. And furthermore, the liner notes indicated that Branford has been born on August 26, 1960 . . . which meant that the Sting concert fell on his 25th birthday.
My friend Andy and I were both fans of Branford, so together we created this big long banner printed on fanfold computer paper that read:
25 HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BRANFORD! 25
It had a picture of a birthday cake at either end. We were certain that we would hold up the banner at the concert and Branford would see it, recognize that we were True Fans, and invite us backstage for his inevitable birthday party after the show.
Well, the first omens of disaster struck early that night. The four of us piled into the Kilmer family VW Bus and headed for Park City, old Police albums playing on the stereo, buckets of Kentucky Fried Chicken on the seats between us. When we arrived at the gates of the ski resort, however, it turned out that I had left my tickets at home.
I didn't have enough money to cover two more general admission tickets, and Kaysville was too far away for me to drive home and grab the tickets. I had to borrow money from Andy, which meant that Andy didn't have enough cash to buy a concert T-shirt that night. I don't think he's ever forgiven me for that.
The concert took place on a big open stage at the bottom of a mountain, with the concertgoers seated on blankets right on the slope. The sun was going behind the mountains as the show got under way, so by the time Branford took the stage, it was too dark for anyone on stage to possibly see our banner. But Andy and I held it aloft anyway, much to the annoyance of the people behind us on the hill, whose views we were blocking. They kept yelling at us, and then a wicked breeze sprang up and rips our banner down the middle. Damn.
And then there was Darla, whose hand I repeatedly attempted to hold, only to have her disentangle herself from it after a few moments. She didn't unhand me quickly enough to make it absolutely clear that she didn't want me holding her hand at all, so I kept on trying. And she kept on disentangling after something of a delay. I got the message eventually, but not quickly enough to keep from embarrassing myself pretty badly.
This last thing is what I remember most vividly about the Sting concert. It's long past the time when I should have forgotten about it, but I still feel guilty and ashamed when I remember how doggedly I ignored the slow signals Darla was sending me. It still colors my adult actions, to the point that it's now difficult for me to take the first steps in a relationship. I have to wait for a clear and unmistakable signal before I do anything. Which means I wait a long time, and then end up with forward, dominant women who are ultimately not good for me.
It's time for that to change. Sorry, Darla, but I'm letting go of your hand now—all on my own this time. Catch you later.
