Ham by Sam Harris Page B

quiet during each song and then an eruption at the end. They were mine and I was theirs. And, shockingly, I was having an amazing time.
    After “Rainbow,” I rose and took a bow as the audience rushed down the aisles, crowding the thrust of the stage to reach up toward me. I ran the distance of the proscenium, touching as many as I could.
    As I headed stage right to make my exit, I saw the gigantic Jim Welcome sweating more than ever, practically translucent. He was giving me the old showbiz signal to stretch and was mumbling something I couldn’t make out. I strained my eyes to read his lips: “She-e-e-e’s No-o-o-o-t He-e-e-e-re. We-e-e Do-o-o-o-n’t Kno-o-o-o-w Whe-e-e-e-re Are-e-e-e-tha I-i-i-is!”
    You’re fucking kidding me.
    I knew that returning to the stage after my save-the-day triumph could only go downhill from there. I should have walked off. I should have said that it wasn’t my problem. I’d fulfilled my duty beyond-beyond-beyond the call. But something deep inside me, burdened and inspired by my “the show must go on” credo, coerced me to return to the fray and do something, anything, until they could locate the diva and get her onstage. I circled back to the boards, but I knew that I couldn’t make the audience think it was my choice.
    â€œThey’re not ready yet,” I said, convincing them the delay was about production and not Aretha, to maintain her innocence. I plopped back down onto the edge of the stage and said, “Any requests?”
    â€œA Change Is Gonna Come!”
    It was my pleasure.
    I sang a song from my upcoming album, “I’ve Heard It All Before.”
    â€œAnything else? What do you want me to sing?”
    â€œThe phone book! You could sing the phone book!”
    â€œSomebody bring me a phone book!” I joked.
    A stagehand came out from the wings with a phone book, getting a big laugh from the audience and me. Why not? I was relieved to have a gimmick, a bit, something to take up some time.
    I flipped to the businesses that began with A. I sang and riffed, musically commenting on each of them. “A-1 Auto Service” had a zippy jingle and “All Saints Funeral Home” had a wailing, soulful mourning vibe. The crowd hollered with laughter and then applauded wildly when I hit a long high note. Just as I got to “Cuyahoga Community College” I spotted Jim Welcome’s enormous soaking arms flailing in the wings. He was signaling for me to wrap it up . Aretha was standing next to him, smoking in every way, and looking impatient, as if I’d kept her waiting.
    I closed the phone book and said, “They’re ready now. I have had the best time with you tonight. It was scary to come out here so late, with no music, but this has been one of the greatest experiences I’ve ever had onstage. Thank you.”
    I stood up and crossed to the down-center spot and resang the tag of my song: “If happy little bluebirds fly  . . . beyond the rainbow  . . . Why, oh, why can’t I?”
    I bowed and walked off the stage as the crowd roared. I passed Aretha and said, “They’re all yours—Go get ’em!” I was still enamored but digging deep to remain respectful, because what I really wanted to say was “Top that, bitch!” However, I suspected that she would, indeed, “top that,” and probably wipe the floor with me.
    Aretha Franklin was about to walk onstage and erase any memory of my existence.
    Her overture began. I took a seat just inside the wings, two feet behind Miss Franklin, so I could study her every move. She puffed and shifted back and forth, waiting for her entrance. I caught my breath, still tingling from the oddest episode of my career. I took the moment in.
    And then I took her in.
    Aretha Franklin, who was all of 250 pounds, was wearing a pinkish tube minidress that was tassled from her ginormous, hazardous breasts to her