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Up until that point, I'd never been much of a Tom Jones fan. He was more
my mother's generation, not mine. Oh sure, I knew he had some hits here and there since the mid-sixties. I'd danced
to "Sexbomb" and "Kiss" while I mindlessly hummed along to his Welsh baritone. Still, I didn't
own any of his CDs. Didn't know the lyrics to most of his songs, save for a few bars of "What's New Pussycat?",
"It's Not Unusual", and "She's a Lady". But that's only because I recalled them from endlessly
listening to my mom's stereo. Had I any alternative, I would have changed the record. Of course, as a child, I
had no alternatives. It was mom's way or the highway, so to speak.
So when my friend Sheila invited me to the concert, I was ambivalent at best. Would I be the youngest woman there
at thirty-two? Would watching a middle-aged man gyrating on stage gross me out? Would my friends tease me mercilessly?
Would I have to pay to witness the spectacle? Ah, the last question was the deciding factor. And, no, I didn't.
So, yes, I went. Free is free, after all.
Besides, even I had an appreciation for the concept of "legend". And it's not every day you get to see
one up close and personal, regardless of your feelings towards that person beforehand. Plus, Sheila couldn't find
anyone else to go with her. I was tempted to give her my mother's phone number, but decided it was best not to
put my friend through the torture of three hours alone with her. My mom would always be my mom; Sheila could easily
erase me from her speed dial and forever be done with me.
At eight o'clock on a warm Saturday night, I found myself fifth row center in a lovely outdoor amphitheater, surrounded
by a thousand or so fans, most of which were women. The men, I assumed, were beleaguered husbands and boyfriends.
Sheila was already grinning from ear to ear. I was on my second glass of wine, hoping to catch up with her sense
of joy. It turned out, I didn't have long to wait.
Tom appeared on stage, dressed in an all black outfit: pants that were a good two sizes too tight (too help him
hit the high notes, I assumed), and a shirt opened two buttons too low (too better afford us a glimpse of all that
manly chest hair, I assumed as well).
"How old is he?" I asked Sheila; well, shouted to her anyway. The crowd was on their feet and madly screaming
their undying devotion to him. The noise was nearly deafening.
"Um, I think sixty-four," she shouted back in between her repeated screams of, "I love you, Tom!"
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