the next order of business. The concierge desk accommodates by sending someone up straightaway with an assortment of eveningwear and accessories from one of the shops in the lobby. He chooses an Armani classic tuxedo and a tailor is summoned who promises minor alterations will be made within the hour. There’s no help for the shoes, though; none of them quite fit and Bemus isn’t available to supply a better selection because he’s gone on another errand. In the end, Colin makes do with the pair of slip-ons that pinch the least and figures to wear the scuffed trainers he arrived in if it comes to that.
The altered clothing arrives an hour later. But Bemus isn’t back yet, and failure starts looking like a possibility—all because he didn’t think about how he’d gain admittance to the Miriam Darling Pavilion of the Los Angeles Music Center. He has neither the nomination document nor the official invitation to the event. Both are in Nate’s possession, and whilst name recognition alone may have provided last-minute plane tickets and hotel accommodations, he has a bad feeling it might not be enough to get him into the Icon ceremony.
He dresses in the new clothing for something to do and to keep up momentum. Won’t hurt to be ready, he’s telling himself when Bemus bursts in with success written all over his broad face.
“Good thing you’re dressed, traffic’s hell on wheels. I had less trouble gettin’ the credentials than I had tryin’ to get anywhere near the Music Center. C’mon, let’s go. Show starts in less than an hour, and as it is you’ll probably be goin’ in late.”
“Who did you see . . . how?”
“Was easy once I got to the right guy—almost like they were expecting you to show at the last minute.”
Colin picks up loose change, a wad of American currency, and a clean handkerchief from a side table and they leave.
“What did Nate say just before we split up at the airport—when he took you aside?” he asks Bemus as they enter the keyed elevator.
“The usual. To keep you from losin’ the family farm at the craps table and to check in regularly.”
They go out through a side entrance, where he endures the polite stares of hotel staff and guests till they’re in the car and underway. He rides in the passenger seat alongside Bemus, his usual spot in this new era.
“When we get there, drop me off in front. Then you come back to the hotel, watch the thing on telly and when it looks like they’re gettin’ ready to hand out the song award, head back and I’ll find you. This’ll probably be the only non-limo in the lot.”
“It’s all they had.” Bemus refers to the bridal-white Cadillac sedan.
“I’m not moaning about the car. Don’t worry about it—could be to my advantage.”
During final approach to the music center, Colin wants to get out and simply walk to the entrance and it’s the ill-fitting shoes more than Bemus that discourage him from bypassing on foot the steady stream of limousines converging at the drop-off point. He’s without socks and just moving his feet within the confines of the car causes discomfort.
Feet are the only thing on his mind when he finally does exit the car and run the gantlet of fans and television interviewers on the broad plaza. If he limps, stumbles, or exhibits anything resembling confusion, he’ll feed the rumor mill the same sort of false grist it’s been subsiding on for too long.
These thoughts persist whilst an usher shows him to a less-than-prominent seat. A good number of people recognize him and clap him on the shoulder as they go by. Some he knows, some he doesn’t; they all serve as a barometer of faith encouraging him to see this thing through at all costs.
If there are programs listing the order of events, he doesn’t have one; the strangers on either side of him are empty-handed as well so he can’t estimate how long he’ll have to endure before his turn comes.
When it does come, more than two tedious hours
The altered clothing arrives an hour later. But Bemus isn’t back yet, and failure starts looking like a possibility—all because he didn’t think about how he’d gain admittance to the Miriam Darling Pavilion of the Los Angeles Music Center. He has neither the nomination document nor the official invitation to the event. Both are in Nate’s possession, and whilst name recognition alone may have provided last-minute plane tickets and hotel accommodations, he has a bad feeling it might not be enough to get him into the Icon ceremony.
He dresses in the new clothing for something to do and to keep up momentum. Won’t hurt to be ready, he’s telling himself when Bemus bursts in with success written all over his broad face.
“Good thing you’re dressed, traffic’s hell on wheels. I had less trouble gettin’ the credentials than I had tryin’ to get anywhere near the Music Center. C’mon, let’s go. Show starts in less than an hour, and as it is you’ll probably be goin’ in late.”
“Who did you see . . . how?”
“Was easy once I got to the right guy—almost like they were expecting you to show at the last minute.”
Colin picks up loose change, a wad of American currency, and a clean handkerchief from a side table and they leave.
“What did Nate say just before we split up at the airport—when he took you aside?” he asks Bemus as they enter the keyed elevator.
“The usual. To keep you from losin’ the family farm at the craps table and to check in regularly.”
They go out through a side entrance, where he endures the polite stares of hotel staff and guests till they’re in the car and underway. He rides in the passenger seat alongside Bemus, his usual spot in this new era.
“When we get there, drop me off in front. Then you come back to the hotel, watch the thing on telly and when it looks like they’re gettin’ ready to hand out the song award, head back and I’ll find you. This’ll probably be the only non-limo in the lot.”
“It’s all they had.” Bemus refers to the bridal-white Cadillac sedan.
“I’m not moaning about the car. Don’t worry about it—could be to my advantage.”
During final approach to the music center, Colin wants to get out and simply walk to the entrance and it’s the ill-fitting shoes more than Bemus that discourage him from bypassing on foot the steady stream of limousines converging at the drop-off point. He’s without socks and just moving his feet within the confines of the car causes discomfort.
Feet are the only thing on his mind when he finally does exit the car and run the gantlet of fans and television interviewers on the broad plaza. If he limps, stumbles, or exhibits anything resembling confusion, he’ll feed the rumor mill the same sort of false grist it’s been subsiding on for too long.
These thoughts persist whilst an usher shows him to a less-than-prominent seat. A good number of people recognize him and clap him on the shoulder as they go by. Some he knows, some he doesn’t; they all serve as a barometer of faith encouraging him to see this thing through at all costs.
If there are programs listing the order of events, he doesn’t have one; the strangers on either side of him are empty-handed as well so he can’t estimate how long he’ll have to endure before his turn comes.
When it does come, more than two tedious hours
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