Meeting Pete
From the Chicago Files
After briefly taking inventory of the sadly forgotten marked-down books no one wants in the vestibule of a local Barnes & Noble, I entered the store proper. Standing front and center was a well-appointed display of Pete Townshend’s recently released memoir.
I had recently read an excerpted review of the book in the Chicago Tribune, so I was pleased to be reminded of its existence. I picked up one of the books for purchase and noticed a sign promoting that the author would be personally signing copies the following Monday evening. Excellent.
It’s not that I am, or ever was, a big Who fan, even if I did own nearly all their records. I was a Pete Townshend fan to be sure. I liked what he did with The Who. I liked what he did as a solo artist. Mostly, I loved that he was a writer.
I never paid much attention to him as a person. I always looked at him as a guitarist. Not until after reading a published essay he wrote years ago that appeared in a major periodical did I learn that he was quite an intellectual and thoughtful man. I was later surprised to learn that he penned nearly all the songs The Who recorded: Roger Daltrey, a pretty face with a silky voice to deliver them.
I bought the book.
The prospect of meeting Pete Townshend excited me. But did I really want to stand in a long line just for a moment with one of the true iconic figures of The British Invasion?
Yep.
It’s not like I’d have to travel into the city. The store was five minutes from our apartment, so I committed to attending. I would arrive early and be first in line, I told myself.
I returned to Barnes & Noble at 5 pm the following Monday. I wasn’t first in line, even though the signings wouldn’t begin for another two hours. The book-signing administrators were handing out numbers determining one’s position in line.
When I presented my book to one of the people in charge, she asked to see my receipt. I told her that I bought the book a few days ago and had no idea where my receipt was. She informed me that without a receipt… blah, blah—you get it.
“I bought the book three days ago. Didn’t think to retain the receipt.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t give you a ticket unless you have a receipt.”
“Explain that, please,” I said.
“Unless you bought the book at Barnes & Noble, we can’t…”
“But I did,” I said. “Bought it three days ago, right here.”
She was sorry again. Sorry indeed. A sorry excuse of authority.
“You’re just gonna have to trust me,” I pleaded. “I bought this book here. Just believe me. I don’t lie. I have no reason to.”
She was unmoved.
Mild indignation ensued as is often the case when faced with ineptitude.
Then I calmed down. I realized that this woman was not a good problem solver. She was young, but not that young. She was incapable of making a proper on-the-fly decision. She’s a worker bee with one specialty: following rules. I get it, we need worker bees. I needed to find a Queen bee.
I approached the checkout counter. I did not wait in line. That I could not tolerate, so I entered from the opposite end and stood a few paces from someone making a purchase, ready to plead my case to the clerk at the register when she was free.
I detailed my dilemma to the clerk. Fortunately, a manager was nearby and overheard my case, promptly looked up my purchase history, escorted me back to Ms. Unable, told her, “He’s good,” and asked her to give me a ticket for my place in line. I did not look my nemesis in the eye. I didn’t think gloating on any level would serve either of us.
I returned at my prescribed time and snaked my way leisurely with the rest of the seekers through aisles of shelved books before we’d finally meet Pete. I planned to ask him to sign the back of my iPhone as well, even though it was clearly stated that he would only sign the book, not any memorabilia. I reasoned that my phone wasn’t a piece of memorabilia.
At some point, I discarded the idea of having him sign the phone. I recalled years earlier when I tried to get Jimmy Carter to sign my World Party CD. One of his handlers informed me that he was only signing his poetry book.
I looked Jimmy in the eye and pleaded, “Can you just sign it? Laurie Anderson did.”
He responded in his familiar Georgian drawl, “Ah caint.”
“What do you mean you can’t? You can do anything you want. You’re the President,” I reminded him.1
He flashed a blinding grin and repeated, “Ah caint.”
I decided not to debate the President any further. A Secret Service agent had already told me to take my hands out of my coat pockets just before I reached the President, so I cut my losses, grateful for the opportunity to sit face-to-face with a Nobel Peace Prize winner.2
When I was five people away from meeting Pete Townshend, I also decided to ditch all the words I might share with him. I thought anything I might say would be inane and forgettable and of no value to him or me. What could I impart that would be meaningful? Probably nothing. I’m here to get a book signed and face a celebrity. That’s enough.
On the table separating us, I laid my book open to the page we were earlier instructed to. I watched him scribble his name with a Sharpie. While he signed, I sincerely and respectfully uttered, “Thank you, sir.”
He lifted his head and met my eyes, then cocked his head sideways like a dog does when seemingly perplexed. He then smiled sweetly and offered me his hand. We shook on it. Our eyes locked and we silently gazed at one another for an extended beat.
He has incredibly beautiful eyes.
I had no idea if he could do anything he wanted. I certainly had no idea SCOTUS would give the President unlimited powers 20 years later.
Barack Obama would also win the Nobel Peace Prize 5 years after I met Jimmy Carter. And nearly 20 years after that, another U.S. President would win the FIFA Peace Prize, whatever that is. I guess it has something to do with soccer, or fútbol as it’s known outside the U.S. Maybe the prize has something to do with a hands-off approach.
As always, thank you for reading Line by Line. Perhaps one day someone will seek my autograph. For now, here are the ones relevant to this story.
The World Party CD booklet Carter couldn’t, wouldn’t, or shouldn’t sign, but Laurie Anderson did.
This was the book (a gift) I had Laurie Anderson sign for Karen. Only after did I ask if she would sign the World Party CD booklet.
Singer-songwriter Karl Wallinger of World Party signed this $100 bill when I met him outside after one of his shows in Chicago.
Pete Townshend’s autograph in the book I bought without a receipt to prove I didn’t steal it from Barnes & Noble.
Laurie Anderson? Now all the jumbled pieces of you lying around my synapsis have a meaningful place to centrally attach. Thank you for writing.
Hi Eric, I always enjoy your posts. Finally upgraded to pay for them! I, too, was fortunate to meet Jimmy Carter and actually spent 45 min with him and Rosalyn escorting them on a tour of the Butterfly Conservatory at Callaway Gardens in GA where I worked at the time. He was a lovely, gracious man, but I never asked him to sign anything. I just wanted to be present and in his presence, so the memory will hopefully last my lifetime. Thank you for sharing your wonderful stories. PS, I already have a copy of MILK, but I don’t think you signed it, sadly.