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Saturday, 7/30: Miami

 

I stepped into the Miami terminal, drew myself up and squared my shoulders, as much to get my back in line as to look like I meant business. It hadn't been a particularly long flight, but it had felt like it, and I had found myself slouching in my seat as I tried to fake a nap. Better than talking to the middle-aged woman next to me.

 

"Couldn't help but notice you're reading about the Backstreet Boys," she'd said, peering at the papers I'd been going over on the plane. "Are you a fan?"

 

"Not really. It's for work. I'm a journalist." My sentences had been short and clipped as I tried desperately to squelch my annoyance at having my privacy invaded. It was Saturday afternoon, sure, but this plane was far from sold out. Why wasn't I sitting by myself?

 

The woman seemed to ignore completely that I was a journalist, which still stopped some people in their tracks, mostly people who were amazed I was gainfully employed. "Were you a fan back when they were popular? My daughter was a fan. I'd guess you're about her age. She just loved those guys when she was in middle school."

 

At which point I had closed my eyes, counted to 10, then shut the seatback tray with all of my papers still on it and made up an excuse about having a headache. Bad enough to be sitting next to Brenda Buttinski here, but even at 30, being mistaken for younger than my age was still near the top of my list of pet peeves. I was petite, curvy without being heavy, completely unintimidating, the extremely reluctant owner of a girlish face and a white-girl ‘fro of mouse-brown curls. In no universe did I pass for 30 at first blush. Sources usually didn't get close enough to notice the little lines just beginning to crease my skin between my eyebrows and at the corners of my clear gray eyes, the scattering of gray hairs in the midst of the brown. PR people and agents hardly knew what to make of me when they first laid eyes on me. But the moments when I knew my baby face engendered absolutely no respect from a given musician were still all too uncomfortably frequent.

 

Even after three years of knowing a nation full of music lovers would read my words and maybe even think about them, I still felt a frisson of jittery nerves as I embarked on every new assignment. The very prospect of working with a band I couldn't begin to know how to deal with, not least because of my long-ago girlish love for them, didn't help.

 

I tried to walk with authority now, striding through the terminal to an unheard anthem that might or might not have been "In the Air Tonight." It was Miami, after all. Even with the defiant splashes of color my red bag and purple suitcase made against my black skirt, black T-shirt and well-worn black flats, I felt horribly out of place among the all-too-stereotypical flowered dresses and light-colored suits. I remembered reading The Rum Diary shortly after I moved to New York, remembered how Thompson had characterized his pallid New Yorker among the tropical denizens. You've been a professional journalist for nine years now. You've been writing for no less than Rolling fucking Stone for three years. You've written harder-hitting stories, dealt with bigger divas. You know what you're doing.

 

It was a long walk through the airport, and my suitcase felt like it was full of granite as I approached the security checkpoint. The car ride into the city would be a welcome rest. The magazine had told me to expect a driver, and now my eyes searched the crowd at security, the sea of expectant faces dotted with signs hand-lettered with last names. A sign jumped out at me - M. MICHAELS - in a pair of hands connected to a mild-looking man with a salt-and-pepper #2 buzz cut and a deeply lined face the color of light oak. A broad white smile split his face as I approached.

 

"Hi, Meg Michaels," I introduced myself.

 

He shifted the sign to one side to shake my hand warmly. "Miz Michaels, I'm George. I'll be your driver this afternoon." His voice was faintly laced with Spanish. "Let's go grab your luggage and get going."

 

The long walk to the car allowed us the chance to chat. I was a writer for Rolling Stone assigned to follow the Backstreet Boys on tour for a week; single; lived on Staten Island but born and raised in a small town in western Illinois; had seen my share of celebrities - the good, the bad, and the ugly. George was a local limo driver the band had hired for this stop; married as long as I'd been alive, with a couple of grown kids; a lifelong Little Havana man; had seen his share of celebrities, too. We were still chatting about those celebrity experiences as we approached a cushy white sedan in the parking garage.

 

"About how long will it take to get to the theater?" I asked him, sinking into the soft beige leather of the backseat, closing my eyes briefly, savoring the luxury of the fabric and the coolness of the car after that slice of humid afternoon heat. The end of Miami July made the end of New York July look like the end of Idaho January, and the goosebumps on my bare legs from the chilly cabin air had finally smoothed out.

 

"Half an hour," George replied as he started the car. The lively chatter of a Spanish-language newscast drifted softly from the speakers. "It's not far, but traffic can be a horrorshow getting outta here and around down there."

 

"Well, let me know when we're about five minutes away," I replied, pulling out the papers I had just managed to rescue from the seatback tray on the plane.

 

Suburbia flew by outside the car window as I took one last look at my plan of action, scrawled in ever-hasty handwriting:

 

            Tweets to personal account (incl. pics) 6x+/day

            Video/text/photo blogs every day

            Individual interviews

            Final written piece (4000+ words)

 

I put away the action plan and took a final look at the tour itinerary. Could've been worse. Miami, Orlando, Atlanta, Charlotte, Nashville. Five shows in seven days, plus two full days of travel and - to my dismay - one night of sleeping on the bus. I would fly out of Nashville the day they departed for their next show in Louisville. A little over a week later, they would come to New York to perform and would shoot their cover in the midst of a bunch of other promotions. The story itself would run September 5, Labor Day; I had to put it to bed by August 19.

 

And finally, I looked one more time at what the PR rep and Thomas had given me about each guy. It felt surreal, looking at these for work and not for my own curiosity. The information told bits and pieces of the story of 12 roller-coaster years gone by in a flash. A few stories from our morgue, a couple of dossiers from the publicists - much of the info glossed over what it had been rumored had actually happened in their lives. A few more albums and corresponding tours, each less successful than the last. Lots of solo work, with varying degrees of success. The departure of Kevin Richardson from the band to focus on family (and star in Rent on Broadway, I vaguely remembered). Nick Carter's drunk-driving rap. A.J. McLean's stints in rehab. Marriages. Births. A divorce.

 

I winced. It felt like a bubble had burst, like some last little bit of my youth had disappeared. But at the same time, my head and my heart, the hardened heart of a journalist used to dealing with talented jerks and just plain bad-luck streaks, knew these things happened. I was used to them. It wasn't that I believed the Backstreet Boys were just talented jerks. It wasn't that I wanted to believe any celebrity I wrote about was just a jerk deep down inside. I just knew better. I knew the Backstreet Boys couldn't possibly be so very different from anyone else I had ever written about or would ever write about, just because my sun had once risen and set on them.

 

Yet, just like anyone else I'd ever written about, a part of me hoped they'd be at worst decent, at best a joy to cover. Maybe more so because I'd once loved them from afar.

 

To be sure, definitely more so because I was going to have to spend every waking moment of the next week with them, for God's sake.

 

"Miz Michaels?" George's voice broke into my thoughts. "We're about five minutes from the venue."

 

I looked up. Somehow, downtown already surrounded us.

 

I fished my press pass out of my messenger bag and hung it around my neck, my own red badge of courage. I pulled out my iPhone to check my email, staring down at it in wonder. Even years after getting my first iPhone, I still marveled at its ability to be a journalist's best friend, with a useful app for nearly everything. My phone would serve as video camera, still camera, audio recorder, Twitter updater, and God knew what else on this little adventure. It would upload my video blogs and still pictures directly to my Rolling Stone blog. Even so, I had also brought my laptop for writing and my trusty camera, a professional-quality Nikon worth more than my life that I'd bought off Alicia the last time she upgraded her equipment, for the high-quality still pictures the magazine would no doubt want to use in print. I wondered what old Dr. Thompson would think of a Rolling Stone writer as backpack journalist, although, my God, I was traveling with a washed-up boy band attempting another comeback and he had crossed swords with Nixon, so was there really any room for a legitimate comparison?

 

We pulled into the parking lot of a massive arena, which loomed larger than life above the flat urban blocks around it and the sparkling ocean behind it, and found our way to a back entrance with a fleet of sleek black buses and semi-trucks parked a casual distance away. The Waterfront Theater was a performance venue tucked inside the American Airlines Arena, and while it was hardly an arena-scale tour, I was willing to bet the whole building practically still stank of the Miami Heat's sweat.

 

George idled the car, popped the trunk, and jumped out to unload my bag and open my door. I grabbed my red bag and hopped out as a huge, red-haired refrigerator of a man opened it. He saw my press pass and gave me a dour nod, waving me in. I took my bag from George, eased it to the ground so I could pull out its handle, rested it against my leg as I unzipped a side pocket to pull out a $5 bill for his tip - a quick trick I'd learned several trips ago - and murmured my thanks. He had gotten me here, for which I wasn't actually sure whether to thank him as I stared up at the arena before me, at the long hallway I faced.

 

I walked into the building after the security guy, dragging my bag behind me as I heard the tone of George's engine change and then fade away, signaling that he'd driven off. Silence fell. "My" guard, the one leading the way, didn't seem to be a wordy fellow, but considering that he could have moonlighted for WWE and that his stony gaze could have wilted the most resourceful groupie in her tracks, I didn't get the sense he had been hired for his talkative nature.

 

We passed an overhead sign with an arrow pointing to the left: "Dressing Rooms." Ahead, double doors, guarded by another beefy security type, this one black and sullen-faced. He opened them, and my guard walked in ahead of me. I could hear voices singing, as clear as day, unaccompanied by any instrument. The guys must have been in the middle of sound check.

 

The first impression I had of even the relatively small Waterfront Theater, the one I would write down later, was that of a cavern - a great, empty cavern. Large spaces always seem smaller when they aren't crammed full of people and things, proving to you just how big they are and how much they can hold, but walking into an empty venue never lost its surreality to me. I felt so very small.

 

At our end of the cavernous space was a stage, elaborate and shiny, with instruments off to one side and all manner of lights and sound equipment surrounding it, hanging from the edges, sitting down below. The speakers blared a harmony of voices, singing vaguely familiar lyrics.

 

I couldn't see the guys - we were off to one side and slightly behind the stage - so I crept forward, ignoring the menacing stare of my guard, whose kind I had long ago learned to manage. My eyes registered first the side profile of Howie Dorough, then - as I tiptoed around the stage - all four guys sitting on stools.

 

I caught my breath. I kept my face carefully blank. As quietly as I could, I pulled my phone from my purse, thumbed to the camera app and held it up in front of me to record 15 golden seconds of singing. And now I would have known the song anywhere: "I'll Never Break Your Heart."  I smothered a smile in spite of myself.

 

The singing stopped, and I hit the stop button. And then a gravelly voice stopped me in my tracks: "Can we help you?"

 

My blood froze in my veins. I didn't need to look up to know the distinctive voice of A.J. McLean. But I looked up anyway - and was arrested by the sight of four of the five guys I'd worshipped more than a decade ago staring at me in unmasked curiosity.

 

I had told Alicia they no longer looked interesting, but the picture that had made me say that clearly hadn't done them justice. They looked different from my teenage fantasy - shorter hair, more facial hair, thinner, older, somehow as if they'd been around the block a few more times - and yet the same, like fruit that had ripened or, maybe less potentially insulting, a wine that had aged to perfection. I felt as I'd feared I would, 18 again, screaming on the inside. They were larger than life.

 

A lesser woman, I would have liked to think, would have fainted. But I was no less than a journalist with nerves of steel. I drew a deep breath, squared my shoulders and drew myself up to every hair of my 62 inches, steadied my hands and voice, marshaled my typical blend of confidence and a little icebreaking sarcasm, and replied, "I hope so. Meg Michaels, Rolling Stone." I forced a smile. "Your new best friend for the next two weeks."

 

Still, four stares. I could have been speaking Klingon. I counted off five seconds. I felt five inches tall. Bad start?

 

It wasn't for lack of trying. I was doing my best to be a good sport. Hell, Thomas had told me to be a good sport. He'd all but pulled me into his office by the ear yesterday, after a solid week of sullenness and passive-aggressive comments about not being able to take any stories next week because I'd be stuck on a goddamn bus.

 

"Michaels," he'd warned me, "just because you think this is a turd of an assignment doesn't mean it's not still an assignment. Now you be a good sport about this, or I swear to Christ I'll put you in the bread line."

 

I'd been about to spit out something to the effect of "Yes, Dad," but the dead-serious look in his eyes had killed the words in my throat. I was sarcastic at work, but bratty, that was much rarer. And he wasn't having it. Shit. Consequences. I'd squeaked out a response with uncharacteristic fear and slunk back to my desk. He couldn't see me now, and yet his threat echoed in my head, forcing me to at least fake enthusiasm. Fake it till you make it.

 

The problem was, I was doing such a good job of faking being enthusiastic about a story some subconscious part of me was faking not being enthusiastic about that I didn't even know how it really felt to be staring up at these guys, who stared skeptically down at me now. I would have liked to think this sort of reaction from a band always made me nervous. It would have been bullshit.

 

A.J. cleared his throat. In a spot-on Monty Python British accent, he said, "Pull the other one!"

 

The others laughed. Caught off guard, I had to laugh, too, out of nervousness more than anything else. Whatever retort I might have attempted wilted in my mouth as I held up my press pass. "No, I promise I am."

 

"Figured as much," Nick Carter spoke up. He looked more different from his old self than anyone, skinnier, his blond hair shorter and darker, the edges of tattoos visible under T-shirt sleeves that hugged well-defined biceps. His smirk mirrored mine. I wanted to hide. Jesus, Michaels, pull it together. You are knocking on 31 years old's door. You are a professional journalist. You've done lunch with Jagger. These guys are child's play.

 

"We don't get a lot of strange chicks joining us on tour," Nick continued

 

That's debatable, I thought, reflecting for half a second on my nine years of experience writing about musicians.

 

"Well, welcome," A.J. said, giving me what I chose to interpret as an encouraging smile. He wore a neatly trimmed black mustache and goatee, a fedora, and so help me God, a whole hot mess of guyliner. He looked like Pete Wentz's stunt double after a rousing round of No-Shave November and a few steaks, but he also looked very friendly. "If you wanna head on backstage, they can take your suitcase, and our - Bob, you wanna go find Christine? Our tour manager can bring you up to speed," he elaborated as my guard retreated backstage, wordlessly, reminding me of a carrot-topped Lurch. Silent Bob, indeed.

 

"We were just finishing sound check," A.J. continued. "So, uh..."

 

I knew where I wasn't wanted, and it was usually right where I wanted to be. As much as I wanted to escape, I remembered Thomas' warning, and I flashed them a winning smile. "Oh, I was gonna stay for the rest of sound check."

 

The guys exchanged one of those quick, speaking glances among themselves. I wondered if they had developed that maddening sixth sense for nonverbal communication so many normal guys had and claimed they didn't.

 

"Guess we can't stop you," Brian Littrell said finally.

 

My heart turned over in my chest. He had been my favorite all those years ago, and of all the guys, he had visibly aged the best. Where Nick's hair had darkened, his had lightened. His cheekbones looked like they'd been sculpted out of granite, and there was an ageless, determined set to his jaw that belied what I hoped was a healthy sense of irony, or else he wouldn't be a 36-year-old man wearing his jeans tucked into the tops of expensive basketball sneakers. But his left hand looked achingly bare, and he wouldn't meet my eyes, focusing on a spot above my head as he responded to my request.

 

Ah, yes, there it was: the token musician who hated me. I couldn't for a moment imagine what else it could be.

 

Reminded of my role, I nodded my thanks, feeling strangely chastised, and took a seat a few rows back from the stage, shoving my phone into my pocket and digging out my notepad and a pen as I settled in.

 

Sound check rolled on, their voices rising and falling in volume as technicians adjusted the system. They still sounded as sweet as ever, and I was impressed; time easily could have done them harm. I kind of couldn't believe I was hearing them in person. I scribbled notes furiously on my first impressions.

 

Presently, as sound check wrapped up, I heard the staccato rhythm of high heels clicking, drawing closer to me. I looked up, and an icy blonde woman a few years older than me was approaching. She was taller than me, even absent heels, and so slender she could have hidden behind a sapling; the massive walkie-talkie on her hip probably constituted a quarter of her weight at that moment. She, too, was wearing jeans and a tee above her high heels, but she seemed just a little too put-together, her hair just a little too sleek, her makeup just a little too perfect, everything just a little too clipped. I assumed this was the tour manager, who by nature would be a high-strung person, but I would have expected her to look like she hadn't slept in three weeks, not like she'd just stepped off a TV set.

 

"Hiiiiiiiiiii," she drawled in a high-pitched voice, her tone as insincere as the one my mother had used with bank tellers when I was a kid. She extended a hand to me, but when I reached out to shake, her fingers barely curled around mine. Bad handshake, insincere voice, looked like the most popular girl in school: I hated her already.

 

"I'm Christine Palmero, tour manager," Ice Queen continued. "You wanna come backstage?"

 

I stood up, juggling notebook and bags. "Uh, sure."

 

As I followed her, Howie, who was sitting closest to the edge of the stage, caught my eye, the other guys in the middle of advising the technician. He had a warm, open, ageless face with a five o'clock shadow, and the flowing, curly locks of yesteryear had been cropped into a subtle fauxhawk. He, more than anyone else, was better-looking than I remembered.

 

"Good luck," he mouthed to me, with a quick wink, and I couldn't keep from cracking a smile.