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You Didn't Expect That
The Worst Night
John Cornelius O'Callaghan V was not pleased.
"All right, all right already, I'm coming," he shouted at the inside of his dressing room door. The stage manager of The Mosquito in Richmond, Virginia was no doubt the source of the banging on the closed door. No surprise considering The Maine was set to perform in about 2 minutes and John hadn't even changed yet. He had a wicked hangover from last night's club hopping and didn't feel like putting anythign together. He looked down at the decidedly un-rock star stain on his Vans t shirt and pulled it off. The black, swirling letters of the tattoo on his chest stared at him in the mirror. He covered them up- barely- with a plain white undershirt. The fans loved when they could see a bit of the tattoo, anyway. Reminded them what a bad boy he was.
Yeah, sure.
John slipped on his plain black Vans and mussed his brown hair. Who cares, he thought. They don't even care what I look like. As long as my voice works fine. What would the great John O'Callaghan be without that voice? And the soulful way I look into their eyes. Please, he snorted to himself while hurrying out the door and into the wings of the stage. If only they knew how little I mean it.
The concert was rocking as usual, all the guys did great as always and John knew he was as charming as ever. A little gazing into their faces, a little personal memories shared on stage-all lies of course- and they were hooked. John appreciated the fans, but it got tiring having the girls scream and cry over him all the time. He did the obligatory rounds after, taking pictures, signing autographs, laughing, so-nice-to-see-you-hope-you-enjoyed-the-show-okay-bye-now. He did pause once, at a tiny girl with her friends. She was super short and very skinny, but in a healthy looking way. Her black hair was pulled into a low braid, and her porcelain skin was flushed from the concert. "Hi," she said. "I'm Regan."
"All right, all right already, I'm coming," he shouted at the inside of his dressing room door. The stage manager of The Mosquito in Richmond, Virginia was no doubt the source of the banging on the closed door. No surprise considering The Maine was set to perform in about 2 minutes and John hadn't even changed yet. He had a wicked hangover from last night's club hopping and didn't feel like putting anythign together. He looked down at the decidedly un-rock star stain on his Vans t shirt and pulled it off. The black, swirling letters of the tattoo on his chest stared at him in the mirror. He covered them up- barely- with a plain white undershirt. The fans loved when they could see a bit of the tattoo, anyway. Reminded them what a bad boy he was.
Yeah, sure.
John slipped on his plain black Vans and mussed his brown hair. Who cares, he thought. They don't even care what I look like. As long as my voice works fine. What would the great John O'Callaghan be without that voice? And the soulful way I look into their eyes. Please, he snorted to himself while hurrying out the door and into the wings of the stage. If only they knew how little I mean it.
The concert was rocking as usual, all the guys did great as always and John knew he was as charming as ever. A little gazing into their faces, a little personal memories shared on stage-all lies of course- and they were hooked. John appreciated the fans, but it got tiring having the girls scream and cry over him all the time. He did the obligatory rounds after, taking pictures, signing autographs, laughing, so-nice-to-see-you-hope-you-enjoyed-the-show-okay-bye-now. He did pause once, at a tiny girl with her friends. She was super short and very skinny, but in a healthy looking way. Her black hair was pulled into a low braid, and her porcelain skin was flushed from the concert. "Hi," she said. "I'm Regan."