Go to the Stones Concert with Me

“Take off and go to the Stones concert with me.”

That was my lifeguard doing the talking. His name was John. “I’m working triage. We’ll go backstage after the concert and have a beer with Mick and the boys.”

The date was September 25, 1981, and I was managing the Holiday Spa in Center City. Right across the street from City Hall. You know, the building next to the Clothes Pin. Great job. Best I ever had. Power, money, and my own harem.

There were negative sides of the job. Intense pressure. Ever-increasing quotas. And if we didn’t hit our quotas, I got the figurative cattle prod shoved up my ass.

So, as much as I wanted to see my favorite group, I was obsessed with climbing the corporate ladder. So my answer came out: “Next time.”

John Belisari was a complex man. Pharmacy major at Temple. Buddies with Hall and Oates. Wanted to promote him into sales, but he was facing prison time for manufacturing and distributing some illegal drugs. So he remained my lifeguard until he went away to serve his time. Promised I’d hire him back once he got out of the pokey.

“You sure you don’t want to go?” John tried again.

“Next time,” came out of my mouth once again.

So I worked rather than going to the concert.

The concert took place at JFK Stadium in South Philly. Used to be called Municipal Stadium during the years before the assassination of JFK. Served as the home of the Army-Navy Game for decades. And this was the Stones American Tour aka The Tattoo You Tour.

John came in the next day and told me I missed a good concert.

“Next time, John,” I promised. “I’ll go with you next time.”

Well, you know next time never came. And I wish that was the end of it. But the real slap in the face came a week later.

That’s when John stopped in my office one morning. He was wearing a bathing suit and a warmup jacket. Remember, he was my lifeguard. He set two Styrofoam cups on my desk. Two coffees. One for me and one for him. Free because John scammed a deal with Dunkin Donuts.

Then he plopped his bathing-suit ass in a chair, across the desk from me, stuck out his pasty-white, hairy-assed, scrawny legs, and propped his sneakers on top of the desk. Kicking some real important shit around in the process.

“Here.” He tossed a packet onto my desk. “Read ’em and weep.”

I opened it and looked inside. Pictures.

Pictures of John, backstage after the Stones concert. Feet propped on a table, pretty much like they were right then. There were bottles of beer on the table. And on the other side of the friggin table sat Mick Jagger and Keith Richard. Smiling at me.

“What’s wrong with this picture?” John said. “I got them to pose just for you.”

“Are you fucking shitting me?”

“Told you to go with me.”

By the way, John served time in a federal lockup. After he got out, as promised, I hired him for a sales position. He was a friend. We worked together and played together for several years. Unfortunately, he met a tragic ending. Not sure if he made it to thirty.

Wrote this for Farlin W. Arrington. Yesterday, he mentioned that his favorite group was the Rolling Stones. So, Arr-Snatch, this is for you, buddy.