It Ain’t Over Till It’s Over

As time went on and the more I got out into the world, the more I wanted to be loved by a man.  A real man.  A man I could see every day.  A man with whom I could develop a genuine, reciprocal relationship.  The desire was there, but it wasn’t so easy to let go of youthful dreams.  I was torn between wanting more Tom Jones and wanting more of a real life.  So I kept one foot in Tomjonesville and one foot in the real world.  Backstage calls were juxtaposed against guys who just liked to hang out. 

I had begun to bring appropriately aged, single men into my life, but I have to admit, it was always awkward when a young man unexpectedly found himself at my place and I hadn’t eradicated the one or two framed photographs of me and Mr. Jones from the premises. ” Are you kidding me?” was not an uncommon comment.  Tom Jones always proved to be a mood buster, a date buzz kill.   And, if I was drawn to the singer, was it intuitively obvious that I would be attracted to the tall, dark, and bad?  Too many a girls with low self esteem have “Bad boys, bad boys, whatcha gonna do when they come for you?  Bad boys, bad boys” running through their lives like the theme song from Cops.  Was I going to be one of those girls?  (“Bad Boys” song by James Alex, Larry Summerville, Jr., Melvin Watson, Lauren Evens, and Mike Busbee & Ian Lewis.) 

The ever-present autograph signing session.

 

Despite the fact that being at the Bel Air Hotel was the first true reality check that smacked me in the face and verified my slow but sure developing maturity, I wasn’t quite ready to give up the pursuit of the dreams and goals that led me, step-by-step, to singer Tom Jones.  While I was able to get out of my agoraphobic comfort zone of my parents home, live on my own, work, and grow emotionally in many ways, part of my comfort zone became Tomjonesville.  Part reality and part fantasyland strangely became my next safe place.  

Despite the fact that I met and was around many different and interesting people – Mr. G., whom I will never forget as the first gatekeeper to Tomjonesville, God bless him, as he is no longer with us, Tom’s son, Mark Woodward, bodyguard Dave Perry, Big Jim Sullivan and other musicians, a disc jockey from KVCR, and a multitude of fun, serious, and generous Tom Jones fans, a groupie or two, as well as Engelbert Humperdink fans, and Elvis fans – this wild and funky world became my little microcosm, and I was hesitant to leave it.  I mean, really, who wants to walk away from a handsome, sexy, superlative-voiced superstar? 

The superstar with a hint of his son in the background.

I had given up the idea of me and Mr. Jones falling madly in love with each other, but the possibilities that lurked after these meetings still made me dance toward, and back away, toward and away, toward and away.  My time in Tomjonesville felt like a long version of Baby’s time at the Catskills in the movie “Dirty Dancing.”  It was my very own coming of age story, in which I went from being an awkward, giggly teenage girl to a fully developed, grown-up woman.  Pardon the expression, but “I had the time of my life,” and the problem was, I couldn’t leave the Catskills – I mean, Tomjonesville. 

Mr. Greenfield - the gatekeeper to Tomjonesville.

So, I checked with my partner-in-TJ-crime, Rose, and we decided we would go to Vegas together.  Vegas, baby!!!  Rosie had never seen Jones perform in such an intimate setting, and I was excited to share the experience with her.  However, Rosie had no clue what my real plan was.  In fact, she will be reading it here for the first time.  This was going to be the Final Hurrah:  Rose and I would go to Caesar’s Palace, and while there, I would avail myself of all of the opportunities that were available to me the last two times I was in Vegas, sans Elvis, because everybody knows, (now I can’t use the phrase ‘everybody knows’ without hearing “Atlanta Housewife” Phaedra Park’s voice), when Elvis is in town there is no other game in town.  And instead of running like the Arctic wind across the Nevada desert, my final goal was to become that long, tall drink of water to quench the thirst of the singer.  I vowed to myself that I would not run like a six-foot-two Chicken Little.  This Vegas trip was going to be A-M-A-Z-I-N-G because I had matured, and reconsidered what I wanted. 

Then the first domino fell.  Rosie canceled because she couldn’t afford our trip, even though she was working two jobs.  But it was cool.  It was okay.  I could go to Vegas by myself.  In fact, it would be better to go alone.  I knew what I wanted and how to make it happen.  Oddly, I no longer heard Snow White’s voice singing, “Some day my prince will come.”  I no longer heard the little birdies that used to chirp in my head, gently driving me forward to my goal. 

In fact, as the date got closer, I began to have a few panic moments.  Uh oh.  I thought I had all of those panic feelings in check.  Then I heard from an older TJ fan, who was very close to a card-carrying TJ groupie.  In all her wisdom, she set the second domino in motion, by writing, “Don’t go to Vegas.  You’re too young and have too much going for you to get caught up in that kind of thing.”  She actually had the nerve to tell me, “Get on with your life.”  It was like a bucket of ice-cold water in my face.  It was completely sobering.

Jones and Dave Perry the ever-present mate and muscle, if needed.

 

Then the third domino fell.  I knew she was right.  And the rows of dominos in the Last Hurrah fell like the sound of a hammer in my sensitive young heart  – bam-bam-bam-bam-bam!   I realize the only reason my mother didn’t freak out when I told her I was going to Vegas by myself was the fact that that she knew me so well that she trusted I would not go.  Mommio was insightful.  She just patiently waited it out, knowing that any real connection to the real man in Tomjonesville fought with my true self, my values system, and my ultimate goal of finding true love and creating a family.    

There I was in my twenties, belatedly facing the death of my teenage fantasies, so I did what any teenage girl might do.   I got out all of my Tom Jones paraphernalia and revisited the goodies one last time.  I lovingly looked through all of the photographs, newspaper clippings, programs and hotel menus I had collected over the years.  I held his tie, which for at least a year smelled like Tom, and listened to Jones’ LPs on my 1970’s stereo as I went through years of memorabilia.  It felt like a break-up.  Or a wake, because I distinctly remember some tears intermingled with Stoffer’s mac and cheese and chocolate ice cream during this mourning phase.   

Jones plaintiff version of the song, “Tired of Being Alone,” (song by Al Green) danced in my head like the black swan.  It was my party and I cried because I wanted to.  So I cried.  And cried.  I put all of my Tom Jones things in a big brown packing box and ceremoniously carried it to a corner in the garage.  I was going to have to learn to live TJ-free.

Guitar man, Big Jim Sullivan.

  

And then I got a call saying, “You have to go to Knottsberry Farm.  Tom is taping a special there for a couple nights.”  Maybe it wasn’t over… with the singer who saved me.  

Elvis on stage at Tom Jones' show at Caesar's Palace September 1973.