I Dream of Gene Simmons

I sit down on a burgundy couch next to a man with scary-spice hair a wide nose and jutting teeth. I turn to face him and smile and he says hello. I say, “Are you Gene Simmons?” And he laughs and says yes through slobbery teeth. We both agree on an autograph. My hands dive into my bag then and I find a pen but no paper except for a pregnancy flow chart from my job. I say, “I can’t believe this! I’m a writer and I have no paper.” He finds this funny, and also finds my fumbling amusing. Finally I unfold a plain piece of computer paper from an inside pocket in my bag. “This should work.” I stand up. I do not want to read over his shoulder like a lurker on a subway, and I want to be surprised with his writing. Under two minutes he hands me back the signed and crumpled paper, I refold it and replace it in the inside pocket of my bag. Two teenagers have been sitting across from us this whole time and now one of them gets up and jumps on the left of Gene, smashing his belt buckle into his belly. “Watch it, Kid,” Gene says. “You’re smushing my buckle.” The kid’s friend takes a photo of this conversation bomb, and the kid scurries away. Then a boy comes over in some grungy get up and Gene, who looks a little annoyed at this point, accepts the guy and scribbles on a piece of loose-leaf. A man with long brown hair, a black leather top hat, a long black leather jacket, and metal chains burdening his neck walks over next. And I think Gene gives this guy an autograph solely because of what the man is wearing. And I also think that none of these fellas look like they belong to the KISS Army.

I was about thirteen, so my sister was sixteen, and we were having a slumber party; so naturally we were listening to the Spice Girls. The doorbell rang and we all shouted, “Chinese food!” and ran to the door, still dancing. The deliveryman handed over the food, but stepped over the threshold and started petting my dog. Even after the bill was paid, the man stayed. I said to my sister, “Nicole, what do we do?” She had the solution. Suddenly the Spice Girls music stopped, and the silence magnified. With a lick of static the KISS record sounded. Paul Stanley sang about his love gun and the deliveryman was out the door before you could shout it out loud!