I had a recent conversation with a friend. (Yes, I have friends, and they... well, him... ok it's me and a furbie. Every 5 minutes we wake up, scream something at each other, and go back to sleep.) I was reminded of something that happened to me, which some may find entertaining (at least to someone bored out of his mind). This is a true story. The names have not been changed to protect the innocent. And anyway, someone who hangs around me can hardly be considered innocent.
In college, I was friends with a guy I'll call "Dave R". We became friends because we shared a liking for some very esoteric music, mostly British, but european in general. Dave was a year ahead of me, so he graduated first, and I kind of lost touch with him. Later I heard through mutual friends that Dave had moved to New York City, and gotten a job working at the Record Plant. This was a big deal because the Record Plant is a famous recording studio. In fact, probably the three most famous recording studios are Abbey Road (made famous by the Beatles), Electric Ladyland (immortalized by Jimmy Hendrix), and the Record Plant.
After college, I decided to take a trip to NYC, and take in all the noteworthy sights. The first thing I did was get bus tickets. If you live in New York state, it's easy to get to NYC that way. Otherwise, if you live farther away, you fly in. But one thing you absolutely do not want to do is drive your own car into NYC. Unless you've lived in the city long enough to get accustomed to the traffic, and know the city's layout, you will inevitably wind up in the Holland tunnel heading for New Jersey with no way to turn back. As a visitor to NYC, you instead take the subway, and/or walk everywhere.
To make the most of my visit, I drew up an itinerary of places I wanted to see, complete with locations of subway stations/lines to take me from location to location. Since I was a musician, I wanted to visit the Record Plant, and Electric Ladyland studios (the latter also being in NYC). Actually, the Electric Ladyland had long since closed before my visit. But I still wanted to check out the location, just to see if I felt any "aura" from it. When I got there, I discovered that the business currently occupying the building was "closed door". Lots of NYC businesses are not open to the general public. They have locked entrances, and to gain access to the building, you need to either make an appointment, or be admitted by someone inside the building. There was no way I was going to get in, and the only aura I detected was the smell of garbage since city workers were on strike at the time.
So I proceeded to the Record Plant. Unfortunately, this was closed door also. The only way to gain entrance to the building was through an elevator facing the street.. There were no outside buttons to gain access to the elevator. But there was an intercom system. I knew I had an ace up my sleeve, so I played it. I pressed the intercom button, and when a woman's voice greeted me, I said "I'd like to speak to Dave R. He's one of your engineers. Please tell him it's Jeff G.". The woman put me on hold for a minute or two, and then announced "Dave R isn't in the building at the moment. Can someone else assist you?". I was out of aces at this point, so I just replied that I would check back later.
Now I'm standing next to the closed elevator, checking my itinerary, when I notice a man walk up to the intercom. I recognize him. It's Johnny Winter, a blues guitarist from Texas USA, who was most famous back in the early 1970's. He had a brother named Edgar Winter who played sax and keys. Edgar had a huge all-instrumental #1 single back in 1972 (as I recall) entitled "Frankenstein". If you've ever seen the two brothers on video as I have, you'll notice they have a distinctive appearance. Both brothers are albino. This is a medical condition in which the body lacks pigment, and so the person typically has extremely light skin, snow-white hair. and blue eyes. I thought "What are the odds that some albino with long white hair like Johnny Winter's is trying to get into the Record Plant, but he isn't Johnny Winter?". It's Johnny Winter. He briefly speaks into the intercom, and then the elevator doors open.
I see a golden opportunity. I follow behind Johnny onto the elevator. I don't say anything to him. I don't even look at him. I'm hoping he won't say "Hey, you can't follow me onto this elevator. You have to speak into the intercom. Get out of here, you moron.". If Johnny was from NYC, that's exactly what he'd say. But he's from texas, so he has been taught to be polite and assume the best about people. It works. He doesn't challenge me.
Now the way it works in these buildings with multiple floors is that the minimum wage earning, first-to-be-laid-off slave workers are banished to the lowest floors of the building. It's sort of a metaphor of their place in society. As you move up the floors, you move up the management chain, until you get to the top floor where you find the people who run the company and embezzle its profits.
The Record Plant has 5 floors. Johnny pushes the button for floor #4, then turns to me and asks "Which floor?".
I reply "Four". If Johnny is going up to the fourth floor, then so am I.
The elevator doors open on the fourth floor to reveal a spatious lounge. There's a long desk facing the elevator, and an impeccably dressed woman sitting behind it. Off to each side of the lounge is a hallway, and I can see office doors down there.
Johnny and I step off the elevator, and he walks over to the receptionist who smiles and starts schmoozing him. Meanwhile, I'm looking around for security cameras and guards, and wondering how easy it would be for me to wander around the fourth floor of the most famous recording studio in the world. When am I ever going to have this opportunity again?
Suddenly I hear a woman's voice. "Who are you?". I glance over at the receptionist, and I see her eyeing me with suspicion and a little disdain. Unlike Johnny, she's obviously from NYC. She repeats "Who ARE you?" with the emphasis on the word "are", as if I not only need to identify myself, but I also need to provide justification for why I should even exist within her sphere of reality.
I know what she's thinking, and that is, "The only people allowed on the fourth floor are rich and famous people. They're so rich and famous that I know them by sight. I don't recognize you. So you ain't rich nor famous. Therefore, who ARE you?".
There's no point in me telling her my name because she's not going to recognize that either. So I simply point at Johnny and reply "I'm with him". This time Johnny doesn't play along. He looks at me and says "I don't even know you.". The receptionist is now angry, and she scolds "I don't know who you are, or how you got into this building, but you're not supposed to be here.". And with that, she summons over a male employee who escorts me out of the building.
So I'm back out on the sidewalk, perusing my itinerary again, when who do I see walking toward me? It's Dave R. He's holding a package in one hand, and a cup of coffee in the other. He's surprised to see me, and we chat for a bit. I tell him I'm visiting NYC, and I heard he got a job at the Record Plant, so I wanted to meet up with him.
Incidentally. I asked him how he ever managed to land a position at the most famous recording studio in the world and he answered "I was in the right place at the right time". Apparently, that's how a lot of things happen in the entertainment business. I've since discovered the secret to how one becomes a star in this business, and I want you all to grab a pen and paper, because I'm now going to reveal to you the "Secret Formula For Success":
49.2 % luck + 49.2 % networking (who you know) + 0.6 % talent = You're a star!
There it is.
So Dave R says to me "We're renovating studio A. Replacing everything. It's not being used at the moment. Want to see it?", and of course I do. He walks over to the elevator. He doesn't need to speak on the intercom because he has this card he waves in front of a scanner, and the elevator doors open. We get on the elevator, and he says "I've just got to drop this package off upstairs, and then I'll show you the studio."
Guess which floor Dave is dropping the package at? Yep, it's the fourth.
I haven't had time to relate to him the story of my prior excursion to this floor, and I'm not about to do so on the brief trip up there. The elevator doors open and we both disembark. Dave walks over to the receptionist and hands her the package. As soon as she spots me behind Dave, she rises right out of her chair. She's really angry now, and so she snarls "You aren't supposed to be here!". And before she can go any further, Dave points toward me and says "He's with me.".
You know how sometimes, when you look a dog straight in the eyes and talk to him, he'll curiously tilt his head as if he's thinking "I know you're talking to me, but I don't understand what you're saying"? That's the look she gave Dave. As we reboarded the elevator, her mouth was still hanging silently open as if it was waiting for her brain to provide words to pronounce, but her brain was too stunned to respond. And while the elevator doors closed, I smiled demurely at her and waved bye.
Dave showed me the studio, and before leaving I gave him my phone number. When I got back home, I got a call from Dave, and the conversation went like this:
D: You got me in trouble.
Me: How?
D: One of the secretaries cornered me and started cussing me out. For some reason, she thought that I let you into the building to play some sort of practical joke on her. I had to explain to her who you were and how I know you before she calmed down.
Me: Do me a favor, Dave. Every time you see her tell her "Jeff G sends you his love.".
I'm still not rich nor famous. But if I ever go back up to the fourth floor of the record plant, and she asks me "Who ARE you?", this time I suspect she'll recognize my name.
