We’ve basically gotten the gig of our lives. Rudy almost passed out when our agent made him the offer over the phone. But he kept his consciousness, and bang, we’re the opening act for Bruce Springsteen.

It’s pretty amazing.

“God, guys, can you believe this?” our guitarist, Keenan, asked, strumming his favorite guitar, a black Fender Stratocaster adorned with a coating of stickers.

“This is amazing,” I said, peeking out from behind a stage curtain at the sea of people awaiting us. Actually, they were really here for Bruce, but they have to sit through us first, right? Right.

“How many people are out there, dude?” our drummer, Elijah, wanted to know.

“A million,” I guessed. “At least a million.”

“Really?”

I turned to him. “Oh,” he muttered. “Okay. Got it.”

“Fifteen minutes, guys,” a man with mussed black hair and jeans told us.

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” Rudy said uneasily. He collapsed onto a chair, his head between his knees. “Oh, my God…”

“No, no, no, Rudy, man, it’s gonna be fine. Better than fine, this is gonna be great. You just wait. It’ll be the best,” I assured him, rubbing his back the way my mom used to do to me when I was sick.

God, do I miss my mom.

---

I haven’t really seen my share of concerts. This one is just completely overwhelming, though, and it hasn’t even started yet. I was having a hard time telling whether there were more teenagers at the show than older people. It was harder than you think, trust me. Just the whole atmosphere thing has me completely enthralled, and it convinced me that Jeremy would’ve loved this.

Or Dean. Didn’t Dean try out an instrument when he was younger? I think he did. I don’t think I liked the idea.

Adam’s son, Jake, was wearing a black shirt with green, spidery letters reading: The Vile Weeds. The Vile Weeds. I couldn’t help but ask him about it.

“They’re the opening band,” he explained simply.

I think they could’ve come up with a better name, don’t you?

After a few minutes, the lights lowered as if we were in a movie theater. Four guys, seemingly in their late twenties, walked casually onto the stage. They seemed almost a little too casual, and it annoyed me a little. Did they know how lucky they were to be opening for Bruce Springsteen? Apparently not.

The bassist began plucking his instrument’s strings softly as a solo for about fifteen seconds until the guitarist added in some extra rhythm. The drummer moved in after that, picking up the momentum. Now it was just the singer, standing there, staring at his feet. Out of nowhere, the lights on the stage blared bright yellow, green, blue, and red, and the singer began jumping around and dancing—rather badly, if I do say so myself. It was good enough for the juvenile members of the crowd, though; they exploded with screams, laugher, and jumping. Jake joined in quickly, and Adam lost sight of him. He seemed fine with that.

The Vile Weeds made it through their first song, which I have to admit, was surprisingly good. They went through two more before the singer stopped, breathing hard and fast, a massive grin smeared across his face.

“Hey New England!” he yelled into the microphone. The fans yelled back at him. “How’re you guys feeling?” More screaming. He started laughing, and then attempted to regain his composure in vain.

“Are you guys ready for Bruce?” At this moment, everyone in the stadium screamed. “Well, we’ve got one more song for ya, then he’ll be up here, and I’m sure you guys paid your sixty five bucks to see him more than us!”

He held to his word; the Vile Weeds played one last song, left the stage and an extremely excited audience, and made way for Bruce.

---

“Oh mah God, oh mah God!” I breathed, sounding like a thirteen-year-old valley girl, which is a pretty awesome movie, actually. “That was amazing!”

Rudy was standing next to Keenan, Elijah pouring cold bottles of Poland Springs down their backs. They made me wish that Jimmy was there. I grinned, grabbed a bottle, and poured some on Elijah. He yelped and jumped away from the cold. I laughed, then imitated Elijah when he poured the rest of his on me.

God, life is good.

We had a few more minutes to goof off before Andy, our agent, led us toward the parking lots, where a pretty big group of kids were waiting for us to sign things for them. These kids didn’t seem interested in seeing Bruce—he wouldn’t be going on for another half hour anyway—so we hung out with them for a much longer time than Andy anticipated. It made us late for some press conference thing after the show, but we honestly could care less. Fans are more important than press.

---

Adam, Jake, and I decided to share a hotel room. Bruce was amazing, it was past one in the morning, and none of us had anywhere to go later on in the day, so hey, why not?

As we walked into our room, each of us wearing a tour shirt, I contemplated calling Jeremy and telling him about the show, but decided against it, figuring that he’d be upset by him not being able to go.

Jake wanted to go swimming. The pool had ridiculously late operation hours, so Adam let him go while he took a shower. I decided to watch some TV, and see what was even on at one in the morning. I turned it to channel six, and there was some type of interview going on.

“So, first of all, how did you guys decide on your name?”

“We couldn’t think of anything better,” a guy with dark brown hair leaned over and said. He looked familiar.

“Actually…” the one he leaned over added, “we got our name from an episode of Seinfeld. When that chicken place moves in next to Kramer’s apartment and Newman goes there and orders broccoli for Kramer, and Jerry catches on and makes him eat it, and Newman spits it out and goes ‘Vile weed!’” This one definitely looked familiar. As I stared closer, I gasped and dropped the remote.

That was Dean. I’m 100 sure of it.

Jake walked into the room, shaking the water out of his hair. He glanced at the TV.

“Hey, the Vile Weeds!” he said, grinning.

“Jake,” I stammered.

“Yeah?”

“What…what’s that one’s name?” I asked, pointing to the one with brownish yellow hair who just explained the band name.

“That’s Dean Sampson. Why?”

“He…Jake, he…Dean Sampson is my son.” I can’t believe it.

Jake’s jaw drops. “For serious?” he asked, stunned.

I nodded unconsciously. “For serious,” I repeated.

“Oh, my God!” he yelped, running over and banging on the bathroom door. “Dad! Dad! Mr. Sampson’s son is Dean! Dean from the Vile Weeds, Dad!”

I can’t believe it. Dean got good at playing bass, real good. And I didn’t get to see or hear any of it. When did he join a band? Why didn’t he tell me? I paused. Why didn’t I ask him? Why didn’t I care?

My hand searched the nightstand for my cell phone. I quickly wrapped my shaking fingers around it and flipped it open. Dean’s cell phone number was listed in the contacts; I highlighted it and hit “send.”

An awkward little ring tone escaped from the TV screen and Dean, his face reddened a little, pulled it out from his pocket and flipped it open.

“Hello?”

“Dean, it’s your dad.”

He sat there, speechless, on the screen. “A…are you watching me?” he asked nervously, staring at the screen straight on like I was.

“Yeah, I am. I just saw your show. Dean, we need to talk. Please.”

There was a silence on the other line, and I prayed that he’d answer. He sat motionless on the screen, stunned. His bandmates looked at him, a little nervous about what was going on.

“Yeah,” he finally answered shakily. “Yeah, we really do.”