THE FIRST TIME I SAW RICK SPRINGFIELD, I thought I was having a heart attack…in my panties. Standing in front of my grandparent’s old cabinet T.V., a warm, flushing feeling flooded through me and melted into a soft pulsating rhythm between my legs. It was like a heartbeat I never knew I had. And this throbbing ache kept perfect beat with the opening guitar riff of “Jessie’s Girl, “ the song playing in the video on Night Tracks. 

As I gazed into Rick’s hypnotic hazel eyes, the T.V. screen disappeared, and the whole world made sense. I cannot adequately express the force of raw love jolting through my eleven-year-old veins. But, for the first time, I knew why I was on Earth: to marry this man. 

He would be the poetic justice to my sad and shitty life. 

I stayed grounded for everything my weird stepdad could dream up— leaving a light on, running too much bath water, eating too many potato chips, not shutting the broken door all the way and mostly my report card. 

Spending so much time in solitude— I survived in my imagination, and it now swirled around one fantasy—Richard Lewis Springthorpe, III. It seemed like I dreamed him into being, like he was born on the pages of my diary. I bought all his cassettes, and his music made me feel less alone during the loneliest years of my life. Sprawled on my bedroom floor in an oasis of spiral-bound notebooks, I wrote out the lyrics to all his songs and felt such a deep and profound connection to him-- I knew he was my soul mate. 

Rick was more than my first love; he was my after-school special, my favorite hobby, my football game on a Friday night. While I was grounded, the only place I was allowed to go was to Food World with Mom—that was the highlight of my weekend because she always let me get a magazine. While she grocery-shopped, I sat cross-legged on the cool floor and gorged myself on every glossy 8x10 and interview of Rick I could find in Teen Beat, Tiger Beat, Bop, and Seventeen. The decision about which magazine to purchase was torture. Eventually, I began to tear out every picture and article about Rick I could find and slip the loose pages into the magazine mom bought me, praying they wouldn’t fall out when the checkout girl rang it up. I rationalized my theft because, since Rick and I were getting married, they kind of belonged to me anyway. Plus, I saw old women rip out recipes all the time, and Rick was the recipe for my future.

When I read that Rick would be playing at the Jefferson Civic Center in Birmingham, I knew two things: 

1. I had to get a bra. 

2. I would be at that concert even if I had to run away from home.

Terrified that Mike would ground me for something stupid, I morphed myself into a modern-day Laura Ingalls: “Yes, Paw.” I jumped to obey all of Mike’s kooky commands. I ignored his negative commentary on every move I made. I bit my tongue when I had a smartass reply to make. I vacuumed with passion and scrubbed the hell out of the dishes. And, for the first time, I made all A’s and one B on my report card.

Mama took me to Sears to buy the concert tickets the day they went on sale. I stared at them, running my fingers across the raised black print: “Rick Springfield—Success Hasn’t Spoiled Me Yet Tour.” Then Mama and I went on a quest for my first bra in the intimates section of the store. 

“Here it is!” I held up a sexy leopard and lace bra.

“No.”

“I’m the one wearing it, not you.”

“It’s a push-up bra, and you ain’t got nothing to push up.” 

“Oh yeah, it needs to be blue anyway.”

“Why blue?” 

“It just does.” I did not want to tell her blue was Rick’s favorite color or that the sole reason I needed a bra was so I could throw it to him on stage. 

 The day of the concert, I was in a state of excitement bordering insanity. During the hour-long drive to Birmingham, we listened to all my Rick cassettes while I sang every word.

“Thank you, Mama!”

I hugged her as we walked through the doors to the Civic Center. When we found our seats, they were almost at the top of the balcony level. Roger Staubach couldn’t throw a bra and hit Rick from where I was. I burst into tears.

“Why are you crying?”

“These seats might as well be in outer space.”

“We bought ‘em the day they went on sale.”

“At five-thirty at night.”

“Aimee, I have to work.”

To make everything a million times worse, I saw Staci and a group of girls from my school on the floor level. Watching them, thirty rows from the stage, felt like I was being stabbed. I had to get down there. 

“Mama, I see Staci and Charla. I gotta go down there. Please?” 

“If you stay where I can see you.”

The lights went out, and some band I had never heard of started playing. My fluorescent yellow parachute pants Daddy sent me from Key West glowed in the dark. So did the words on my t-shirt, Aimee ‘n’ Rick,” which I’d made with neon pink puffy paint.

“How could you not see me?” I started laughing and kissed Mom on the cheek. Racing down the stairs, I realized a security lady was checking everyone’s ticket with a flashlight before they could go down on the floor level.

I spent the whole first act waving and shouting, trying to get Staci’s attention. Finally, at intermission she saw me.

“If you let me borrow your ticket stub to get down there, I’ll give you ten bucks.”

  “Okay…but bring it right back.” She held it up, and I grabbed it. 

  “Thank you!” I hugged Staci, giving her the ten-dollar bill.

The opening act was over, and I began fighting my way to the front row. Most of the girls in the first twenty rows were a foot taller than I was. The closer I got to the stage, the more violent the girls became. I put my head down, plowing through them like Sonic the Hedgehog, making my way through angry elbows, kicking legs, and overstuffed purses stumbling toward the stage, shoving and squeezing until at last, I had one hand on the steel gate that held back the frenzy of girls. With all my power I pulled myself to it, clenching with both hands. I latched my arms and locked my legs around the gate. My heart was pounding, and my hair was soaking wet from a beer that got dumped down the back of my shirt. I was covered in other people’s sweat and couldn’t get the taste of hairspray out of my mouth. 

The lights went out, triggering a roar that felt both primal and scary. Everyone thrust forward, crushing my chest against the steel bars, and nearly knocking the breath out of me, but it would have taken a chainsaw to remove my fingers from that gate.

Suddenly, Rick was right in front of me, standing on a giant amplifier, wearing a white tank top, white pants, and red bandanas tied around one of his ankles. Looking straight into my young eyes, he sang, “I get excited, just thinking what you might be like. I get excited, there’s Heaven in your eyes tonight.” 

Then everything went black, like somebody had unplugged my world.

I came to with smelling salts in my face and two security guards hovering above me, waving their arms like fans. 

“What happened? I shouted over the music.

“You fainted!” 

Laying on the floor on the side of the stage, the stairs to Rick were three feet away. I thought about making a run for it. A security man helped me to my feet and asked for my ticket stub.

“I must have dropped it.”

“Go get some water and cool off. Don’t go back down front.”

“Okay.”

Rick started singing, “Love is Alright Tonight.” 

I walked toward the seats, then ran back into the crowd and fought my way to the front again. Resting my arms on the gate, I caught my breath. It was time to throw my bra to Rick. Since I had only worn a bra twice in my life, I was having problems getting it unlatched with my arms pinned by the crowd. I almost strangled myself trying to take it off without removing my shirt. The girl next to me had to help tug the tangled straps loose from my neck. When Rick was right in front of me, I threw my bra at him as hard as I could. It grazed the top of his black combat boot and went straight into the pit between the gate and the stage. He didn’t even see it.

By the end of the show, I had screamed until I could barely talk. After the encore, the lights came on, and I stared at the stage, crying. Then I remembered my bra. Peering over the gate into the valley of bras and panties and rose petals, I poked a security man and whispered, “Can you hand me that baby blue bra?”

Mama bought me a tour book with the best pictures of Rick I had ever seen. On the drive back to Glencoe, lying across the backseat of Mama’s brown Chevy Chevette, I gazed up at the night sky and swore to myself and the stars, “I’m gonna meet Rick Springfield…the next time he’s in Alabama…I don’t care what I have to do.” 

During the twelve months that followed, all I could talk about, think about, and dream about was Rick. I wouldn’t shut up about him. I made a huge button that announced “I Love Rick’s Bod“ and wore it to school every day. I signed everyone’s annual, Aimee Springfield, and my school work too. When Mrs. Farrow, the principal, saw “Rick Springfield is fine as hell“ written in blue Sharpie in a stall in the girls‘ bathroom, I got a paddling, and no one even asked if I did it.

A year later, Rick came to Alabama! For months, I waited to get tickets to his “Living in Oz“ tour. I picked out my outfit in advance—cheetah print denim jeans that zipped at the ankles, an-off-the-shoulder white top, and my first pair of heels—hot pink pumps. I was ready for my next encounter with my future husband.

When the day finally arrived, it was like the cathedral of my soul was throwing a revival. I felt like Aretha Franklin was singing “Hallelujah“ in my chest. My friend Brook went to the concert with Mama and me. Brook knew all about my plans to find a way backstage. We listened to “Affair of the Heart“ and “Human Touch“ over and over on the fifty-mile drive to Birmingham.

When we got to the Civic Center, we found our seats up in the balcony, and I told Mama, “Brook and me are gonna go look at t-shirts.” 

I had to find a way to get to Rick. My heart ached, knowing we were in the same building. Brook and I found an area that went behind the stage. The back of the arena was blocked off by a black partition wall with accordion doors and a “Do Not Enter“ sign. 

“We gotta squeeze through this opening and see what’s behind here.” 

“We’re gonna get in trouble, Aimee,” Brook said. “I’m not going.”

“Tell Mama I’ll be back after I meet Rick and not to be mad at me.”

Knowing it was now or never, I wriggled through—the space was so narrow my head got stuck. Once I was in, I immediately realized I could only move forward. There was no turning back, not that I would have. All the lights went out, and the whole building was shaking. Corey Hart, the opening act, began to sing some song I had never heard, and I tried to figure out where to go. At the bottom of the stairs, I saw an octagon of light, an opening to somewhere.

A blinding spotlight began scouring the area behind the stage. Not wanting the light to find me, I dropped to the floor and slithered face-first down about seventy-five stairs. At the bottom, I found some sort of lower level. The only problem was there was a ten-foot drop. When I saw a black equipment crate about the size of a refrigerator with ‘SPRINGFIELD’ stenciled on it in white letters, I jumped. 

I hit the crate, twisted my ankle, and broke the heel off of one of my new pink pumps. I sat down to examine my throbbing foot. A big Native American-looking guy with long black braids and an Iron Maiden t-shirt came at me out of nowhere. “Hey, are you supposed to be down here?” 

I jumped down from the crate and took off half running/half-limping and hid under a tour bus. This wasn’t backstage. I was in some stupid garage. The big guy and another, shorter guy, squatted down to my level. “Come on out; there’s nowhere to run.”

I could not run if I wanted to. My ankle felt broken. As I rolled out, I realized my white shirt had gum, dirt, and every kind of shit in Birmingham all over the front of it. I had popped the button off my skin-tight cheetah print pants when I slid on my stomach down the stairs, and they were wide open.

“You’re outta here,” the Native American guy said.

“I’m an Indian too,” I blurted out, instantly feeling like an idiot. 

Corey Hart was singing “I Wear My Sunglasses at Night“ while I was led out the back door of the arena. As the big black metal door slowly shut, I heard the short guy say, “These girls are out of control.”

I tried the doorknob, but it was locked. I could see the men walking away through the little square window. Not only was I going to get grounded forever, but I was going to miss the whole concert. Sitting there with my knees pulled into my chest against the brick wall, I could feel the drums vibrating through my body. The crowd erupted into applause, and I exploded into tears when I heard Rick singing “Jessie’s Girl.” 

Sobbing and singing along, I rested my head on my knees. Why am I so stupid? I cried harder. All year I’ve waited for this night, and I ruined it. Then I heard footsteps beside me.

“Sweetie, are you okay?” A stranger’s voice pulled me out of my self-hatred, and I followed a pair of black converse tennis shoes up to a cute, skinny guy in a Ramones t-shirt with a big camera slung over his shoulder. Mom had let me wear make-up to the show, and I had caked it on like Tammy Faye Bakker. My face must have looked like a dirty rainbow, and my neck was sticky from tears.

“I’m from Glencoe, and that’s an hour from here. I don’t know where my Mama is. I’m gonna be in so much trouble. I missed the whole concert, and those guys won’t let me back in.”

“I’ll get you back to your mom.”

He started banging on the door so hard I could tell he was pissed. The short guy who kicked me out opened it, and the photographer went off on him,

“Who in the hell stuck a little kid outside on the street in downtown Birmingham? Are you fucking kidding me?”

The guy shrugged. 

“You better be glad she didn’t wander off or get hurt.”

Reaching for my hand, the photographer pulled me up. I stood holding my pink pumps in front of my unzipped pants.

“How old are you?”

“Twelve.”

The big guy walked up. “We were gonna let her back in. These girls are nuts, man.”

“Tell her how to get back to the main floor.”

“Take those stairs up to the third floor and look for someone in a yellow jacket. They can take you back to your seat.”

“Yes sir,” I said to the Indian, trying to make peace. I hugged the photographer, thanking him.

“Hurry, or you’re gonna get stuck in the crowd letting out.”

Hobbling up the stairs, I heard something that stopped me. The unmistakable voice that my heart had memorized by watching the movie Hard to Hold over two hundred times until I broke the VHS tape from repeatedly pausing it on the scene with Rick’s naked butt.

As I spun around, the world shifted into slow motion. An intense tingling exploded through my arms and legs, my pulse pounded in my ears, and my eyes locked on Rick Springfield. I dropped my shoes and ran at him like a panther in heat. He was shirtless and dripping sweat, his head down as he dried his jet-black hair with a towel. His perfect chest glistened. I pounced, and he didn’t know what hit him. I grabbed his arm in a bear hug. It was so slick that I slid down it. Then…in the passion of the moment…I licked his delicious sweat off my arm.

I wanted to kiss him, but I couldn’t reach his face, so I stared straight into his hazel eyes and said, “We’re getting married! I know it in my soul. You might think I’m just a kid, but I swear to you—we are getting married.”

Rick looked down at my wide-open cheetah pants, and the hair and gum stuck to my shirt and started laughing. Everyone around him joined in. The Native American guy was bent over holding his stomach he was cracking up so hard. I didn’t care—I was breathless with wonder because my dream did exist. He was real, and he was right in front of me. I had felt butterflies in my stomach before, but this was more like pterodactyls flying around.

“I am serious!” I stomped my hurt foot and heard myself start to get mad as they all laughed harder.

Somebody threw Rick a t-shirt, and he put it on and hopped inside a blue van, still smiling. 

Delirious with adrenaline, I took off to find my mother. My heart was on fire with love. I could still taste Rick’s salty sweat on my lips. I finally found her standing with a police officer in the almost empty venue.

“Mom! I’ve got so much—“

Clap! I heard the slap across my cheek more than I felt it…my whole body zinging numb.

“Where the hell have you been?”

“With my husband!” I screamed at her.

Glaring at me with a mix of fury and embarrassment, she dug her fingernails into my arm, almost jerking it out of the socket. “Look at your pants! Why are you barefoot?”

“Feel my shirt!” I shrieked.

“Why are you all wet?”

“It’s Rick’s sweat!”

Mom’s anger slowly turned to relief, and I told her and Brook everything on our way to the car. “I’m not gonna tell Mike about this, but don’t ever ask me to take you to another concert.”

“Don’t be mad at me on the best night of my whole life.” 

As we drove home, I began planning my future with Rick. On the day I get out of high school, using all my graduation money, I’ll buy a one-way ticket to L.A. Then, rent a white V.W. Rabbit and find a star map to Rick’s house. Since he probably has a mansion with a big gate like Graceland, I can park on the street and wait for him to pull out of the driveway. By then, I’ll be almost eighteen, and he will be thirty-nine. Every day of my senior year, I will do the Jane Fonda workout religiously, and I’ll wear a white sundress and have a wavy perm and perfect tan. When his black Mercedes comes driving down the street, I’ll pull out in front of him and cause a fender bender. When he gets out to see if I am okay, I’ll be like, “Oh my gosh! Rick! Remember that little girl from Alabama? That was me. I’m all grown up now and ready to rock your world!” 

THE DAY MY HEART EXPLODED LIKE a Chinese rocket I was standing in line at Food World. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Rick in a little yellow square on the cover of the National Enquirer with the headline: “Rick Springfield Secretly Married for Months.” My whole being felt the lightning bolt of shock, buzzing through my teeth, down my spine, and into my core. 

Tears welled, and I almost threw up. My brain felt like a tater tot thrown in hot grease...frying...malfunction...sensory overload. Oh, my God! I heard the words without saying them. Grabbing the magazine, I slung it on the checkout belt.

“Baby, you already got your…“ her voice trailed off into the air when she read the cover. Mom still had on her white hospital uniform, and the drive home was silent. 

We pulled into the driveway, and I ran straight to my room.

“This can’t be true!”

I collapsed on my bed. I did not want to read the words. Staring in disbelief at a picture of Rick and some blonde bitch with their arms wrapped around each other like a dumb-ass pretzel. Oh my God! The next page showcased a photo of them wearing some kind of fucked-up karate suits and another one of them eating wedding cake. Motherfucker, I told you we were getting married. You bastard fuck-stick piece of shit-fucking-loser-lying-jerk-face asshole! 

In yellow letters on a black background was the word that could not be real. Pregnant. I read it ten times trying to scramble the letters, trying to believe I could be seeing wrong. Wild with grief, I started ripping all his 8X10s down. Crumpling the pictures, tearing through his lying face. There were scars where the tape had stuck for years. I threw all of them in a metal trashcan and took it to the porch and started a blazing bonfire. I grabbed a gallon of milk and poured it all over the ashes of my dreams. 

Hysterical, I ran back to my room. I felt the death of my own heart. It was now an empty black casket inside my chest. I began jerking out the pages of the tour books that held ten-thousand wasted kisses. 

“What are you yelling about in here?” Mike came stomping through my door.

“Fucking get out of my fucking room!” I screamed so loud I thought a tonsil was gonna fly out.

“You’re grounded!”

“Ground me forever, motherfucker! My fucking life is over!” With both my hands balled in tight fists, I fell down to the floor in a fetal position, sobbing. Mike stared at me, almost said something, then went to find my mother.

I felt cheated on, lied to, betrayed, and, most of all like my life was over. If only I could have told my twelve-year-old self that in twenty years Rick Springfield is going to come to your house (on Valentine’s Day!) and you’re gonna write a song together. You are going to have his cellphone number and email address. You will keep his Starbucks cup with “Rick“ written in black Sharpie until it molds over. Even if I could have relayed the message, it wouldn’t have made any sense in 1984.