My granddaughter was here for a visit last week. At 14,
Annie is devoted to her favorite teen idols. She spends hours listening to their
music, watching YouTube videos, and catching up on concerts and other news. She
writes fangirl fiction and posts it on Tumblr under a different name.
During the same week I received a Facebook friend
request from the man who had been my favorite teen idol when I was about Annie’s
age. He is still famous and still performing. A thousand women respond when he posts.
The friend request looked real. I went to his fan
page, a page I was already following, and saw the same profile photo that had
been sent to me. Could it be? I knew better, but the past came rushing back to
me, sweet and irresistible.
As a girl in West Virginia I rushed home when my teen
idol was scheduled to sing on American
Bandstand. My heart would race with love and excitement, tempered by a cold
fear that I would be interrupted during those precious minutes he was on TV. Please, I prayed: no phone ringing; no
Mom coming in from the kitchen; and, most of all, no failure of the picture
tube in our black-and-white set. I would pull the vinyl-covered ottoman close
to the screen, sit down, and make sure the volume was just right. How I loved that boy’s moves, his hair, his twinkly eyes, his voice, and the way I could hear his
smile in the music.
I’ve kept the record albums I bought and memorized.
I’ve seen my idol in concert twice. The first time I was a screaming teen-ager
thrilled to be present for Dick Clark’s Caravan of Stars at the Charleston
Civic Center. I was too young to drive, so Dad chauffeured my friend Mary Jo, my
little brother, and me to the show. When we sat down, Dad stood out in his
gabardine topcoat among the squirming, screaming kids. The second time I saw
Bobby Rydell I was a senior citizen, still thrilled and screaming like it was
1959.
I deleted the fake friend request and decided to do
what I would do for anyone I thought was hacked. I sent a PM (personal message)
from his fan page.
He responded, advising me not to accept: “I do not
send requests.” A second message came the next day thanking me for the
heads-up.
“Your grandma had a teen-age idol too,” I said to
Annie. “I still do, and guess what? He’s writing to me on Facebook!”
“Grandma, that’s really exciting!” You said it,
Sister.
He posted a SCAM alert. On the private side, I
wished him luck and got a “thumb up” in return. I thought that was it, but we
had another couple of exchanges about the fake account.
Was he really writing all these notes? It was fun
speculating with Annie about whether the messages were real or had been
generated by someone hired for the job of keeping up the star’s social media
presence.
I then noticed "he"
was one of my 83 personal page
followers. What? A follower is
someone who chooses to follow another’s public posts. Was it possible? After
all, we had corresponded--if all of that was real. I compared photos, and the
“follower” looked as real as the “friend” had--but no. It was not possible my
teen idol was following my Facebook posts. I decided to write again to let him
know the fake account had turned up on my page. I thought that would be the end
of it.
“I think it’s over,” I said to Annie. “My messaging
romance is over.”
To my surprise, he replied again with a lovely note.
I was suspicious, though. How could he take that much time to write to me?
I asked Annie’s dad, “Do you think it’s him?” and
showed my son the string of messages. He studied the latest one while Annie and
I waited.
Greg said, “I think it’s him.”
I have other idols. I’ve been introduced to a few. Fabulous
performers, some are also known to be aloof or demanding. Surely they grow
weary of the attention from time to time. One star’s stage makeup failed to
cover his five-o’clock shadow before scruffy beards were fashionable. Another performer
shook my hand and gave me a photo signed “Love.” Honey, I thought, if you love
me, put an expression on your face. When we learn to expect and excuse giant
egos in exchange for entertainment, kindness is a surprise.
After his last message, ending with “It is a
pleasure,” I found myself love-struck again, the way I’d been at 15. I could
think of nothing else. Messaging with my idol had provided more than a memory; I
was once again immersed in the experience of fan love. I figured I was on the brink of becoming a pest by then,
so I sent a final message and mentally signed off.
My buoyant feeling persisted the next day as I
listened to oldies on XM radio while driving to a local mall in the spring
sunshine. I was filled with a sense of well-being. I knew exactly what emotions had prompted those love songs.
At age 71 I was floating on a fangirl cloud like the
one I remembered—one like Annie’s. It was fun and wonderful. I got a “thumb up”
to my last private message, a perfect ending to my week of fan love. And
was that really B. R.? I say yes.
