Kielle goes to Atlanta

Goddamn AirTran.

Normally, a direct flight from Minneapolis would not be a big deal. A couple hours in the air and boom, there you are. But not this time. First, mechanical difficulties delayed our departure from MSP by an hour, but we were willing to wait rather than take to the air in a dicky plane. Apparently we didn’t wait long enough, though, because whatever was supposed to get fixed didn’t quite, and we ended up making an unscheduled landing in St. Louis. Then there was a delay while harried airline staff found different flights for us to board. They found some other different flights for our luggage, which naturally enough meant that passengers and bags arrived in Atlanta at different times.

I waited around the airport for an extra hour while mine were rounded up. Unlike some of the other passengers, I wasn’t willing to leave and hope my things would catch up to me at my hotel; the Caravan would be checking out the next morning and I couldn’t risk leaving town without clothes for the next two weeks. So I didn’t make it to the hotel until nearly 6:00, when I should have arrived mid-afternoon.

I had left periodic messages on Bill Williams’s cell phone letting him know where I was and when I expected to arrive, with no response. The only acknowledgment came in the form of a terse message waiting for me at the hotel’s front desk: Meet me at the venue. Wear black. Great. I hadn’t even begun my first day of work and already the boss sounded pissed.

Show time was 7:00. As I checked in, I asked the desk clerk to call me a cab. I took time only to wash my face, change into backstage black, fix my hair — it’s a little longer than shoulder length, easy to pull up into a quick chignon if you know how — and load my gear bag. Then I raced back downstairs to hop into the waiting taxi.

I got to the [large Atlanta concert venue] at about 6:45 and slipped through the teeming crowds to ground level, where it took approximately two minutes to talk my way backstage. Either my Jedi mind tricks were more powerful than I had realized or the Caravan needed better security. I also noted that telling the security guy my name hadn’t affected the process one way or the other. No one had told him to expect me. I made a mental note to bring both points up with Williams at an opportune time. Later.

I’ve spent plenty of time behind the scenes in various theaters and had little trouble figuring out where the dressing rooms were: just follow the sound of vocal warmups. I was striding purposefully toward arpeggios when somebody grabbed my elbow from behind and tried to yank me around.

“Just where do you think you’re going, missy?” demanded a nasal, honeyed drawl.

I’ve been studying T’ai Chi for more than a dozen years. Most people know T’ai Chi as a series of gentle, flowing movements practiced by Chinese senior citizens in public parks at dawn. They’re right, but that’s only one side of the coin. On the other side is kung fu. Each of those gentle, flowing movements, when revved up to fighting speed, is a self-defense technique. I know most of them, and I know them well. Had I been accosted that way in a dark alley, I would have whirled, freed my arm, and slammed the bad guy to the ground in one smooth motion. I thought about doing so anyway, because the voice had called me “missy.”

However, T’ai Chi is also the art of relaxation, so I took a deep breath and settled for two out of three. I spun and freed myself, and in standing my ground made the woman who’d grabbed me take a step back. No body slam.

I towered over her. Her eyes were level with my chin. Her aggressively blonde hair, however, was almost as high as mine. That, her shimmery dress, and the voice I’d recognized from hours of studying Praise Caravan performers told me who I’d met. I turned off my don’t-fuck-with-me glare and switched on a friendly smile.

“Ah, Nancy Wainwright. I’m Kielle Hughes, the Caravan’s new webmaster. How do you do.” I stuck out my right hand, which she ignored, fists on hips. Nancy Wainwright was contemporary Christian pop’s sweetheart onstage. Offstage, apparently, was a different story. I spared a moment to wonder why she wasn’t warming up with the rest of the company.

“Good for you,” said the sweetheart tartly. “And where do you think you’re going?”

Nice to meet you, too. “I’m supposed to meet with Bill Williams before the show. He’s back this way, right?” I resumed walking in my original direction. I could hear Williams’s mellow tenor voice leading the vocal exercises at the end of the hall.

Wainwright scurried around me, a feat I admired given the height of her heels, and planted herself in my path. I had to either stop or plow her over. Tough choice. When I’ve set my course for a goal, I don’t take kindly to obstacles in my way, especially when they reek of AquaNet.

“Crew,” she sneered, looking me up and down, “do not bother Bill backstage before a show, which anyone with common sense would know. How did you sneak back here, anyway?”

I have to work with this woman, I reminded myself. It’s not nice to knock a coworker on her ass.

“Bill left me a message to meet him here when I arrived. He’s expecting me.” I took a deep, calming breath, shaking off the frustration of travel delays, determined not to cause a scene.

I didn’t have to. Wainwright’s rising voice did it for me as she snapped, “Like hell he is.”

A man in an impeccably tailored charcoal grey suit popped out of the green room and started toward us without hesitation. Dark hair in a conservative cut, eyes that matched his silver tie, a quarterback’s shoulders and stride: Quentin Kelly, lead singer and eldest of the Kelly Brothers Trio, and Wainwright’s future brother-in-law.

“Nancy? What’s going on?” His words were for her, his keen gaze for me.

I faked left and deftly stepped to the right, my hand out again. I ignored Wainwright’s icy glare, half expecting to feel one of her stilettos in the back of my leg. “Mr. Kelly, hi, I’m Kielle Hughes,” I introduced myself again. “I’m looking for Mr. Williams. Is he inside?”

Kelly shook my hand reflexively, sizing me up in a moment. “The Internet person, right? Come on in. We’ve only got a minute, but I know he was looking for you.” He turned to usher me down the hall.

“Quentin, she can’t go in there!” Wainwright protested. “You know the rule. No visitors in the green room.”

“Miss Hughes isn’t a visitor, she’s staff,” Kelly pointed out, guiding me through the green room door with a light touch on my back. I took an extra step forward so Wainwright could steam past. She flounced into position next to the youngest, tallest, most attractive man in the room and shrugged off the arm he tried to settle across her shoulders.

Bill Williams noted our arrival but did not pause until he’d led the group through the end of a series of scales. Then he made a conductor’s cutoff motion and looked expectantly at Kelly, who took his cue to introduce me to the group.

“Miss Hughes. Glad you could join us.” Gee, thanks for the warm welcome, boss. To the rest, he said, “Kielle, as you know, is our embedded journalist as well as our webmaster. She’ll be taking pictures and conducting interviews while we’re on tour. Give her your full cooperation.” They swiveled to look at me. I smiled back at the murmured hellos.

A man wearing black clothes and a headset stopped briefly in the doorway. “Two minutes, Bill,” he said, and disappeared again. Stage manager, I thought.

“Let us pray,” Williams intoned. I recalled that he was an ordained minister. The company joined hands — me included, as people on either side clasped mine — and bowed their heads while their leader asked a blessing for their performance.

Out of practice with praying, I studied my new colleagues’ footwear until he finished. Leather dress shoes for the gentlemen, simple pumps for the ladies, except for Wainwright’s high heels. I wondered if the uniformity was a matter of dress code or personal choice, and why Wainwright was the only standout. My musings were cut short when the stage manager reappeared to announce, “Places.”

The tide of singers swept me back out into the hallway as I dug out my digital camera. Time to go to work.