It wasn’t so long ago that it happened.
It was on the West Side
that the meeting occurred
where among the shoddy white corridors of power
of one of the most illustrious schools of its kind
I had the select opportunity
to meet the man himself:
Jon B.

Herb made the arrangements.
He saw something special in the guy
not yet the international phenomenon
he would someday become.
Herb was impressed by his potential
and set up a photoshoot
so he could someday say, “I knew him when.”

Herb asked me there as his assistant
to handle lights and carry crap.
The pay was gonna be a sandwich.
How could I say no?

We arrived early to prep the scene.
Jon took his time to arrive.
When he got there
returning to his alma mater,
all smiles and grace,
he seemed expansive, comfortable,
big.

Herb introduced himself
and me
and began peppering Jon with questions
about his life and his art
and how he wanted to be shot.

Jon was not yet comfortable
being the center of attention
but got into it
as Herb further directed him:
“Pout, baby, Pout!”
I held a diffuser and kept quiet
but watched this guy
who was expected to become a star,
according to Herb.

This guy was destined to be something soon
apparently
and he seemed normal.
He seemed scattered.
He seemed human.
He could have been me.

“Are we about done?”
Jon eventually asked.
“I think we got the right kind of pictures,”
Herb replied, then looked at me.
I shrugged. What did I know?

We closed up shop
and I wiped up sweat.
Jon B went on his way.
I’m not sure if I ever got my sandwich.

Now Herb is Herb
and Jon B is frigging JON B
and I now stand before you
here to tell the tale.