Kissed by Paul Simon

The beveled glass of an empty Yoo-Hoo bottle sparkled under the fluorescent lights, spinning wildly as the eighth graders held their breath.

Floorboards squeaked above us as we sat on cracked linoleum tile in the church rectory’s basement.

We weren’t supposed to be down there.

Our young Jesuit priest, Father Sweeney, fresh out of seminary, had organized a mixer of Catholic and Methodist junior high students. Vatican II declared that Protestants were not heretics, just separated brethren. Father Sweeney hoped a gathering might provide opportunities to better understand our new Christian friends.

During the party, eight of us sneaked down the stairs and started a game of Spin the Bottle. I had never played this game; I soon learned it was quite different from checkers.

Outside, budding daffodils shivered in the last Arctic wind. Two boys dusted off an abandoned 45-rpm record player. Mark Starkey, tall, lanky, and an eighth grader, placed a disc on the spindle.

The soft chords of Simon and Garfunkel’s newly released song “Bridge Over Troubled Water” filled the room. Mark spun the bottle. It stopped. He shook his head. Then he spun again. And again. Apparently, it was not landing where he wanted.

The girls giggled. The boys nudged each other. He gave up. Standing, he moved to the center of the circle, grasped the bottle, and pointed it in my direction.

Mark walked over and stood in front of me. My chest fluttered. He helped me off the floor, put his arm around my back, and guided me around a corner — out of view of our friends.

“I’ve had my eye on you,” he said.

I gulped.

He bent down, a shock of shaggy hair flopping in his eyes. His face was so close I could smell potato chips.

Music swelled as “Bridge” ended. Then he pressed his lips against mine.

Soft whiskers tickled my lip.

I sneezed.

My first kiss.

Knees shaking, heart galloping — in my thirteen years, I had never experienced a feeling like that.

I didn’t know that forty years later, I would meet the artist who penned that song.

My husband, Richard — sorry, Mark! —and I were offered tickets to attend a Paul Simon lecture at Emory University.

“Let’s go, Wendy,” Richard said excitedly. “We also have tickets to go to a VIP meet-and-greet afterwards. We can maybe shake hands with Paul Simon.”

Of course Richard wanted to go. Richard’s passion for music is woven through his life. Through his eyes, I experience music more meaningfully.

“You know I told you the story of my first kiss. ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’ was playing,” I replied.

“Yes, I remember. Mark Starkey,” Richard said.

At the event, we found two vacant seats in the Glenn Memorial Auditorium.

Introduced by the lecture series director, seventy-one-year-old Paul Simon took the stage. The audience quieted. My leg started to jiggle.

During his lecture, Simon spun stories about his early beginnings and inspirations. And lessons learned. Strumming to familiar songs, he mingled music with his reflections.

“I wrote ‘The Sound of Silence’ while I was still living at home,” he said. “I would sit with my guitar in the tiled bathroom with the lights off and the tap running. ‘Hello darkness, my old friend’ was not a metaphor — I was literally sitting in the dark. That song was influenced by JFK’s assassination. I was 21 years old.”

Every story carried the audience into a deeper understanding of Simon’s intellect and creativity. As the lecture ended, I knew attending the VIP reception was not optional.

Taking the elevator to a spacious, ornately decorated room, we were greeted by the muffled tones of talking and laughter.

Grabbing a glass of cabernet, Richard and I leisurely strolled around the room, examining original art and first edition books.

As it became later in the evening, Richard said, “Let’s head to the elevator, Wendy.”

“Is it time to slip slide away?” I joked.

“Ha!” Richard said. “No, but if Paul Simon is coming, he can only get here one way. The elevator. We should really try to meet him.”

I followed Richard to the elevator foyer. My hands shook.

We finished our wine. A waiter noticed, circling near us with a tray of filled glasses.

We grabbed two more.

“Maybe he isn’t coming,” I said, feeling my face warm. “It’s getting late and we both have work tomorrow.”

“Let’s wait a little longer,” Richard insisted. “I’m sure he’ll be here.”

Just then, the elevator opened and Paul Simon and his assistant stepped out.

The pounding in my ears silenced any sound. My fingers couldn’t feel the wine glass stem. Paul Simon!

Dressed in a black collarless shirt and black jeans, he had rosy cheeks and closely shaved graying hair. An ebony and ivory tweed fedora sat jauntily cocked on his head. Reading glasses hung around his neck on a dark cord.

Only a shadow remained of that long-haired boy peering out from decades-old album covers.

Paul had nowhere to go. We were blocking the entrance to the main room.

Richard took the lead. “Hi, that was a tremendous lecture,” Richard said. “I’m Richard Lenz, this is my wife, Wendy.”

Simon smiled broadly, “Glad you liked it,” he said. He turned to his assistant and said, “Get me that tequila I like, okay?”

Simon stood between Richard and me. I didn’t need to look up to peer into his eyes — he was my height. Short.

Richard chatted with him for a few minutes. I tried to wet my dry mouth with sips of wine, racking my brain to come up with something witty to say.

I finally spoke. “Paul, um, you talked about ‘Graceland’ and how some misunderstood it even though the critics loved it. Do you have songs that were used in a way you didn’t intend?”

Paul thought for a moment. “People played ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’ at weddings,” he said. “Everyone thinks Artie wrote that song. He didn’t. I did. What surprised me about that song is that it started to be used for funerals. It’ll probably be used in my obituary,” he joked.

He continued, “As an artist, I write a song. I hope it connects with others. But if their meaning isn’t mine, that’s okay,” he said.

Paul Simon’s music offered passage, I thought. For however we needed it. Whenever we needed it.

Richard replied, “You know, ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’ was playing when Wendy had her first kiss from some guy named Mark Starkey.”

I blushed. Not where I thought Richard was going to go with the conversation.

Paul smiled.

He stepped forward, looked me in the eyes, and lay his hand on my shoulder.

I could sense his warm breath on my cheek, sniffed a slight tang of alcohol on his breath, and then, without warning, felt his cool lips against mine.

My body felt like it was no longer in contact with the floor. For a moment, I was back on a dusty linoleum floor in a dimly lit basement.

Then Paul said wryly, “Now you can tell Mark Starkey you’ve been kissed by the guy who wrote the song.”

Richard’s jaw dropped. “Hey, that’s my wife!”

Simon chuckled. “Well, I can give you a kiss, too!” Richard waved his hands as Paul’s assistant suddenly appeared with a glass of tequila.

“We have other guests to greet,” he said to Paul.

“So sorry,” I said, trying to feel my feet. “Thank you so much for taking the time to talk with us. And your songs!”

“Thank you!” Simon said as he slipped into the main room and the waiting crowd.

Richard and I — speechless — walked into the elevator and turned around.

As the doors closed, I could have sworn I saw Paul Simon raise his glass, point it towards me, and wink.

The whole encounter still feels crazy after all these years.

---

Thanks for reading. Did this bring up any memories of a song that has followed you in your life? Would love to hear about it.

For more stories about celebrity “sightings” check out Tangled Up In Blues.