"You people are the only thing keeping me from Carl Barât! MOVE!!!"
     I rested my chin against the top of the steering wheel and narrowed my eyes at the slowing traffic on the 101.
     "If I write a story, may I use that line?" Neil asked with a smile, "'You people are the only thing keeping me from Carl Barât!' Ana yelled-- at every car on the road."
     I looked at the clock in the dash. It was after nine. Doors were at 8pm. I unclenched my fists and tilted my head back with a sigh. 
     Fuck Hollywood.
     

     "I believe in God because I've seen miracles," The kid had once said to me, big blue eyes and all. I couldn't remember what he was doing, sitting on the couch maybe, but I remembered posing the question.
     "Do you believe in God?"
     "I believe in God because I've seen miracles and that seems to be the only explanation for them."
     When I closed my eyes, when I focused on his voice in my head, I didn't recall him telling me that he loved me-- this was the thing that I focused on instead.
     Miracles.
     It had been nearly a week since he had left me and I had spent the better part of this time sleepless, drinking black coffee and driving around for hours chain smoking cigarettes while I listened to "Still Ill" by The Smiths on repeat.
     "Have you started smoking again?" My brother-in-law asked.
     "Yeah. I--uh-- its been--."
     He gave me a sympathetic look.
     "I understand--just don't tell your sister-- and stop. It's disgusting."
     At night when the house was quiet, I would stare up at the ceiling and plead with God,
     "Please send me a miracle. Please just send me a miracle."
     Carl Barât hadn't exactly been what I had wanted or was praying for but when I read on NME that morning that he was in my part of the world-- it did sort of seem like a miracle.
     I sprinted across the record store parking lot into the other department.
     I was shaking.
     "Carl Barât is here."
     "In the store?" Neil asked.
     "No, he's playing a show in LA tonight-- for some movie, I don't know. I'm going. Do you want to come?"
     "That's what she said."
     "Neil."
     "I'm broke."
     "I'll buy your ticket."
     "How much are tickets?"
     "I don't know. $30 or something."
     "That's money that could go towards your trip to Reading."
     "Ive been so desperate to get a letter to The Libertines. To tell them what I'm doing and how far I'm coming... but what if I could just tell a Libertine? This could help with Reading."
     "I don't like you going to Los Angeles by yourself."
     "Are you coming with me?"
     "Yeah," Neil succumbed, "I can bring my laptop and get some work done while I'm there."
     I purchased two tickets to The Roxy with $80 of the money I had saved for Reading and by 7pm we were at the 7-11 stocking up on whisky, coffee and snacks for the two-hour journey.
     "Is it veggie?" Neil asked me of a particular snack.
     "Why do you ask me that? Why do you always ask me of all people that?"
     Is it veggie? I couldn't even bring myself to wear a real leather jacket.
     This made me smile. I had a good road companion. We stole away from the sun like rebellious children. He snuck whisky into a paper coffee cup and spoke to me with exaggerated gestures as if we were in the throws of some intense conversation when Border  Patrol waved us through.
     It was in that second we learned a disconcerting truth about our culture. We were doing questionable things and probably should have been stopped but because we were two middle class-looking white kids in a station wagon, chances were that no one would lift a brow. I found myself as relieved as I was repulsed.
     We made it into The Roxy just in time-- to have completely missed Carl's solo set. I asked Neil (who is approximately 6'6" (?)) to keep a look out for the man himself. We spent the next hour learning another disconcerting truth about our culture: sometimes you spend $80 of the money you had saved to go to Reading just to be in the same room with celebrities who are trying to sell you a movie that you'll have to pay another $12 to see.
     Great, I paid $80 and drove over two hours to watch a commercial.
     Fuck. Hollywood.
     Russell Brand called Carl up to the stage. I covered my mouth with my hand. He was all long dark hair, fair skin, Joy Division t-shirt with the sleeves cut out and a bandanna tied around the wrist. He looked just like a photograph. He looked just like thee photograph. 
     After the show, Neil was just barely drunk enough to be my spine (God love him) and approached a bouncer.
     "We were wondering if it's possible to get a message to Carl Barât?"
     "I don't know who that is." (note: this would be a common answer for the rest of the night)
     "He just played."
     "Maybe if you wait out here he'll come out."
     "Thanks, mate."
     Neil found the director of the film and tried him next. When he came back at us with, "I don't know who that is." It was slightly more surprising than when the bouncer had said it but the one that really got us was when the guy who was responsible for most of the music in the film claimed to have no knowledge of Carl.
     Neil's flabbergasted response was,
     "You were just playing on stage with him."
     In the end it was a very polite guitarist who tried to help us. He went backstage to deliver our message.
     We waited as the crowd dispersed and only a few stragglers remained at the backstage door.
     "You should start thinking about what you're going to do if we can't talk to him," Neil suggested.
     "We'll talk to him," I said, "We have to."
     The guitarist found us and told us,
     "We're probably going to the Rainbow. Carl said you should come there if you want to talk."
     But no sooner had he said it, did Carl come from the backstage. He posed for photographs with a few fans then approached us because we looked eager to speak with him. Crippling shyness kicked in, I inched behind Neil and away from sight. I was a child peeking out from mother's skirt.
     Neil made a brief amount of small talk about bands they both knew and a previous time they had met. Then he said,
     "This is my friend, Ana."
     Carl and I shook hands. It was a good handshake, just the right amount of pressure. A lot of times I'm disappointed in the way that people shake hands (too gentle is a lack of sincerity but too firm and someone is out to kill you). I didn't have expectations when it came to shaking Carl's hand but if I'd had; I imagine I wasn't disappointed.
     "She's one of my best friends in the world and she loves The Libertines. She's obsessed. She's always playing them and Dirty Pretty Things in the record store. Makes me feel at home."
     Carl gave a nod. Nervously, I spoke.
     "The Libertines are my favorite thing ever. When I heard you were getting back together I bought a ticket to Reading. It's the biggest thing I've ever done. I've never been overseas before."
     "You'll have a great time," Carl said.
     "Yeah--uh-- it's kind of a crazy story. I wish I could articulate it now. If there was some way I could email you or I could give you my email address... I'd love to tell you the whole thing..."
     Carl leaned in and said something like a mumble. I smiled, nodded, stared at him blankly then asked him to repeat himself.
     The second time around I gathered that it ended in "mail"...mail... Jesus! He was trying to give me his email address.
     I fumbled through my pockets for a pen and rambled aloud.
     "I'm sorry. I need you to write that down. I need a pen. A pen... Neil?"
     He pulled a Sharpie from his coat. I shoved it and a piece of paper at Carl.
     He wrote down the information and handed it back to me.
     I shook his hand again, gave him a hug and as polite people do in greeting and partings, he gave me a quick kiss on the cheek.
     I wished I could've seen us from the outside just then. Two rock and roll kids in striped t-shirts (he had changed), leather jackets (his was real, I'm sure) and masses of dark hair.
     Neil and I went over to the Rainbow for a drink and to discuss what had just happened. He drew a sketch of me on the back of a handbill then took me inside to show me around.
     There was a framed promo photo of Gun Club for the Fire of Love album. The sight of it caused me to wince. One of the first times the kid came into the record store, before I had the nerve to speak to him, I put that record on the overhead. That December when I walked into the place that he worked, he had done the same.
     "If you can make it through this-- you'll be strong and nothing can touch you," Neil comforted me, "You'll be Joan Jett."
     Please Lord, give me a miracle.
     I reached down into my pocket and ran my fingers along the edges of the folded slip of paper.