A Pepsi for Alice Cooper

"Did you want me to get you his autograph?" my waitress offered, and I easily refused.

Detroit's chic "Rattlesnake Club":http://www.rattlesnakeclub.com/resturants/detroit/index.php called to me for chef Jimmy Schmidt's cuisine and a nighttime view of the Detroit River. What brought Alice Cooper there, I don't know. But when I spotted him across the dining room, I knew what to do.

I called my waitress over and instructed her, "A Pepsi to Mr. Cooper with my compliments."

It was delivered, and the waitress pointed out the kind donor. Alice Cooper turned to look at me, a sweet smile sent my way. I raised my glass to him; he raised his glass to me—the perfect gesture.

"Did you want me to get you his autograph?" my waitress offered, and I easily refused. There I was in a fine restaurant, the sparkling lights of the Windsor, Ontario, skyline dancing on the inky river as black as Alice's hair, as smooth as the leather of Alice's jacket, bubbling like the Pepsi I sent to one of rock and roll's greatest innovators.

No, I didn't need an autograph. I had something much better, and no one knew of it until now, as I tell you.

Finished with my delightful meal, warmed by my Beefeater martini loaded with an anchovy-stuffed olive, I smoothed my sleek gray catsuit and made my way to the door with a detour past Mr. Cooper. The famous Pepsi was one of two on his table, each half full, so I avoided the gaffe of interrupting his meal, since there was none. He recognized me and smiled.

"I wanted to tell you how proud we are of you as a Michigan rocker," I announced. He accepted that decree and agreed. "I'm proud to _be_ a Michigan rocker," he affirmed, and that was all that needed to be said.

Autographs are for strangers and fans. We had established that this brief encounter was much more than the common lust for a too-soon-faded scrap of paper. No, we had gone from civilized encounter to a footnote in history.

Not his history, of course, but certainly in mine.


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