In 1985, when I was a second-year teacher of English and U.S. history at Highland View Middle School in Corvallis, Oregon, I had a student named Stacey who also happened to be my next-door neighbor. Stacey was a special kid; she was sweet, gentle, kind, funny, and just extraordinarily good-natured. (I was tempted to add "for an eighth-grader," but in reality Stacey was extraordinary for any human being.)
My wife (at the time) and I liked Stacey so much, we decided to hire her as a babysitter for our two-year-old daughter Lyris. And Stacey turned out to be a wonderful sitter, as well. Lyris loved her.
One day, while she was doing some household chores at her home and apparently overexerted herself, Stacey had a heart attack.
I was stunned. Teenage girl? Heart attack? How in hell could this happen? And how could it happen to such an exemplary human being? What is wrong with the universe?
Fortunately, Stacey's mom was home at the time and was able to call 911. An ambulance came and initially transported Stacey to Good Samaritan Hospital in Corvallis, where doctors decided that her particular condition required more intensive care. So she was flown via helicopter up to Oregon Health Sciences University (OHSU) in Portland, 90 miles north.
Stacey had heart surgery and spent several weeks fighting for her life at OHSU, with one or both parents almost constantly by her side. Friends also visited when possible, including myself and Stacey's best friend Kajsa, who carpooled with me. On one visit I brought Stacey a pair of headphones and a cassette tape full of music I thought she might enjoy. It was during this visit that Stacey mentioned her favorite singer was Whitney Houston, and her favorite song was Houston's "Greatest Love of All."
This gave me an idea. Figuring that the hospital bill for Stacey's surgery and recovery was going to be astronomical, burdening her parents with impossible debt on top of trying to keep their daughter alive—along with caring for their three other daughters—I decided to ask Whitney Houston to perform a benefit concert…in Corvallis, Oregon. I knew it was a long shot, but not asking her at all would've made it an even longer shot.
Note that this was in 1985, before personal computers were ubiquitous and before email was even a glimmer in some computer geek's eye. There was also no Google, so I couldn't look up a phone number to call. So I had to mail a letter…care of Houston's agent, whose address I found on one of her albums. In my letter I explained the situation, begged Houston to put on a benefit concert in Corvallis, and gave her my address and home phone number.
After sending the letter, I promptly forgot about it, thinking that the chances of receiving a reply from Houston—or even her agent or anyone else in her sphere—were less than zero to zip.
Two weeks later, at 7:45 a.m. on a Monday, I'm in my classroom at Highland View, preparing my lessons for the day. A voice comes over the intercom informing me that I have a phone call down in the office. A phone call for me…at school…at 7:45 on a Monday morning? Something must be wrong! Someone has been hurt, or died, or…
I race-walk down the long hall to the office. “Hello? This is Rick."
"Hi, Rick. This is Mary Jones, Whitney Houston's assistant. How are you?"
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| Mary Jones (left) and Whitney Houston |
No fucking way. Whitney Houston's assistant? Calling me? At my workplace? At a phone number I didn't even provide in my letter? How did she get it?
"Um…uh…yes, uh, hello! I—I'm fine!" I stammer, trying to locate my composure, which seems to have left the planet. "Whitney Houston's assistant, did you say?"
"Yes. She actually calls me her aunt, but we're not related."
"Oh. Well, nice to meet you!"
"I'm calling in response to your letter. You were wondering if Whitney could put on a benefit concert there in Corvallis?"
"Um, yes. Yeah, I know it's a long shot, but—"
"Yes, Whitney asked me to tell you that, while she empathizes with Stacey's situation, she apologizes but she does have a policy of not doing benefit concerts. For anyone, for any reason. I'm so sorry."
"Oh. Yes, of course. I understand. No problem. I just thought it was worth a shot."
"Sure. And Whitney and I both wish you and Stacey the best. I hope things work out for her and her family."
"Um, yes, thank you. It was so nice of you to call. Have a great day."
"You too, Rick. And please give my best to Stacey. Goodbye."
"I will, thanks. Goodbye."
I was in a daze the rest of the day. Fortunately, my students didn't seem to notice. (Or did they, and I just didn't notice because I was in a daze?)
Several days later, Stacey was released from the hospital and I paid her a visit at her home. When I told her about the phone call, she was exultant. "Whitney Houston's assistant called you? About me? Wow, that's so cool!"
"Yeah, I just wish Whitney could've come here and performed 'Greatest Love of All' for you, live. That would've been cool."
"It would've been, but I think it was cool enough that you wrote to her, and her assistant called you."
Stacey was right: getting that phone call was cool enough.
So, it took a 13-year-old girl recovering from a heart attack to school me on when to accept cool enough and stop asking for cooler.
Epilogue: Twenty-seven years later, when Whitney Houston died of drug intoxication, Mary Jones was the one who found the body.
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