Growing up in the middle of nowhere has its perks. You’ve got a tight-knit community, lots of wide-open spaces, and people telling you that anything is possible with no evidence to the contrary. When I was little, my family raised cattle. I spent my early childhood flipping over cow pies with sticks to look at bugs and playing in the bone-dry creek that ran through our pasture. After my exposure to Lady Gaga at the age of four, my interests shifted from being a cowgirl or rodeo queen to those focused on the world outside of the sunflower state.
By the time I was in middle school, this curiosity had reached a peak. On weekends I stayed up till the wee morning hours watching YouTube. The topic of Old Hollywood caught my attention one fateful night after a TV movie about the life of Judy Garland, the actress who played Dorothy in “The Wizard of Oz.” I spent a couple of years obsessing over all things 20th-century Hollywood before going down similar rabbit holes surrounding opera, disco, and Broadway. Last fall, the latter two of these obsessions merged when I heard that my favorite Broadway legend, Patti LuPone, was having a concert at a cabaret in the basement of Studio 54, the epicenter of disco in the late 70s. Now 18, with a bank account of my own, I booked the tickets and cajoled my best friend Alicia into going to New York with me at the beginning of January.
On December 31st, we began our adventure by driving across the state to get to the airport. I stretched my left leg up on the dash and adjusted my grip on the steering wheel, yawning as Alicia skipped through radio stations: Cattle market reports, Hispanic, worship, and beer-drinking country stations. My left hand was still sticky from ketchup splattered when I threw the remaining quarter of my Costco hotdog out the window. Only four more hours of dry yellow grass starkly contrasted by a bright blue horizon until we reached Kansas City. That night we watched the ball drop on our hotel TV and sang New York, New York while traipsing across our two queen beds.
The next afternoon, we landed at LaGuardia. Alicia had been to New York the Christmas before, so I assumed she knew how we were supposed to get to the Y where we were staying. Unfortunately, as the old adage goes, assume made an ass out of u and me. So, I found myself pulling up maps on my phone, thankful that my dad made me the map keeper on family road trips. After a bus ride, we found ourselves at a stereotypically “New York” subway station in Queens. Great, my parents were right, I thought. We struggled through the turnstiles and downstairs with our suitcases into the water-stained, noisy, and stinky tunnel. Thank God I didn’t let her bring the extra-large suitcase. As I sat clutching my bag for dear life on the train, I laughed. I wondered what my five-year-old Daisy-Scout self would’ve said if I told her I was going to New York with the annoying troop leader's daughter who called me Co-Ween.
That afternoon we traversed the city. We made our way from Lincoln Square to Chelsea, clocking in 16,000 steps. We passed Times Square, still littered with confetti from the Ball Drop the night before, the New York Public Library lions, and the Empire State Building. After watching the ball drop for years on TV, I was disappointed to find it much smaller in person. This deception reminded me of the lie my parents started to get me in bed early–that the new year began at 10 pm in Kansas.
The next morning, we woke up early as we were on a mission. After a brisk walk, we arrived at Fifth Avenue. We apprehensively walked around some scaffolding and came to a red-carpeted staircase flanked by two gaudy golden lamp posts. “How do we get to the Palm Court?” I asked the doormen. Inside the foyer were four giant Christmas trees and a podium. We made it inside The Plaza. I asked for a table for two and the woman asked for a room number. Without hesitation I blurted out 316, my heart skipping a beat. I heard Alicia gulp as the woman began typing numbers into her computer. I began to panic, realizing hotels in this part of the world had floors higher than three, and asked whether the room would be charged. “Oh no, ma’am,” she said, clearly amused as she seated us. I was relieved, Alicia however was still a nervous wreck as she watched the woman turn others away. The food was like nothing I’d ever experienced. The coffee was far from the Folgers served at the Co-Op, where I usually spent my mornings talking about the weather with old farmers. Between bites, I looked up behind Alicia where sat a little girl in jeans and a purple jacket. She was just like me at that age, except her mother took her to the Plaza for breakfast, not McDonald’s.
After months of anticipation, it was finally time for Patti LuPone. I stood amazed soaking in the glory of all that was the entrance to Studio 54 where pop culture behemoths had once stood. Cher, Jagger, Dolly, Warhol, and Liz Taylor had all been right here in my shoes. I stood in the same place after the show, clutching a copy of Patti’s book and a pen I took from the Plaza. I was terrified she would say no to my plea for an autograph as she has a reputation for being a diva. A crowd had gathered around the main entrance to 54 Below and I stood back by another set of glass doors. Suddenly my stomach dropped as I saw her emerge from an elevator behind said glass doors. I panicked, backing away for a moment to catch my breath before instinct took over. I used the manners ingrained in me since birth and said “Miss LuPone, could you please sign my book?” It was a complete blur. She said yes, stepping past a member of her entourage, called me sweetie, and I almost died. The giant voice that boomed through the room moments ago was housed in a 70-year-old woman a head shorter than me. It was comical.
After the black SUV tagged “Lady Pats” pulled away from the curb I walked back to Alicia still in shock, mouth stuck in a smile with tears forming in my eyes. I skipped back to the hotel in total bliss, disregarding the fact that we were walking in the dark in New York. I felt invincible—like I could do anything. It had been proven. Me, Coleen, an 18-year-old girl from nowhere, Kansas could go anywhere, and do anything.
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