When I stepped from the passenger area at the airport into the space where family often waited to collect their travelers, there stood a disheveled man in a black tuxedo holding a little cardboard sign with my name on it. He looked as though he had already been driving hours that day. Standing at about my height, he somehow managed to position himself at the front of the crowd so as not to be missed – not that any woman with eyes could miss him. He was handsome in that mysterious have to know more about him way, despite how his clothes appeared. The single gal in me was sad to note the ring on his left finger.

After collecting my luggage, he led me to where the limousine was parked, apologizing for the upgrade to a larger car. He was running late from his previous client and did not get a chance to trade out the cars. I was assured there would be no extra charge. He said he hadn’t marked the alcohol yet, so I was free to enjoy a drink on the previous client. I was even gifted the spare bottle of champagne that the previous passengers did not drink.

Bonus for me.

I jokingly said to the driver, “So, was your previous passenger someone famous? Have I heard of them?”

He replied, “I am not really allowed to discuss other clients.”

I joked back, “It really wouldn’t matter who it was, unless it was Richard Marx. He is the only famous person I would love to meet one day.”

There was silence from the front of the vehicle, silence that told me I touched on a truth.

Seriously?

Did the one name I threw out happen be the person he had transported earlier that day? I queried again and he affirmed for me that, in fact, Richard Marx was his passenger but begged me not to tell his bosses he had told me. I assured him that for the time being his revelation was safe with me, but one day I would include it in my life story – no names, of course. Well, except Richard Marx’s name. He laughed and proceeded to give me minimal details of his former passenger while I sipped a nice large glass of some drink I vowed to one day thank Mr. Marx for.

(This has been an excerpt from Bonnijean's memoir, Life’s a Concert: how I found me, danced through personal armageddons, and enjoyed buttered popcorn along the way.)