Tom Jones International

This story appeared in Brushes With Greatness: An Anthology of Chance Encounters With Celebrities, a book published in 1989 in Canada. AF came across it, we contacted the author, Sonja Skarstedt for permission to post it. She checked out tji.com and graciously granted us permission. What we love about it is the author’s voice: a preternaturally mature teenager who got a wonderful gift from her local radio station. And we love her conclusion about Tom in the last sentence.

If you want to get an idea of the woman this 15 year-old turned out to be, check out her website. She’s a writer and an artist. We thank AF for finding it and Sonja for permitting us to post it.

Enjoy this, but please don’t forget to answer the Question of The Month (below).

---

Montreal, 1975: I was fifteen, gawky, and introspective. My chief goals were to sing like Judy Garland and to invent a formula that would shrink my five-foot-eight inch frame down to an appropriately insignificant five-foot-two. I believed that anything was possible, even meeting somebody famous.

Opportunity presented itself in the form of a radio announcement one afternoon: “Ladies, how would you like to catch Tom Jones’ concert at the Place des Arts? How would you like to meet Tom backstage after the show? All you have to do is mail in your name, address and telephone number and—who knows? Maybe you’ll be the lucky winner!”

Winning radio contests had become one of my specialties. In the preceding two years I had managed to win everything from grocery samples and dinners-for-four to a Mother’s Day hat. Why not Tom Jones?

Actually I was more familiar with Glenn Miller and Fats Waller than Tom Jones. The last time I had seen the performer was back in the sixties, during the heyday of his television show. I was eight, more enthralled by the chorus of neon-caged gogo dancers than the tight-suited, gyrating star they were backing up. I could also recall the screaming all-female audience.

I found a thank you card in my mother’s stationery drawer and inscribed a word balloon on the cover, so that the watercolor frog on the card’s exterior seemed to exclaim: “I listen to CJAD!” Inside, I wrote: “I have always wanted to meet a famous person. There are many questions I would ask Tom Jones about fame if I could meet him in person. And I would love to go to a real show at the Place des Arts.”

I returned home from school one Wednesday afternoon and turned on the radio. “This is the day, ladies!” chirped Jack Finnegan. “Later on this afternoon, I’ll be announcing the name of the lucky gal who’ll get to meet Tom Jones backstage at the Place des Arts!” My stomach prickled in anticipation. No, I shook my head, it’s probably rigged. . . .

An hour and a half later I was upstairs in my room, sketching, when I heard my mother shouting my name. “You’ve won, Sonja! You’ve won!”

The prickly sensation returned, this time propelling my body down the stairs. “I knew it! I had a feeling I’d win!” I shouted above the elated screams of my mother and brother Stephen.

The telephone started ringing, with numerous women, one of whom had sent in 237 entries, begging me to take them along to the show. “No,” I stated as determinedly as I could, “I’m taking my father with me.”

“You’re sick.”

This decision to take my father along only enhanced my weirdo status at school. “You would take your father to see Tom Jones!” Of course, my father happened to possess a Nikon and a comfortable car.

On Saturday, May 15, I washed my hair and inspected the viscose and polyester jumble of my wardrobe. I decided on a pale blue short-sleeved gym top and navy slacks, topped off with a camel-colored woolen jacket and a pair of sneakers. Just be yourself, I shrugged.

When we arrived at the Place des Arts I found myself surrounded by a sea of pearls, perfect coiffures and evening gowns, the silk-and-sequined cream of Montreal concert-goers. I wished I could dissolve into my off-white sneakers, feeling slightly placated when I remembered that my father was wearing a respectable black business suit.

Jack Finnegan greeted us when we arrived at our reserved seats. I shook his hand, wondering why he somehow didn’t fit the image evoked by his radio voice.

“It doesn’t look good,” he mumbled. “Mr. Jones’ manager has made it clear they want no shrieking women backstage.”

“But I don’t shriek.” My chin felt as if it had tumbled into my stomach. So, this was it. No Tom Jones.

Jack patted my shoulder. “Look, I’ll go back and see what I can do.” He headed backstage and we exchanged hellos with his girlfriend, an affable social worker whose chic haircut and pink-tinged glasses I immediately envied.

Jack returned with a smile. “I did it. I explained to the manager that you’re not the shrieking type, you’re a nice, studious girl who wears glasses and came with her father. And he says it’s okay.” My elation was restored. For once it paid to be the “studious type.”

We settled back to enjoy the show. A spotlight flashed and out pranced Tom in a lacy white shirt and purple satin suit. Even his patent-leather shoes gleamed. “Oh my God,” groaned Jack’s girlfriend. As the hall reverberated with ecstatic screams I sat there in awe.

After the show we were ushered beyond the forbidden doors leading backstage. As we waited in the hallway a wave of anticipation and disbelief came over me as a mob of photographers and reporters blocked the path. Would I really meet Tom Jones? Would I really have the nerve to ask him any questions?

A PR man slipped an eight-by-ten glossy photo of Tom into my hand: “You can ask him to sign this.” It was at this moment that Jack’s calm, affable girlfriend began to move as if her body had been possessed by an earthquake.

“Oh my God! I can’t believe it. Tom Jones!” Oh blast, I thought, now Tom will never let us in.

“Hey there, Sonja,” teased my father. “Are you getting a little nervous about meeting old Tom?”

“Of course not, Dad.”

“Mr. Jones will see you now.” The harried voice of the PR man was blocked out by my realization that this was it. As we filed down the hallway I hoped that Tom wouldn’t hear the exuberant sobs of Jack’s girlfriend directly behind me.

The dressing room was bustling with about twenty people performing various tasks from shouting orders and packing bundles of wire and equipment to bringing boxes of take-out food. Somebody gripped my arm. “Miss, here’s Tom Jones.”

Standing before me was a tall man wearing a bright red head-to-toe body suit. “How do you do, Miss?” The gravelly greeting came from a ruddy-cheeked face consisting of a warm, broad smile and sparkly-brown eyes, surrounded by a mop of frizzy dark hair. Tom Jones, in the flesh!

“Would you like me to sign that, then?” He motioned to the photograph in my left hand. My eyes were fixed on the gold crucifix nestled in the hairs of his chest. Even Tom Jones is religious, I thought.

I tried to gather my thoughts against the blaring lights and activity, handing him the photo. “I guess you get tired of signing these, eh?” The words tumbled out of my mouth at lightning speed.

“Nah. It’s part of the job, y’know.” I wondered how he could sing so smoothly in spite of such a gruff, burly speaking voice.

“What is it like to be famous?”

“It’s wonderful. I love it.” He took out his pen.

“Don’t you feel nervous going out onstage?” My hands twisted together.

“You bet. But once I’m up there, I just go. It’s a real high!”

“So, you like being famous then?”

“Well, the job takes a lot of hard work, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything.” The pen was still poised above the photo, ready to sign.

“Hmm.” I didn’t dare bother him with further questions. “That’s an elegant suit you’re wearing. It makes a great winter outfit,” I tried to ease my voice into a more comfortable, humorous pace.

“Yeah—hah! It’s comfortable!” His Welsh accent rather enhanced the “hah,” I thought. “So…” He started writing on the photograph. “Is ‘Sonja’ spelled with a ‘y’ then?”

“No, with a Swedish ‘j’!” I cracked, spying a box of take-out food on his dressing table. He must have been getting hungry.

“So, you aren’t Russian then?”

“Not yet!” My fingers were frozen together.

“Now, would you mind if I gave you a kiss?” Tom asked rather eloquently, starting me warmly in the eyes. I, being one of those individuals who rarely, if ever, blushed, could actually feel my cheeks becoming suspiciously warm. I had completely forgotten. Of course, ladies’ man Tom Jones would insist on giving his lady admirer a kiss.

“Um…” What could I say? “Yes, please.” I could hear my father chuckling away in a corner of the room.

Tom leaned over and presented me with the equivalent of a wet, electric buzz. What would my female classmates say? My cheeks felt like two flames. Why did so many people have to be watching?

While I stood back smiling a shy, frozen smile, Jack’s girlfriend managed to wobble toward Tom. “Oh my God, Tom! I love you, Tom!” Her chick, tinted glasses were streaked by tears and her exuberant red face nearly matched the crimson in Tom’s body suit.

Tom gripped her shoulders. “There, there, darling… relax.” He gave her a hug and a kiss. “You’ll be all right.” I spied a hint of consternation in his eyes.

“Mr. Jones, would you mind posing for a photograph?” I looked up in surprise. The request had come from none other than my conservative, business-minded father.

“Certainly, sir.” Jack’s girlfriend was leaning against Tom. Her eyes resembled two enraptured light bulbs. Jack stood nearby, shaking his head like a defeated salesman.

It was then that I particularly appreciated my father’s presence. As he snapped his Nikon I loosened up a bit, thinking what a wonderful souvenir the photo would make. As it turned out, this meeting with Tom Jones would be the last contest I would win for a while. It was, however, the contest to end all contests. I had enjoyed chatting with a famous individual and discovered in the process that being famous was simply part of the job—at least, as far as Tom Jones was concerned. Onstage, he was an electrifying performer and ladies’ man. Offstage, he was another human being doing his job and looking forward to a good meal.