Act One, Manhattan, 1978:
My band, Comateens, had just performed at Hurrah, a nightclub in NYC, when I sauntered into the DJ booth brandishing our new single, Danger Zone. “Great!” the DJ said, “I’ll play it,” and then he leaned over and whispered, “Bowie’s here.”

“Oh,” I said, “Where?”

“Right behind you.” I turned and looked directly at the thin white duke. “Hello,” he said pulling me close. “What have you got there? A record? Is it yours? Are you in a band?”

“I just got off stage,” I said slightly annoyed. “Oh yes, of course,” said Bowie pulling me even closer. “You sounded great,” and with that he bent me backwards, gone with the wind style, and kissed me.

At 15, this kiss would have been something to build a dream on, but my 22 year-old self was long over him mostly due to his’77 release, Low; to me, a dirge of a record and the lowest point in his musical career. Plus, my bandmate, his biggest fan, was peering into the DJ booth scowling at the two of us. My life at that moment hung in the danger zone.

“I gotta go!” I blurted and in one motion, dashed out of the booth leaving Bowie devastated and forever wondering. I’m certain he married Iman on the rebound.

Act Two, Manhattan, 1979:
“There’s Eno,” said my boyfriend, Tom. We were at Max’s Kansas City; another NYC nightclub.

“Who?”

“Brian Eno. He’s sitting with Robert Fripp. You’re going to work with him tomorrow. You should go over and say hi.”

“I don’t do that sort of thing,” I said. “I’ll meet him tomorrow.” But Tom continued to pressure me so I eventually went over more for Tom’s sake more than mine.

“Which one of you is Brian Eno?” I asked extending a hand. The two men looked at each other, rolled their eyes, and without saying anything looked away. Embarrassed, I went back to my table and thanked Tom.

The next day, at Mediasound Recording Studio, I was setting up Eno’s session when he walked in. “Oh no!” he said, “You’re the girl who came up to me last night. I’m so sorry. I didn’t believe you. There are no girl sound engineers.”

“I’ve worked with Frank Sinatra, Barry Manilow, and Barbara Streisand. Who exactly are you?”
“I’m Brian,” he said sheepishly, “Um, I produced Bowie’s album, Low”

“Oh,” I groaned, rolled my eyes and looked away.

“Is there a place I can wash my feet?” he asked. Eno was barefoot and carrying his shoes. I turned away again, this time to hide a smile. Indeed, we were kindred spirits. He soon nicknamed me “Ram” short for Ramona, and when I asked if Eno was a shortened name he said, “No, Eno is long for ‘E’”.

In off hours, Eno and I talked about art and film and shared opinions of each other’s musical projects. For me Comateens; for him, rough cuts of Bowie’s new material. I never told him about the kiss. One day, he erased a home video of Bowie to tape me just sitting there. One day, he leaned over and kissed me. I was shocked and confused. I had no idea he had feelings for me. “I gotta go,” is all I said, and then abruptly left leaving Eno to wonder.

I ran to the lobby of my boyfriend’s building where I hyperventilated for some time trying to figure out what just happened. I felt as if I had betrayed Tom. I couldn’t face the truth and I wanted to do things right. Just announce you’re in love with someone else. That’s how Tom eventually did it. By then, Eno left for Canada. The kiss was forgotten, buried, until decades later when I awoke from a dream; every detail rebuilt, and all that was left for me was to wonder.