OUT OF THE RED ↝ dave grohl

sixty-one.

DECEMBER 7th, 1991, RENNES, FRANCE

        OF COURSE SHE WAS running late. Reagan shouldn't have expected any less from the mishap that had befallen her on that crisp December day as she hustled through the Rennes airport alone, her suitcase practically flying up off the ground behind her.

She swore to herself that it wasn't her fault. She couldn't control the airlines and nothing could have stopped her layover flight from Paris into Rennes from being delayed by several hours. Reagan had first heard the announcement blared over an intercom situated at her gate in the Charles de Gaulle airport. It had been spoken in rapid-fire French, though she'd understood the series of numbers and letters that had identified her plane. When she had asked for further information from a flight attendant and learned about the delay, her heart had sank to her toes.

Nirvana's show was due to start in the early evening at the Salle Omnisports venue. After learning of the flight delay, Reagan had come to understand that she was likely going to miss the show, which in turn had foiled all of her plans.

She had envisioned herself arriving early in Rennes, where she would meet up with the helpful roadie Dave had promised would be waiting to accompany her to the show. She would have gotten to the venue and gone straight to Dave, pulling him aside and telling him the news he had desperately been waiting for — the gender of their baby.

Reagan realized after much consideration that that particular dream had been too perfect. Nothing could have ever gone that swimmingly, especially for a girl who was on her first trans-Atlantic flight to France. She'd been trembling with nerves from the moment Kate had first dropped her off at the SeaTac airport.

Now, many hours later, she was moving at light speed through Rennes airport's lounge , having just fumbled her way through baggage claim. Her eyes were peeled for the guitar technician, Nic, that Dave had sworn to send for her. She had only met Nic once or twice and could hardly remember what he looked like, nor did she believe that he would still be waiting for her by that time. Nirvana's show must have already been at least halfway over.

Reagan weaved through a gathering of travelers near the arrivals exit and shot out into the cool nighttime breeze, her hair blowing wildly across her face and into her eyes. She swiveled her head back and forth, trying to search for the man whose face was a blur in her mind.

Maybe her worst fears were indeed true. Nic had probably left before her flight had even touched down, his responsibilities at the show outweighing his duty to pick up Reagan. She hadn't even be able to let anyone know that her flight had been delayed — the confusion of being in a different country with no sense of direction and no knowledge of French had left her helpless.

"Reagan! Hey, Reagan!"

She turned automatically in the direction of where her name had been called and saw a man with his head sticking out of backseat window of a car. He was waving frantically at her, beckoning her forward. Reagan felt a burst of relief. This had to be Nic, who in a surprise turn of events, had actually waited for her.

Reagan ran for the car, jerking her suitcase recklessly over the sidewalk curb as did so. She was finally starting to notice that it was cold out and that she had stupidly not dressed in preparation for Rennes's weather forecast. Her one coat could barely shield her from brisk air that nipped at her nose and cheeks.

The friendly driver of the car opened his door to step out and aid Reagan with her baggage, but Nic snapped at him from the backseat.

"No! Don't worry about it! She can throw it in herself!"

When the man looked back at him in bewilderment and spoke a flurry of French words, Nic groaned and threw his hands up.

"Conduisez, conduisez!" he demanded, slapping the passenger seat headrest to accentuate his commands. Reagan noticed that his attempt at speaking French had sounded more like a drowning gurgle.