There are all kinds of stories from the world of rock n' roll.

Many years ago, I went to a suburban Chicago club to see one of my very favorite bands. I had gotten to know them all, and we became good friends. They were all so much fun and nice and talented, and we hung out whenever they were in town, or if I traveled to see them somewhere.

I knew that the leader of the band had recently gotten married. His wife, a former beauty queen, had gotten pregnant, and had recently given birth to their son. She had told him, he told me, that she had been told by doctors she couldn't have children. Hmm. I worried about this situation. My friend was a good man, good-hearted and sweet, but such a bohemian and scattered it was hard to see how he would deal with being a father.

We got to the club about an hour or so before showtime. The club's backstage area was essentially the office area, which wasn't bad because it was large and well-lit, and we all were just delighted to see each other again. I met the Beauty Queen. She was indeed a very good-looking woman, tall with long lean legs, a natural blonde, a fine-featured face with high cheekbones and glinting jade green eyes. But my heart sank. I could see in her, call it intuition or whatever, a coldness, a harshness, that went bone-deep. I didn't even have to ask; the other band members faces told me I was right, in sad-eyed looks and faces turned to the floor. Multiple stints in rehab had not saved her pregnancy from drug and alcohol use.

My friend, bouncing around as always like a giddy, clumsy puppy, brought the baby over to me, and told me his full name while I sat in a chair and held him. The Beauty Queen watched me, as she smoked a cigarette. The baby was no more than a few weeks old. He fell asleep as I held him, and as the band prepared to go onstage, his mother told me I could just put him back down in his portable crib and we could all go watch the show. We?? All?? I asked her who would be taking care of the baby. She pointed to a baby monitor next to his crib and told me if he started crying she'd come back in. I must've looked appalled, because she laughed and said that's what they did and it was fine. The baby would be fine. She clipped the other part of the baby monitor to her jeans, and walked out, lighting another smoke.

I stood there. There was no one else left, just me and the baby in his crib. The band began to play and it was incredibly loud, even in the office. The baby stirred and frowned. I looked to the door leading to the club. I looked at a door, unlocked, leading to the parking lot. The baby began to fuss in a tiny voice, fists flailing. I looked again to the club as he started to cry. Of course she wouldn't be coming back to get him. She would never hear him in there. The monitor was a prop.

I picked him up, awkward and unsure, feeling so helpless and sad. I bent down and with one hand rooted around in his diaper bag until I found a bottle half-filled with formula. I took him back to the chair with me, and he drank and drank until the bottle was gone. I rocked from side-to-side with him, and tried to cover his little ears with his blanket, not really knowing what else to do, not a mother myself, little experience with babies. He fell asleep again, and I thought, I will hold you, someone will hold you this time, if just for tonight. I listened to the show, blaring through the walls, and I looked at the baby's face and wondered what would become of him, and my friend, and the Beauty Queen.

Twenty-two years later, the baby is a tall and handsome young man. My friend still plays music, living most of the year out of the country now. The marriage fell apart pretty quickly, the Beauty Queen struggled greatly with her addictions, and I do not know now where she is or how she is. I know it was a hard struggle for this boy to grow up. I know his dad loves him dearly, grew in his love for him, and did the best he could for him.

I don't worry about the baby anymore.