At least the practice times weren’t on the nights that I had to be with the band. The show date worked out as well. Perhaps it was fate. When I entered the lobby of Mom’s building, a couple of older ladies came up to me.
“Can I have your autograph, Mr. Sambora?” one of them asked.
I rolled my eyes. “I appreciate the compliment, ma’am, but I’m not Richie Sambora.” It was a blessing and a curse to have such a striking resemblance to the man. Maybe I should dye my brown hair green, or wear blue contacts to disguise my brown eyes, or something.
“Are you sure? You look just like him,” the same lady insisted.
It was my cleft chin. I was positive of that.
“Muriel, leave my son alone.” Mom to the rescue!
“You didn’t tell us he was so good-looking!”
“I did, and you were wearing your old glas
