That Thing We Did

Remembering my friend Adam Schlesinger.

My best friend Adam Schlesinger died tragically of COVID a little over six years ago. He was a celebrated musician — co-founder of Fountains of Wayne (”Stacy’s Mom”), Oscar-nominated for “That Thing You Do!”, Emmy winner for Crazy Ex-Girlfriend.

Adam wrote so many amazing songs in his short 52 years, but one of them was NOT "Hands to Heaven" by Breathe — a synth-ballad one-hit wonder from the '80s that recently played on my car radio and triggered a memory I haven't thought about in decades.

It was the winter of 1987. We were teenagers on a flight to Colorado when Adam and I noticed a couple of attractive girls sitting a few rows behind us.

I suspected we didn't have a shot in hell, so I hatched a plan.

“Let’s tell them we’re in the group Breathe,” I said.

Breathe was the sort of anonymous, Pompadour hair band of the 80s that even the most serious music fan wouldn’t be able to identify in a police lineup.

Keep in mind—this was way before the internet, where a quick google search would have blown our cover in seconds.

It took some convincing, but eventually, I persuaded Adam to join my plan.

We made our way towards the lavatory and pretended to stretch our legs in the girls’ general area. One looked up from her Discman and smiled. They were both brunettes, a few years older than us, on their way to a ski trip.

“Hi,” Adam said. “Such a long flight.”

“Yeah,” said the brunette on the right elbowing her friend who was reading Cosmo.

“We’ve been traveling so much,” I added. “Touring.”

“Oh, yeah? What do you guys do?”

“We’re in a band,” Adam said.

That sparked Cosmo’s interest. “Really? What kind of band?”

“You know. Pop, rock. That kind of stuff,” I said.

“Like something we’ve heard?”

Adam and I both looked at each other. He shrugged, “Maybe. I mean, we’ve got a video on MTV.”

“No way!” said Discman. We now had their undivided attention. “What’s your name?”

“Um, we’re in the band Breathe,” I said.

They turned to each other with quizzical looks on their faces. I thought for sure we were busted.

“Wait, I totally know that name,” said Discman. “What song do you sing?”

“It’s called Hands to Heaven,” Adam said. “It’s like a love song.”

“No way!” they both shouted.

We nodded our heads.

“That is so cool.”

We nodded our heads some more.

I don’t remember much of what happened next, but I know that we exchanged phone numbers.

I also know we never called them, probably because I hadn’t fully thought through what would happen when they realized Breathe was British and that we were complete imposters.

Perhaps the real Breathe was on to us. Their next single was entitled, “Don’t Tell Me Lies.”

But I like to imagine that somewhere in America, a 55-year-old mom — call her Stacy — is telling her teenage kid about the time she was on a flight to Colorado and got hit on by the band Breathe.

Adam shared this story as part of his toast at my wedding.

Adam (left), me, our other bestie Jeremy at my wedding, 2004

He told the story many times. It was one of his go-to’s when he was introducing me. “This is my oldest friend, Jonny,” he would say. “One time, Jonny and I were on a plane and…”

I always feigned embarrassment, but I secretly liked it. If I couldn’t be in a real band with Adam, like his other friends Chris or Jody or Dominique, at least we could pretend to be in one.