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Okay, this isn't quite as short of the others, but in the grand scheme of things, it's still quite short.
This story differs from the others in that 90% of it is true. Maybe even 95%.
Tribe
Standing in line, ticket in hand, I felt the faintest whisper of the drumbeat crash against me. I cupped my cigarette against the January wind blowing across the Detroit River. The crush of bodies around me risked a stinging burn from the glowing tip of the cigarette, and though I resolved to stop caring whether the carelessly unaware learned the hard way that, yes, fire is hot, my conscience betrayed me, and I angled the it towards my own leg.
With a glance at my companion I wondered again why I’d let her drag me here. Punk rock really wasn’t my thing, and I had to break my budget to swing the cost of the ticket. The shallower parts of my brain reflected that they certainly had nothing to do with it. Annette wasn’t really my thing, either, and even if she had been, the engagement ring on her finger would have killed any urges.
Looking at how I had spent the previous six months provided the answer. My tiny one bedroom apartment in Pontiac had simultaneously become both larger and smaller. Outside of work, it existed as the entirety of my world, and I felt penned in when I checked in for the night. The move was a mistake, and one I could do nothing about for at least three more months. In that twilight time between wakefulness and sleep, I found myself wondering if I truly existed, truly mattered. When your waking dreams become philosophical, it’s time to make some changes.
Optimistically, I forced myself to enjoy the nearness of the crowd surrounding me, and I imagined myself carried by the tide of my fellow beings into the theater.
The opening act had left the stage by the time we reached the pit, and restlessly charged actors in their spiked Mohawks, steel-pierced faces, and illustrated figures stood around looking angry, sullen, and as much as possible like they weren’t enjoying themselves. My pose required no acting.
Aside from the same crappy job, Annette and I quickly discovered we had little in common. I decided “companion” might be too strong a word. I looked around, picking random figures out of the crowd and mentally catalogued them for future reference. Camo-Hawk stood six foot three in his Doc Martens, six-seven if you counted the grape-colored Mohawk adorning his otherwise shiny head. His camouflage covered right arm hung casually around Oh My God Is She Pregnant?, a stocky blond with a blank gaze that looked comfortably at home on her face. Big Bad Bouncer was my height, meaning short, but doubled my width, much of it appearing to be muscle.
“Sneer!” The low voice, pitched artificially cheerful, came from behind me. I turned to look and before I completed the maneuver, heard the click-click-click of a camera. “Metro Times, “ she said, pushing past me, “thanks!” The fact that it wasn’t the first, and likely wouldn’t be the last, time I was shoved that evening dampened my initial anger. I also had the impression that, beneath the short black pageboy and horn-rimmed glasses, she was more than a little attractive, and the aforementioned shallower parts took charge.
Just as I started to approach her, the lights went down. Four dimly-lit figures stood at attention behind their instruments. At the instant the first note of the first chord slammed through the speakers, a theater full of voices screamed as one. I told myself I was playing along.
As the drums began echoing a steady, machine gun beat, the floor shook as we leapt up and crashed down and into each other. Some part of me became aware of how close I was to Oh My God Is She Pregnant, and I found myself shielding her with my body. Others did the same. At the front of the stage the girl with the camera took a few pictures and then put her camera away. The stage lights reflected off of her flailing hair, catching the hint of red underneath the black. By the third song I hardly noticed the press and push of bodies hurling themselves against each other, or that I was a part of the chaotic wave it created.
One accidental elbow between songs marred the perfection of the moment. Two that I had failed to catalogue, Frat #1 and Frat #2, looked as out of place as I had felt, their hooded sweatshirts, beaded necklaces, and khaki baseball caps more the uniform of the jam band fan. They jumped and shoved with the rest of us, but there was a violence to it that I noticed, and others did as well. Camo-Hawk misjudged a jump and struck Frat #2 in the head. Shouting began and their anger was like a storm in the center of the crowd. Before Big Bad Bouncer could make his way over, Camo-Hawk was shoved hard against his pregnant girlfriend. I saw her eyes widen in fear as she fell and felt her muscles tense as we caught her.
The singer onstage shouted for someone to “get those fuckers out of here”, and the crowd parted for the big man. Camo-Hawk turned from his girlfriend, ready to tear settle things himself, and the mood of the crowd was with him. Before he could strike, the little photographer was there. I couldn’t hear what she said, but she stood like a wall between the would-be combatants, shoving the first fratboy back with one hand, while shouting at Camo-Hawk and pointing to his girlfriend. I moved forward to offer what little help I could, not certain if Frat #1 and Frat #2 would let the fact that their obstacle was a young woman stop them from going through it. She stopped me with a glance, her blue eyes calm and steady. Turning around, she focused her attention on Frat #2, poking his chest as punctuation to her scolding. With each poke he stepped back, taking his buddy with him. Each step back took him closer to Big Bad Bouncer, who finally grabbed each of them by the back of the neck and walked them toward the back exit.
Catching my breath and looking around, I saw Annette joking with the pregnant young girl, making her smile as her boyfriend stood with his arm around her. I saw the bouncer looking strangely shy as the singer called for a spotlight and pointed out the hero of the moment. As the girl with the camera made her way out, a small, shallow part of me hoped she’d turn and catch my eye. I probably would have watched her until she was out the door, but I was too busy throwing my head back and forth, shoving and being shoved, getting lost in the music that fueled us all.
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