fuck buttons at the echo
I was ready to give up. The venue was packed and the music was far too loud. I ordered a Jack and coke and a water and tipped the bartender generously. Putting up with that noise is worthy of my change. I found a couch in the very back corner, placed my cups on the ground, and nuzzled my back into the fake leather exterior. I sat watching the ants around me interact and attempt to talk above the formidable drone. Why does live music have a personal vendetta against my eardrums? I finished my drink and slithered my way through the crowd hoping to find a decent bathroom where I could work on my Bateman impression. My journey spit me out not ten feet from the right side of the stage. Pleasantly surprised I nixed the Bateman meeting and grabbed a spot behind a wide gentlemen who had zero insecurities about bobbing along with the music. I couldn’t see his face but I liked him. At my angle the volume was perfect and I was able to follow each and every move one band member made. He was facing me, grooving along with the music and occasionally checking in with his partner. We made eye contact often and I made sure to show my appreciation, as well as my approval (however much it was worth).
I left early to avoid the drug-addled, plastic, bearded crowd because nothing ruins a show like a herd of loud humans. I ran across the street, down the stairs, and panted my way up the dark, suburban hill which cradled my parked car. I passed a couple lying down on the wet sidewalk, seemingly oblivious to anything outside their damp bubble, or better yet, uninterested in it. I grinned as I conquered the final steps.