IT WAS A GENERAL ADMISSION SHOW at the gates of oblivion. I waded through a sea of people all patiently and inexplicably waiting to see from way way way way far away. You’d almost need binoculars. These people, they were easy to part. Elbows. Death threats. Sweat dripping. They didn't like it, when you got in front of them. For some reason they thought that the spot was theirs and it was a high crime to take it from them.
Just passing through, I am, on my way to the front.
"Hey ASSHOLE, We were here first!"
"What's the deal jerk? You should have gotten here 4 hours ago like us!!"
"IDIOT! You just stepped on my camel hair thigh high boots."
"Can you believe this guy?!!"
And I guess they were right to complain, it's just too bad that I don't care at all about complaints. Especially complaints at an outdoor general admission concert. However, not being one myself to really complain, I tend to get hostile when people complain to me about pointless shit. If you've got a problem, you're better off to just go on ahead and do something about it.
I was slowing down because I had made it three quarters of the way up towards the stage, and thought I'd rest until the band came on. I’d come with a friend, but had no idea where the fuck he was. It didn’t matter. I was the one who had driven. I thought about my nightmare pickup truck in the parking lot. I was hoping it wasn’t on fire. There was always the high possibility my nightmare pickup would catch on fire.
It caught me off guard when a mouse- sized girl tapped me on the shoulder and spoke in this mouse- sized voice. "Hey do you think you can move a little to the left I can't see the band."
Everywhere you looked there were people piled on top of each other.
"You're at a show."
"But I was here first, man."
“The native Americans were here first.” I said.
She had bright blue hair and black rimmed glasses. I didn't notice too much else about her. I was too busy turning around, ignoring her annoying me.
The roadies came out and set up and then they went away and we all stood around watching the amps do absolutely nothing against the eternally unflinching red light backdrop.
I reached a nice place as I got lovingly drunk. This happened because of the mystery flask I keep in my coat pocket. Third song in, the girl was tapping on my shoulder again. She was handing me a bowl to smoke. Now we were friends? Sure whatever. The band goes on, they smash through their songs. The neon- haired girl and I keep drinking from mystery flasks and she keeps smoking me up.
“Can I stand on your shoes so that I can see?”
“Can you what?”
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The Aspiring Writer 12: Tiffany Scandal:
by Chris Lambert
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