The energy of this event is surprisingly dynamic. People are clinging to the oak on my left like flies on a discarded corndog. More are trying in futility to mount the lowest overcrowded branch. Of course. The crowd at the base of the stage is going nuts and trying to create some semblance of a mosh pit. Why must every concert have a mosh pit in order to be a success in the fans' eyes? This phenomenon baffles me all the more when the band is of a thoroughly non-mosh-pit-inducing genre, such as tonight. The moshers are yelling to other members of the crowd in order to perpetuate their ardor, but we in the estranged outer rim keep our eyes averted toward the stage.
Someone tugs on my shoulder. Expecting to see Jordan standing behind me in his brown hat, I instead come face-to-face with a diminutive red-headed giggling girl and her rotund friend.
"Can I sit on your shoulders?"
"What?"
"I can't see from here, so can I sit on your shoulders?"
Considering telling her that she should be using "may" instead of "can," I figure that I'll just agree instead. I highly doubt that anything will come of it, even after I say yes.
"Sure."
"Really?"
"Yeah, sure."
I turn back toward the stage, not expecting to hear another word from my ginger friend. And I don't. Well, at least no more words directed toward me. I still hear her talking ecstatically with her portly partner, but she seems to be completely content with having had the guts to have asked me, regardless of follow up. I can't help but be pleasantly pleased with myself as I smirk another few minutes away.
A few more songs and I find myself shifting my weight from one foot to the other more and more frequently. I'm trying to enjoy this, but three songs of this an hour ago had me satisfied. The rest of my friends, apart from Jordan, seem to be having a ball. I used to have my eyes fixed on the back of their heads, but it's a lost cause now. I'll just have to find them afterward.
Again, someone is pulling at my shoulder, but this time on my left. I turn my head to find puckered lips perilously close to my own and closing in quickly.
"Whoa! What are you doing?"
I can smell the alcohol on her breath as she protests to my rejection, "I was just trying to obey your shirt..."
My Kiss Me I'm Irish t-shirt wasn't supposed to be quite this potent. Sure, I had hoped for some potency, but not from the drunken chick now staggering away toward the oak.
Jordan luckily hasn't noticed my less-than-venerable encounter as he yells at me over the head of a stoner and his girlfriend. "Dude, I found the others!"
I don't really care at this point, but I cast him a questioning shrug anyway, as if to ask where. He waves me over. I tell him I'd rather stay put. I see the others now through the crowd. They're trying to convince me through their gestures that I should reconvene as well. I really don't want to go over there, so I scream to them that it's too far. The stoner's girlfriend swings around to ask me if I know them.
"Yeah, I do."
"They want you to get over there!"
I insist that it's not important, but she insists that it is.
"No, I'm fine here..." But she's already abandoned her stoned boyfriend and is guiding me by the hand through the crowd. Her grip is surprisingly firm - probably from escorting her boyfriend safely across streets. I have no choice but to follow like a good boy. I should be grateful; the crowd is parting as easily as the Red Sea for my beautiful tour guide. Getting through on my own would have resembled a trout swimming upstream.
Finally, when only three girls stand between me and my cohorts, she relinquishes her grip, smiles at me genuinely, and commences her return journey.
Being so close to my forcefully designated destination, I try to make the final few steps.
"Stop."
"Huh?"
There's a curly-haired girl glaring at me in the face from behind her thick glasses. Her freckles show through even in this dim light. "Stop. I'm sick of assholes like you cutting."
I'm surprised to have finally found such resistance in so unexpected a form. Naturally, I ignore her and press onward. She pushes me back violently, "I will kick your ass if you try to cut through again."
This is obviously a hollow threat, but I'm still taken aback. I pity this girl; she's a die-hard fan of this band and is finally fed up with getting pushed farther and farther back from her pathetic idols up on stage.
I throw my hands up in mock surrender and say, "Relax. I really don't care that much."
And really, I don't.
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