the show

There’s a show in the basement. Concrete steps and a crowd stretched from entrance to bar. I have been to this club before, watched folk songs soaked into the wood grain of the pillars holding the whole place up, stood shoulder to shoulder and whispered to no one in particular “this place is a death trap” my voice flat, observational, unalarmed.

This is just the holding area. I know that. the next room over is where the action is, where we want to be. We are very important. And I lead the way down the stairs- ducking for warning to those behind me, I am no where near the ceiling – and through the crowd, our group weaving like a serpent through water and for a moment i turn around and am convinced I’ve lost them all behind me, that they’ve dissolved into the masses and I’m surprised to find myself relieved and then disappointed when their heads appear, bobbing up and down in the empty spaces.

The guy working the door knows me by name. and we’re in.

We’re overlooking the crowd, facing the stage. I have a camera that I haven’t used before. I’m tinkering with it, trying to figure out how it works while sitting at a tall round table with my best friend’s boyfriend. She is around the column getting drinks and from the painful small talk it is clear this is the first time we have ever been left alone together and forced to converse. I point my eyes down at the camera in my hands and barely respond when he asks me simple questions.

The crowd is making a lot of noise and I turn to see the singer of my favorite band crowd surfing a few feet away. “take my picture, marisa” he says and I beg the camera to work the way I want it to, all the while wondering about this place where people know my name.