see myself then, making a run for it. I'd get through the doors and dash towards those flashing lights. Then a beefy security guarding wearing a black t-shirt two sizes too small would snatch me up and deposit me back outside. If I tried hard enough, I could even see the smug smile on the ticket seller's stubbly face.
My thoughts must have flashed across my face (or he saw something funny on his cell) because he sort of snorted and then shook his head, the tips of his black locks flailing against his cheeks.
"Look man, $20's a good price. I saw The Icons last week. They rock. I mean, they really do. Drake's voice is music to my ears," he said, smiling at his bad pun.
Grudgingly, I handed him a crisp $20 from my wallet, snatched my ticket stub, shoved that into my pocket, and went in.
Before I could even open the door, the guy already buried his thoughts in his phone, ignoring me.
Inside the foyer, the heavy bass and drums assaulted me. And it felt like they had the air on full blast. I pulled my work jacket more tightly around myself, trying not to think of how wrongly dressed I was. I could imagine the main room, crowds of people in leather jackets, torn jeans, and tattoos milling about in front of the stage...
Maybe I wouldn't stay for the show, after all.
It felt like my heart kept trying to match the thumping of the bass.
But first I had to see what the hell Drake wanted. And to give him a piece of my mind. And also to get reimbursed for my $20.
I looked around the foyer. There was a bar (closed) along one wall, the mirror reflecting the myriad bottles of liquor. A coat-check window, also closed, stood opposite the bar.
I realized then, as I stood still trying to figure out my next move, that I could hear the gentle tinkling of all those glass bottles as they vibrated against each other and their shelf.
The room narrowed near the hall that led deeper into the building. The flashing lights I could see came from this direction. It was rather like a funnel designed to lead people to the show.
I almost didn't notice the door set into the wall a few feet down from the entrance to the hall. It read: Backstage.
So I went over and tried the door, hoping it would be unlocked, hoping I wouldn't have to make my way through the crowds.
It opened onto a narrow hall illuminated by a straight line of buzzing fluorescent tubes. When I went in the door shut behind me, further muffling the sound of the music.
Not far in, the hall made a hard right. In this new section, closed doors lined the walls. Some had plates on them reading stuff like " Pyro #1" and "Storage B" while still others had nothing at all.
I thought maybe I could try to listen to see if anyone waited inside, but the thrum of the bass drowned out that plan.
So I kept walking, one hand clutching my purse hard against my ribs as though a mugger might jump out of a closet at me.
The hall made another sharp turn. I began to round it when I almost ran into a big guy's broad back. He wore a denim jacket with an enormous patch of a bald eagle spreading its wings.
"Whoa!" I said, clapping my hand over my mouth. I couldn't tell if I’d done it out of his unintentionally surprising me, or out of shock at that patch.
He shifted away from the wall and turned around to face me. I felt like I should take a step back so that I didn't have to crane my neck up so much to look into his face.
This guy had a full black beard and a receding hairline. Soft, doe-like eyes stared down at me from underneath a set of bushy eyebrows only a few stray hairs away from being a unibrow.
"Uh, hi?" I said.
He examined me. Not in the way that Bud liked to undress me with his eyes. More in a detached, weighing manner. He was a bouncer, clearly. When he took in my grey business jacket and my utilitarian purse, his face changed. He'd dismissed me as a threat.
The front of his jacket opened up enough for me to see the shirt stretched across his broad chest, and the seemingly tiny nametag
My thoughts must have flashed across my face (or he saw something funny on his cell) because he sort of snorted and then shook his head, the tips of his black locks flailing against his cheeks.
"Look man, $20's a good price. I saw The Icons last week. They rock. I mean, they really do. Drake's voice is music to my ears," he said, smiling at his bad pun.
Grudgingly, I handed him a crisp $20 from my wallet, snatched my ticket stub, shoved that into my pocket, and went in.
Before I could even open the door, the guy already buried his thoughts in his phone, ignoring me.
Inside the foyer, the heavy bass and drums assaulted me. And it felt like they had the air on full blast. I pulled my work jacket more tightly around myself, trying not to think of how wrongly dressed I was. I could imagine the main room, crowds of people in leather jackets, torn jeans, and tattoos milling about in front of the stage...
Maybe I wouldn't stay for the show, after all.
It felt like my heart kept trying to match the thumping of the bass.
But first I had to see what the hell Drake wanted. And to give him a piece of my mind. And also to get reimbursed for my $20.
I looked around the foyer. There was a bar (closed) along one wall, the mirror reflecting the myriad bottles of liquor. A coat-check window, also closed, stood opposite the bar.
I realized then, as I stood still trying to figure out my next move, that I could hear the gentle tinkling of all those glass bottles as they vibrated against each other and their shelf.
The room narrowed near the hall that led deeper into the building. The flashing lights I could see came from this direction. It was rather like a funnel designed to lead people to the show.
I almost didn't notice the door set into the wall a few feet down from the entrance to the hall. It read: Backstage.
So I went over and tried the door, hoping it would be unlocked, hoping I wouldn't have to make my way through the crowds.
It opened onto a narrow hall illuminated by a straight line of buzzing fluorescent tubes. When I went in the door shut behind me, further muffling the sound of the music.
Not far in, the hall made a hard right. In this new section, closed doors lined the walls. Some had plates on them reading stuff like " Pyro #1" and "Storage B" while still others had nothing at all.
I thought maybe I could try to listen to see if anyone waited inside, but the thrum of the bass drowned out that plan.
So I kept walking, one hand clutching my purse hard against my ribs as though a mugger might jump out of a closet at me.
The hall made another sharp turn. I began to round it when I almost ran into a big guy's broad back. He wore a denim jacket with an enormous patch of a bald eagle spreading its wings.
"Whoa!" I said, clapping my hand over my mouth. I couldn't tell if I’d done it out of his unintentionally surprising me, or out of shock at that patch.
He shifted away from the wall and turned around to face me. I felt like I should take a step back so that I didn't have to crane my neck up so much to look into his face.
This guy had a full black beard and a receding hairline. Soft, doe-like eyes stared down at me from underneath a set of bushy eyebrows only a few stray hairs away from being a unibrow.
"Uh, hi?" I said.
He examined me. Not in the way that Bud liked to undress me with his eyes. More in a detached, weighing manner. He was a bouncer, clearly. When he took in my grey business jacket and my utilitarian purse, his face changed. He'd dismissed me as a threat.
The front of his jacket opened up enough for me to see the shirt stretched across his broad chest, and the seemingly tiny nametag
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