I’M SITTING ON THE GROUND, THE COLD SEEPING through the butt of my jeans, in the middle of the damn tree-lighting crowd. I rip off my mittens with my teeth, fold down my combat boots, and check my ankles for blood.
You know, there is such a thing as concert crowd etiquette. Common-sense rules to abide by so that everyone in the audience has a good time. It’s true even for punk shows, where people in the pit beat the piss out of each other. So it should definitely be true for this shit show.
I learned about the rules at my very first show at Paul’s Boutique. Kim and I were up in the sound booth. She had a bouncer’s flashlight with her and kept beaming it on different offenders so I could watch their transgressions live.
It basically boils down to this.
One: Never pretend that you have a friend close to the stage just so you can push up close. People will call out fake names, like, “Hey, Jimmy! I’m coming!” and then weasel their way to the front. It might fool one or two people in the very back, but ultimately you end up at the stage, clearly by yourself, and people get pissed.
Two: Even in the tightest of crowds, you must always respect people’s personal space. Like, it’s fine to brush up against someone once, but that’s it. And if you carry a purse or a bag, you hug it to your chest so you won’t knock people with it.
Three: If you’re super tall, don’t be a dick and stand in front of a short person.
Now, even though it’s never come up at any of the shows I’ve been to, there has to be a rule about how to navigate a crowd when you’re pushing a double-wide stroller packed with two screaming babies through a crowd of people like a damn snowplow.
I stare daggers into this Mother of the Year as she coyly spins around and gives me the most pathetic I’m sorry! face. Meanwhile, her wailing kids are drowning out the whole damn choir.
I get back to my feet and look for Lillia and Reeve in the crowd, but they’ve both disappeared. That dummy Ashlin and her meat-bag Derek, too.
I spin around and stand on my tiptoes and try to see where everyone may have run off to, but the crowd is so thick, and the family standing behind me is giving me weird looks, so I turn back toward the concert. Lillia will give us the juicy step-one details later. I know she’ll make it happen.
Anyway, I’m interested in hearing Alex sing. I’ve been trying to get him to play me one of his songs, but he never does. I told him that tonight could be like a practice for his USC audition. He still hasn’t sent in his application, as far as I know.
After two boring songs, the band kicks in to “Baby, It’s Cold Outside.” Alex steps forward, along with some other girl I recognize as a drama geek. He’s got his guitar with him, and he starts playing along.
I feel myself smiling. Forget this drama girl. She’s coming off way too Broadway, especially since “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” is a sexy song. Alex is doing it right. Like how a boy would talk you into something. Sweet, but with something hungry underneath. And he does have a great voice. Clean and bright, and very confident. If he could be as confident in regular life as he is when he’s singing, dude would go far.
After he’s done, he steps back up on the risers and blushes at the applause. And people are applauding. Not the polite stuff. Like they’ve seen something . . . special.
Meanwhile, Alex is looking around the crowd, I guess for his friends. But they’ve all left him.
Poor guy. I don’t get why no one in his crew can see how great he is.
Alex’s eyes find me. I wolf-whistle and then throw up the rock sign with each of my hands. Like he’s a rock star. Or at least on his way to being one.
He breaks into a smile, and despite being freezing, my whole body warms.
I look to give the same rock signs to Mary, because I’m freaking proud of her for getting up in front of everyone like this, but I can’t find her, either. Where the hell has everyone gone?
The mayor steps up to the podium and signals for the Christmas tree to turn on. And it does, for a second, before it flickers out. And all the other light too—the streetlamps, the shop windows, the traffic lights—until it’s completely dark out. Then everything starts flashing, on and off, like there’s some kind of issue with the power.
Damn, does this whole island need to be rewired?
I’m about to run for my life for the second time this year, but then everything clicks back on, good and strong, and everyone in the crowd applauds like it’s a true freaking Christmas miracle.
Which, hell, maybe it is. But I’m bouncing out of here either way, to be safe.
