Seventeen

 

Seventeen

 

     I work for a company that is part of a corporation based in another country.

     I am a cog in the wheel of the machine.

     Basically, I work at my computer and talk to liars all day on the phone.

     Still, I like my job. I really do.

     Most of the people at the company are White, but there are some Yellow, Brown, and Black

 people too. The men are either giants or dwarves. I’m a dwarf.

     The big boss is a foreign giant. He’s from the same country as the corporation. They sent him

 here to straighten things out and everybody thinks he’s done a good job. He speaks with an

 accent. Once a month the company has an all-employee meeting where the big boss shows us

 graphs and numbers and tells us how everything is going. From what I can tell business is good.

 Also, every month the company sends out an electric newsletter.

     Along with all the blah blah blahness, the monthly newsletter gives everyone’s anniversary

 date of hire and birthday for the month. My birthday and the big bosses are just a few days apart

 in early December. I find that encouraging. Maybe someday I can be a giant.

#

     It’s Thursday night after work and I’m in line with the tourists at a rental car place in Union

 Square. On my way over I saw this guy dressed like Sherlock Holmes. He had the hat, pipe,

 coat, the whole shebang.  I’ve seen him before, and I wonder what he does for a living. My

 guess is that he’s a teacher. Dressing like Sherlock Holmes. That sure is a strange trip to be on.

 But I guess it’s no stranger than someone writing about their life after a divorce.

     Tonight, me and a friend of my roommate’s are going to a rock concert at the sports arena just

 outside the city and I’m getting a car because I don’t want to be on the bus in that part of town. I

 was once, and it was like being in a Third World country. The houses were covered with graffiti.

 There were boarded windows and dirty yards, abandoned vehicles, and barbed wire on top of

fences. I saw trails of bullet holes in some of the cars that obviously didn’t come from kids

 shooting at cars with BB guns.

     The line is incredibly long. I have plenty of time. I tell myself to stay calm and appreciate the

 fact that soon I will be behind the wheel again. One thing about not having a car is that you

 really enjoy it when you do. It’s a treat.

     The line inches along and finally I give the nice Yellow woman working behind the counter

 my credit card and driver’s license, wondering if they are going to pick up the fact that I’m at

 two locations because I still haven’t changed my address with the DMV. The woman asks if this

 is my correct address and I say yes. I get coverage on the car just in case I live one of my

 fantasies and take it right off the Golden Gate Bridge. I sign a few pieces of paper, get the key,

 and step upstairs to get my present.

     I adjust the seat and outside mirrors and remove the plastic tag from the rear-view mirror that

 lets everyone know you’re driving a rental and then start her up and slowly go down the ramp.

     My roommate’s friend is taking night classes at the state college. I decide to take the scenic

 route through Chinatown, North Beach, and The Marina just because I have the time. It feels

 fantastic to be a gas guzzling American again.

#

     It’s impossible to find a legitimate parking place near the college. I settle for a spot on the

 corner near a fire hydrant. I figure the worst thing that will happen is that I’ll get a ticket and I

 gamble on that not even happening as I lock the door and cross the street making my way across

 campus. I try to think the purist of thoughts as I notice all the pretty college girls everywhere.

     The friend of my roommate gave me specific directions on how to locate her classroom, still I

 have to ask a couple of the pretty college girls how to get to where it is I need to be because,

 well, it never hurts to ask.

     I find the classroom and step over to my roommate’s friend and tap her on the shoulder. The

 professor is lecturing away at the front of the class, and I don’t think he sees me. A couple of her

 classmates notice, and they don’t seem to approve. I just give them a big smile and turn away. I

 leave the classroom and wait in the hallway and a few seconds later my roommate’s friend joins

 me. She says I look great, and I tell her so does she and then she says am I positive because she

 wasn’t really sure about what to wear but she figured all black was a choice that never fails. I

 tell her it was a perfect choice. We actually look like we could be brother and sister vampires

 out on the town. Just a couple of groovy ghouls.

     We stop at a 7-11. My roommate’s friend buys a few beers and finishes them in a couple

 blocks and tells me to stop at the first liquor store we see so she can buy some more which I do,

 happy that they last a little longer because I really don’t feel like stopping for any more beer.

     The parking lot at the Cow Palace is quite full and we have to park at the rear of the lot much

 to the displeasure of my roommate’s friend. She asks if it’s okay if we just hang out in the car

 and listen to tunes while she finishes her beer. There are three bands playing tonight and the first

 one is a heavy metal outfit with a good name, but lousy songs and I don’t mind missing them.

 The main act is a guy with a girl name. He used to look like an ugly hag. On this tour he looks

 like some kind of glamourous alien. All the hype surrounding him promises quite the theatrical

 extravaganza. Blasphemy on a grand, grand scale.

     My roommate’s friend finishes her beer. After locking her purse in the trunk, we make our

 way through the parking lot to the entrance. We pass the other groovy ghouls hanging out in

 their cars getting primed for the show and are greeted at the entrance by a gentleman with a

 bullhorn quoting scripture and telling us all to repent for our sins. He’s actually not the weirdest

 person around. The majority of the crowd are teenage slackers. Boys and girls wearing t shirts

 and jeans, unwashed, with looks of dissatisfaction fixed to their pimply cherubic faces. There

 are many groovy ghouls like me, and my roommate’s friend dressed all in black. My neighbors

 and peers the Fringe Folks are here attired in their usual casual hipness. Many transvestites are

 present as well. Then there are the die-hard freaks. People with an excess of piercing, tattoos,

 and hair styles; shaved, cut, and positioned in every conceivable fashion and manner. And as

 impressive as they all are, and believe me, some of these men and women make quite a

 commitment to their look, sacrificing any sort of future in the mainstream of life in the good old

 USA, none come close to The Spider Man.

     I saw the Spider Man a few times in the Haight. He has his head shaved, and it, as well as his

 face and arms and upper body are the template for a large spider web. I have a few small tattoos.

 I know what it entails. It feels like someone is carving into your skin with a lit match. Since my

 tattoos are small, they each only took about half an hour. My guess is that to get your entire

 head, face, arms, and upper torso tattooed to show a large spider web must have taken at least a

 month of visits to the tattoo parlor. The only other tattoo that I’ve personally seen that comes

 close belongs to a young White woman who was performing at the Monday night open mike at a

 place south of Market. She was a petite blondie with a pretty smile and sparkling blue eyes and

 she wore a white tank top showing a series of big black lightning bolts across the top of her

 chest and down her arms. I talked with her while she was waiting to go on and I told her that her

 tattoos really put most persons to shame. She was actually quite shy and friendly and seemed

 like she really wanted someone to talk to her. I would have liked to ask her out and get to know

 her because she seemed like a very positive person, but I was tired, and my head was quite

 cloudy. I just wished her good luck with everything and left after she played her song.

#

     My roommate’s friend says something about hoping to be able to get a good seat and I smile

 into the lens of a video camera that some obviously gay guy pushes into my face. He is very

 drunk and after filming me from what I assume will be a very unflattering angle for playback he

 staggers on among the crowd. I tell my roommate’s friend that the show is general admission

 and that we can always go onto the floor and make our way to the front. She seems pleased with

 this idea and tosses her hair back.

     We get inside and she says she needs to use the restroom. I follow her and stand in one of the

 runways and listen to the middle band that is fronted by the famous female that was married to

 the rock and roll star who blew his head off with a shotgun. Apparently, my ex knew her at one

 time.

     My roommate’s friend taps me on the arm, and we make our way down the corridor and walk

 around, finding all the seats taken except those near the top. The music is quite loud. I lean close

 and point down to the floor telling her that we should go down there. She nods and we exit and

 make our way down to the main area and stand near the sound board. I continue to watch the

 famous female and note that her in between banter seems affected. She is talking with a valley

 girl type accent and purrs in almost a sex kitten like way. What can I say, it works. Who knows

 what she’s really like off the stage. For us common folk, us audience members and fans it really

 doesn’t matter. The performance is all there is. The image is everything.

     I’m getting sick of being asked for a light by every person that passes by and begin ignoring

 the question when I’m asked. I guess I seem approachable. Or its just my positioning near the

 sound board, but what do I look like? A fire dispenser of some kind? I wish I had an acetylene

 torch so that when someone asks me if I have a light, I could incinerate their entire cigarette

 with one mighty flame.

     Swoosh!

     There you go. Do you need to know the time as well?

#

     My roommate’s friend says she’s bored. We leave the show and walk back into the main

 concourse by the shirt stand. She knows the people in charge of the shirts and says hello and

 then notices another group of well-dressed White people standing next to the ATM and walks

 over and says hi. She neglects to introduce me. I introduce myself and discover the friendly

 casually corporately dressed guy about my age is the manager of the main act, the guy with girl

 name. He excuses himself after only a few minutes. It's almost showtime for his meal ticket and

 I guess he needs to go make sure he’s happy and ready to repulse us all fully. As he leaves, I’m

 struck by the contrast of he and his boy. He truly seemed like a nice guy.

     The other White people tire of babbling and excuse themselves to the exclusiveness of

 backstage. My roommate’s friend seems hurt that she wasn’t invited but tries not to let it show. I

 really have no desire to go backstage. I’ve been before and I know from experience it’s really

 not all that pleasant. These show biz types are some of the most insecure and intensely neurotic

 people on the planet. They constantly need someone’s approval, and it can be quite draining.

     I hear the music inside the hall stop and everyone starts making their way out into the lobby. I

 tell my roommate’s friend this would be a good time for us to go in and get positioned in front

 of the stage for the main act. She agrees and we make our way upstream like a couple of black

 salmon swimming against the tide of people making their way out of the hall.

     We find our spots on the floor deciding on just to the left of center stage. We’re not right in

 front, but we are as close as we probably can be which is actually pretty close. She says she’s

 never been in the pit before. I tell her that once everyone begins thrashing and swirling its best

 not to fight it and just go with it unless someone grabs her and starts something uncool. If that’s

 the case be absolutely ruthless. Gouge an eye. Dig fingernails into what is available preferably

 the good old groin. She doesn’t find my words comforting. I’ve been in enough mosh pits to

 know my advice is sound and she would do well to heed it.

     We stand our ground, and everyone begins to return, and it gets rather cozy, kind of like the

 bus at rush hour. We’re surrounded by mostly a nonthreatening portion of the audience, and I

 can even pick out a few older hippies just over to my right. I guess that they are here mostly due

 to the same reason I am. This guy with the girl name has been on the cover of every music rag

 there is. We just wanna see what all the fuss is about.

     Just as I’m grooving on the coolness around a pack of male and female White Trash in their

 early twenties push and shove their way in front of us. I haven’t seen these types since I lived

 down South. White Trash. Dirty clothes, stringy greasy hair, yellow teeth, and loud mouths.

 How on earth did they afford the steep ticket prices? These people are definitely bad news. They

 are totally violence prone. I tell my roommate’s friend to stay clear of them as one removes a

 meth pipe from his jacket, fires it up and passes it on.

     The lights dim and the crowd begins cheering and the pit begins churning. I watch my

 roommate’s friend get swept away and hope that she pays attention to what I told her.

     A deafening roar of rhythmic noise begins, and the main guy is up out of the stage crucified

 on a cross made of televisions whose screens show white static patterns. He is very skinny and

 looks like a corpse. The rhythmic noise reaches its height once he is fully upright then there is

 an explosion of light, and he jumps from the television cross as the most God-awful racket blasts

 from the sound system. The thrashing of the pit becomes quite intense in this split second, and

 like a blender on high, we are all sliced and diced.

     As I’m tossed around, I watch the band and am amazed at their total inability to produce

 anything that even remotely resembles music. And I hate to admit this, but I tell myself

 something that I swear I heard my parents say to me when I was a kid. That’s not music. It’s

 noise.

     But the show is impressive.

     The guy with the girl name walks on some kind of spidery looking stilts, has several costume

 changes, has the stage engulfed in flames while at the same time burning crosses, sings a song

 about drugs and has a large neon sign that reads “DRUGS” behind him, and closes with a Nazi-

type rally fully propped with banners, a uniform, a raised arm salute, and a podium where he

 stands and gets the crowd to chant “We hate love. We love hate” as he tears pages from The

 Bible and tosses them into the audience.

     The lights go up and I stand completely dumbfounded and dazed by what I’ve just witnessed.

 It was so big and so ugly that it seems almost unreal. I look around at all the kids ragged and

 torn from the show whooping and raising their fists in the air as they leave. This can’t be good

 for them. I mean a little rebellion at their age is natural, but that show really, really pushed the

 envelope and raised the whole concept of bothering your parents to a new level.

     I see my roommate’s friend staggering towards me smiling and for some reason it makes me

 feel better.  She puts her hangs on my shoulders and begins laughing. This causes me to begin to

 laugh as well and before we know it, we are both doubled over and laughing so hard that we fall

 to our knees and continue laughing until we begin to cry.