My ID (AKA high school bus pass) was stuck inside of my wallet, and my friend was trying to help me pull it out. The security guard was unconvinced of my sobriety due to the sheer amount of energy the act of proving that I was 18 required. “It’s my birthday!” I screamed at his bald head, “and I’m not even drinking!” He put his arm around my shoulder and told me to wait an hour before I tried getting in again. I scoffed, and, determined to prove that my blood-alcohol level could pass for zero, began performing a small jig that somehow seems to be the answer. I tripped, and landed softly in a seated position on a city bench. “Stay there,” he snarled.
Two of my friends spent that hour with me. Within those 60 minutes, I peed about 6 times and lost my concert ticket. No one was aware that the latter had taken place until I was met with the entrance security guards again. I screamed in dismay, and my best friend gave me his ticket instead.
Entering the warm, expensively lit concert area of the Town Ballroom in Buffalo, NY, I remember feeling as if I was on some sort of psychedelic drug, and not just experiencing the repercussions of mixing a lot of $7 vodka with purple-flavored powerade. There must have been the population of the entire state of New York in attendance at this little $30 show, I thought, and mentally congratulated rapper Lil Dicky for his sudden burst in success.
My friends pushed me towards the front row, knowing that measuring in at 5’2, 105 pounds, that was the only way I could safely enjoy the concert. I shut my eyes, telling myself I could sleep standing up until the performance started, and by then I would feel just fine.
Suddenly, I did not feel just fine. I pushed through the crowd, spotting a black garbage can, and swiftly threw my torso over it as my body removed the purple abomination from my body. I looked back at the garbage can, woozily, and it had suddenly transformed into a very large speaker. I turned around to a crowd of angry adults, all in matching black t-shirts that boasted, “STAFF.” I smiled and threw whatever was in my hand to stage right as a distraction which enabled me to sprint to the bathroom.
The bathroom was filled with 20 of my clones, all dressed in tightly fitting concert attire, fixing their makeup between trips to a stall to regurgitate whatever mistake they engaged in earlier. I commandeered the first stall and was adamant that all things purple would have to leave me before I left my new post. I heard girls from my high school knocking on the door, yelling my name, saying that someone or another is looking for me. I repeatedly called their bluff, convincing myself that they were all working as double-agents for the concert staff. Eventually, their banging became deafening, and two of the moles cleaned my unruly hair before releasing me to the dogs outside.
Pinning myself up against the wall, I slid, undetected, into a lounge-area and slumped into a booth. The bartenders were staring me down; I didn’t trust them, so I put my head down so I wouldn’t have to see them. Suddenly, I was tapped on the shoulder. It was baldy from the beginning, holding my beloved iPhone 4S. I grabbed it, and demanded to know when he pickpocketed me. He claimed I threw it, and, insulted by accusations, I allowed myself to zone out during the rest of his lecture. He ended by asking, “Do you understand?” in a very threatening tone.
“Excuse me, but it’s my birthday,” I threatened back, as if April 9th was the day in which the rules of the entire world not only did not apply to me but were completely under my jurisdiction. My mind whizzed through 100 different ways I could perform a legal arrest on this man before the opening act, as I was being lifted into the air by him, an Amazonian woman and one of the guys I was currently seeing (he always was clingy).
Sitting back on that city bench outside of the Town Ballroom, I struggled to take off my shoes, defeated. A group of hula-hoopers offered me the opportunity of joining their smoke-circle, and, in response, I told them that today, was my birthday. They smiled, and told me that my phone was ringing. It was my older brother at seminary (AKA priest-school). I handed the phone to Hula-Hooper Number 1, and told her to answer it.
Hula-Hooper Number 1 also managed to successfully contact my friends, who all returned me to the safety of a living room couch in South Buffalo. There, I wrapped myself in a fully-zipped sleeping bag, and quietly watched It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia as the only person who laughed at the jokes.
The night ended with a 711 run, just to get me ice cream, which revisited me the next morning. Laying in bed, I ordered french fries to be delivered to me from the pizzeria next door to my house. They arrived at the same time as my friend who helped remove my ID and got into the concert an hour before I had. He had apparently taken it inside the concert with him, along with my ticket, “for safe-keeping.” But, he had gotten it signed by Lil Dicky in my absence.
So everything kind of worked out. Except I was branded with a new commandment that must never be broken— never drink anything labeled with a flavor description consisting of just a color.