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Last night, I went to a concert with my friend Tasha. We saw The Districts, a band she's followed around the globe.

 

Tasha, iMessage:

have you listened to any of their music?

 

I told her no, I hadn't. I wanted the whole night to be a surprise. 

And it was. 

 

5:45 PM, 4 hours before the show:

 

There was me, in my room, trying on skirt and shirt combos that would pair well with my worn-out white Supergas. There was no way I was wearing shoes I cared about to another concert. A girl at the last show I went to a few weeks ago kept jumping and landing directly onto my right shoe, a black suede boot of which I'm quite fond. Let's just say the experience was disappointing.  

 

I decided a black corduroy skirt would be my base. I tried on a stretchy cobalt blue halter top, tugging it to meet my natural waistline. Yes, this is cute. I appeared as a regular concertgoer when in reality this would be my third show. 

 

I buckled a black quilted fanny pack around my waist. It was a little too big, but I liked that. I appeared chic, yet edgy. And really, is there any other way to dress for a rock concert? I don't think so.

 

I looked at my phone. "5:55 PM? Better call the ole Ubes," I said aloud. My roommate wasn't home, so I could do that kind of thing. But wait! Where was my lip gloss? I couldn't leave the apartment without plump, shiny lips. 

 

I began scouring bags and coats for that clear tube of liquid magic, iridescent and tingly to the touch. Then I remembered how I'd been experimenting with new storage methods for various objects. "It's in the nightstand. It's in the nightstand!" I repeated, relief washing over me. I would enter that venue with spectacular lips and a great attitude, even though I was running on one hour of sleep.

 

6:05 PM, 3 hours and 40 minutes before the show:

 

Tasha, iMessage:

so there's a chance they don't do burgers right now

okay so they don't

sorry i should have called

do you want to try somewhere else?

 

We both wanted burgers. The place we planned on going for dinner only serves drinks, but their website says they have a burger truck in the back sometimes (as any good establishment should). Unfortunately tonight was not one of those occasions.

 

I did a quick Google search. A place called Halfsmoke popped up. It was only 0.2 miles away from our original restaurant of choice. From the name, I assumed they served barbecue, and I happened to be in the mood for some saucy brisket. 

 

Me, iMessage:

Wanna go to this place instead? I think it’s barbecue 

 

My Uber dropped me off where we originally planned on meeting. Then I received the below message from Tasha.

 

Tasha, iMessage:

it's me, in the bucket hat

 

I looked around. Bucket hat. Bucket hat. And I saw her, in a green bucket hat complemented by a green button-up blouse. It was Tasha!

 

I jaywalked across the street, taking refuge on a median as cars passed by. I looked both ways, even though I only needed to look one, and met her on the sidewalk corner. We stood there for a moment, deciding which way to go.

 

"I have to wear this hat always," she said, her skin looking extra dewy. "I just got something removed from my face, and the doctor said I can't be exposed to the sun."

“Oh right. The mole thing. Where was it again?"

"On my forehead."

"Right, right." I looked at her face again. "Your skin looks great! Very glowy."

"Thanks. I'm wearing a lot of makeup."

 

We kept walking. The weather was perfect: 72° and sunny. Shadows formed on the sidewalk ahead as the sun started to set. “Wait, isn't that your old coworker you wanted to set me up with?" I asked, pointing across the crosswalk.

She looked up from Google Maps and squinted at the guy. "Yes, that is him. Thomas. Wow, that's crazy you knew that. I hardly recognize him." We'd never met before, but I’d seen pictures.

 

She waved. He waved and crossed the street to meet us. We told him how we were going to Halfsmoke and then to a concert. He assured us Halfsmoke was good. 

 

He was wrong. 

 

I wasn't sure why, but I was more intrigued by Halfsmoke than the concert itself. Maybe it was because I was ravenous, or because since moving to DC I'd only consumed barbecue twice (both times at the same place). 

 

The restaurant didn’t meet my expectations. I envisioned a black-painted brick facade with white slanted letters spelling the name Halfsmoke. You know, a minimalist look. It would be hip and exceptionally warm inside, with bearded men seated at the bar and the smell of tangy sauce wafting through the air. 

 

I was wrong. Very wrong.

​

7:15 PM, 2 hours and 30 minutes before the concert (and 15 minutes before the opener):

 

I scanned the menu approximately three times and concluded Halfsmoke didn’t, in fact, offer barbecue. I was forced to order chicken andouille sausage on a brioche bun with cognac figs. It ended up being all bun and no toppings. 

 

"How's your burger?" I screamed at Tasha. The music was loud.

“Eh."

 

Our drinks showed up: a house Cab for me, and a Casamigos tequila soda for Tasha that, according to our waitress, would save us money. (We all know any tequila associated with George Clooney costs the big bucks.)

 

“I don’t know why I ordered this,” said Tasha. She was now a keto-er, which meant she would be confined to a low-carb lifestyle for at least two months, enough time for avoiding bagels to be a blaring inconvenience. 

 

7:30 PM, 2 hours and 15 minutes before the show (and 0 minutes before the opener):

 

We got our bill. It was presented to us in a Robin Hood VHS tape, a nice touch if the food had been good. I dug around my fanny pack for my card. It wasn’t in its usual little side pocket. 

 

Oh no. I didn’t bring it. And if I didn’t bring my card, that meant I didn’t bring my ID. 

 

“I don’t have my card or my ID,” I said to Tasha frantically. She stayed calm (as usual), but I could tell she was freaking out. “Am I not going to get in? Will they not let me in?”

“No, no. They’ll let you in. But you might not be able to drink.”

“Should I run back to my apartment and grab it?”

“It’s up to you. It’s only the opener playing right now.” She could see the worry on my face. “Do whatever you need to do! We’ll be fine on time."

 

We left. I was a bit concerned about the alcohol situation being that I was so sleep-deprived. I could use a hard drink to wake up. So I started bouncing and smiling. Yes, I could naturally energize myself through the combined powers of positivity and joy. 

 

We arrived outside the venue. There was no line. While a man checked my bag, I proceeded to tell him about the ID situation. Could I show him a picture? I asked. He told me no; it had to be my real ID. He didn’t have the final say, though. There was hope inside, just through a metal detector and door.

 

“Hi, so I switched bags at the last minute and left my ID in the other one. I have three forms of digital identification. Would that work? I swear I am who I say I am.”

The girl inside looked at me. She wanted to say yes, but that would be against their policy. “Oh yeah. I’ve done that before, too. Lemme ask my boss.” Using her walkie-talkie, she called another woman over. I told her the same story. She apologized and said I would have to enter as an under-21 person. I agreed.

The first girl stamped both of my hands, leaving me with giant blue cars that could not be hidden or coyly removed. 

"If you try to drink, we have every right to remove you from this concert. Do you understand?”

“Yes that’s fine. Thanks.”

 

8:30 PM, 1 hour and 15 minutes before the show:

 

Tasha sipped on another tequila soda, this time with a splash of grapefruit. The bartender asked me what I wanted, but I thought it too risky to order a drink. What if some large security guard was watching my every move, his eyes following the huge blue cars printed on my hands?

 

We stood on the balcony and watched the opener.  It was their first time in DC. Oddly enough, the former class president of the lead singer’s high school was in the audience. I knew this because he told us, and then he asked us to chant at him, “Take a shot! Take a shot!”

 

He took the shot. 

 

Former high school class presidents inherently flock to DC. It’s science. Anyway, I think his name was Daniel or something. 

 

One of the electric guitar players wore an Alaska hoodie. The lead singer dressed in baggy cargo hiking pants and boots to match. I wondered where they were from. I guessed Oregon, Washington, or San Diego. Or maybe LA. Either way, those guys definitely hike. And drink craft coffee.

 

I continued bouncing up and down. “Sorry I have to do this." Tasha asked if I wanted to go somewhere else for a drink. Apparently the main act wouldn’t be taking the stage until 9:30. I told her we could, but it wasn’t a necessity. 

 

We did.

 

8:35 PM, 1 hour and 10 minutes before the show:

 

We returned to the bar where we were supposed to get burgers. I kept my back straight and my walk confident. After all, I was a minor tonight. I had to give the illusion of adultness. 

 

“Nope, no,” the bartender said, aggressively shaking his head. He took one look at my hands and knew I was trouble. 

“But, sir, I’m almost 25. I have three digital forms of identification!”

Tasha lightly grabbed my arm. “Let’s try somewhere else. Wow, that was rude.”

 

The search continued. We walked past a hookah place and figured they would allow underage drinking. Music blared through the ajar door, and only one woman sat at the bar. Initially we weren’t sold on the place, but after passing it a second time, we went in.

 

One of the bartenders handed us menus. I asked Tasha if she thought they offered a house Cab. She said no, probably not. We sat there for 30 more seconds before leaving. No one noticed.

 

8:40 PM, 1 hour and 5 minutes before the show:

 

“Take a seat." Tasha and I both looked at each other. Was this the right place? The sign said Thai restaurant, but it appeared we were in the man’s living room. 

“Do you have Cabernet Sauvignon? Or a Pinot will do!” 

“I’ll do a Chardonnay please,” said Tasha.

“Yes, yes.” He nodded.

 

He didn’t ID us. I guess he couldn’t see my hands, or maybe he didn’t care. I did try my best to hide them.

 

We made ourselves comfortable. I sat next to a side table displaying a lush green plant, and Tasha chose a square leather chair across from me. A folding screen separated the makeshift living room from the main restaurant. Stone Buddha heads lined the wine shelves, and the walls were painted a deep, comforting shade of red. I wondered if it was just him back there. Was the Little Man the chef, bartender, and owner of this restaurant?

 

As our wine was served, a random man walked in to retrieve his yoga mat. He and the Little Man seemed to know each other. Did he teach yoga on top of being a restaurant owner? Who was this man, a magician?

 

The Little Man asked us if we’d dined there before. We said no, we hadn’t. This was our first time here. Then he asked if we wanted a reservation for next week. Their menu was prefixed, he said. We could enjoy five courses of authentic Thai specialties, like papaya salad and some curry I can’t remember the name of. We said yes—of course we wanted a reservation! I gave him my name and a good phone number, both of which he wrote on a piece of paper. 

 

“I’ll call you to confirm. 7:30 next Thursday?”

“Yes. Perfect.” We never made it to our reservation because my phone was on “Do Not Disturb” when he called. Someday we will go. 

Tasha and I talked about our moms, dress shopping, and men. The Little Man walked over to us, placing something on the table. “Fresh mango just for you!”  We both said something like, “Wow. Thank you, sir!” And with plastic forks, we inhaled the slices of soft, ripe mango in about 2 minutes. 

“That was incredible. Best mango I’ve had.” 

Tasha took a sip of wine. “Seriously, that was so good.” 

“We have to come here again! On Thursday!”

 

9:30 PM, 0 hours before the show:

 

If teenage angst were a concert, this would be it. As the lead singer sang, red passion forming an aura around him, I felt like I was watching the end of an 80s teen rom-com. You know, a Pretty in Pink or Say Anything moment. 

 

“Are you having fun?” We stood at the back of the crowd, swaying to the music.

I was still awestruck by the singer. “Yes. I love him. He’s so passionate. I can feel his emotions moving through my body.”

“He’s very good! I tried flirting with the drummer when I saw them in Amsterdam. It didn’t work.”

 

I didn’t know any of their songs, but it didn’t matter. This was the best concert I’d attended. I was hypnotized. 

 

At that moment, I realized something was missing for me. What the fuck was I doing? I needed more excitement in my life. More passion. More dreams. I’d gotten too comfortable. I wanted to be like him, the lead singer. At least, this made-up version of him that was actually a collage of my deprivations.

 

It was like I’d just unlocked a galaxy of possibilities, each constellation representing a different path I could take. Life didn’t have to be some lame thing. It could be anything. I imagined this was what it was like to take molly at a concert, having all these epiphanies about yourself. Or is it shrooms that do that? I’m not sure.

 

“I just scheduled my Uber. It’s getting here in 15 minutes."
I didn’t even consider we were living in real-time. “Oh, I’ve never scheduled in advance.” I opened the Lyft app and its pink interface temporarily blinded me. “I’m doing mine now. Wow, so cheap.”

“I do this all the time. It’s the best.”

“Ok, mine is also getting here in 15 minutes.”

 

I monitored my phone to make sure I was updated on the driver’s ETA. “Oh shit. He’s 3 minutes away." 

I stood outside looking for a red Toyota Camry. A few minutes later, he arrived.

“Isabella?”
“Yes, that’s me!” He started driving. It was rare for me to be on this side of the city so late. The streets were bare, yet the storefronts were alive. 

He made eye contact with me through the rearview mirror. “How was your night?” 

“It was incredible.”