Still Ringing

I went to White Trash alone because everyone had made excuses. The weather was shit, wind in my face the whole way, and I showed up looking like I’d been electrocuted. I ordered a Beck’s and then just kept cycling through them, taking each back for the deposit and getting another, burning time until Blood Red Shoes showed up.

There was this kid next to me who looked exactly like Ron Weasley—all chaos and angles. When the band started we were both just jumping around, not even thinking about it. We pushed forward until I could feel the sweat coming off Laura-Mary, which wouldn’t normally be a problem, but the crowd was insane. Everyone behind us trying to shoulder their way closer with their phones out, desperate for some photo. My knees became the only thing between them and the stage. That was my job all night—being a wall.

They’re a good band, though. I really do love them.

I left limping, and there’s this ringing in my ears that won’t stop. I can hear it right now as I type this, this high whistle just sitting there. I’d already said yes to meeting some people at Knaack later, which seemed like a stupid move in this condition. But I’ll probably go anyway. That’s what earplugs are supposed to be for. Or maybe they’re not. Maybe you just live with the ringing.