Part II.
“How do you feel about a metal show?” a text message from Tom read. When the message alert beeped, I was at the Philadelphia Folk Festival, growing increasingly tired of roasting in the radioactive sun and dealing with privileged white kids who liked to use hallucinogens and refer to themselves as hippies.
“When and where?” I replied with my thumbs.
“Tonight. Trenton. I got us a hotel.” And this wasn’t extraordinary behavior for Tom. He would have gone by himself if he had to. But he knew that we both liked to live on the road. He knew that we were always following the traveling disturbance of loud sound.
I packed up my military duffel bag quickly. Then, saying goodbye to my ex-brother-in-law who I had been attending this festival with every year I could since age 15, I zoomed off to Trenton, following the female-toned British-accent voice commands of my GPS and blasting some twangy rock. For me, music has always been a constant comfort and I don’t like feeling alone. The philosophy of a tune tells me to just Carry on, my wayward son. Even if you don’t dig this track, the next song will be playing soon.
After we both arrived at the hotel, we dropped our bags on our beds and walked to my Lincoln Town Car, stopping to share cigarettes and talk with other hotel guests. The show would be starting soon, and we guessed that we were probably already late. But time for us meant nothing more than improvising our existences with the rhythm of life. If we were late, so be it: it’s not rock and roll to show up with punctuality, anyway.
We finally made it downtown at Championship Bar and Grill, and the humidity blanket of a summer city caused us to begin sweating after getting out of my luxury car.
Band stickers covered the PVC drainage pipe that the followed the perimeter of the establishment’s roof and leaked a brown stain onto the sidewalk and street. A vintage sign read: “Tomato Pies” “Burgers” “Pasta” and “Steaks” in descending order with alternating red and blue letters against a white background. The show had indeed already started; heavy metal burst through the walls, becoming audible on the street. Before even entering we could tell this place was going to be rough and dirty, which suited us. We didn’t like perfect things.
It was time to rock. Tom – like me, now a civilian – had just returned from national security contracting in Afghanistan, and he wore the wild, five month beard to prove it. He had bulked up considerably from working out every day and he had started the tattoo sleeving of his right upper arm.
I felt out of shape in comparison, considering we both used to be Marines and my muscles had since deflated and morphed into fat. My lips were cracked and my clean-shaven face burned from the outdoor folk festival. Underneath the classic Orioles cap I wore to represent my hometown, my professionally-short hair hid. I wanted to be as bad-ass as him. And I wanted a beard, too. But I would have to settle with simply trying to fit in. Contrastingly, Tom was metal; there was no doubt that he would make this scene.
More tomorrow...
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