You canāt text me on a Saturday night when youāre drunk at a concert, because the venue reminds you of me, and the band reminds you of me, and the whiskey reminds you of me, and the smoky sweaty smells and sticky floors and graffitied bathroom stalls of that theatre on Hollywood Boulevard all remind you of me.
Youāre there with your wife. Youāre someoneās husband now.
I canāt wake up in the middle of a Saturday night in a panic, jolted from a hazy red wine slumber because I feel something outside of me, like I know itās you at two in the morning, check my phone and of course itās you at two in the morning, saying the venue reminds you of me and the band reminds you of me, the whiskey distorting your senses, sending me messages from the old you, from the boy who danced with me on sticky floors and kissed me in graffitied bathroom stalls.
I miss him everyday, the rebellious boy with his hair in his face who wanted to be in a rock band. Is he still in there?
He got a career. He bought an expensive apartment. He became someoneās husband.Ā
But every once in a while he goes back to smoky sweaty venues on Hollywood Boulevard and thinks about the girl he loved when that was his whole life, when it was a gig every night, music and mania, whiskey like water. When we would have died for it.
Youāve got a wife now. Youāre someoneās husband now. So you canāt tell me you miss me on a Saturday night, just because youāre at our venue. One of our venues. Just because you hate drinking alone, and she canāt hold her whiskey. Just because she complains about the sticky floors and the graffitied bathroom stalls. Just because she has terrible taste in music, and Iād listen to anything once, give you my open ears whenever youād ask.
I donāt know what to say so I simply respond I remember that show.
But the truth is, and if Iām writing like Iām finally free: I remember them all. I couldnāt recite the setlists or sing back every lyric, but I remember how your eyes lit up as Bloc Party played your favorite song at the Wiltern and I remember shaking shouting the words to Knocked Up when we saw Kings of Leon at the Forum and I remember feeling like I was floating that one summer Sunday we ate space cakes at Yeasayer and I remember your smile wide as Texas during Arcade Fire at the Shrine and I remember standing next to you at Death Cab at the Hollywood Bowl singing I need you so much closer as tears streamed down my cheeks.
What do you remember? Do you remember the boy who loved me at all these shows? Your feet sticking to the floors? Writing our initials on the bathroom stall? How you shook? How we would have died for it? Has the whiskey erased it all?
I donāt believe it has. I believe that boy is in there, heāll always want to be in a rock band, and a part of him regrets his career and the expensive apartment and becoming someoneās husband. I believe he still dances on sticky floors. Drinks whiskey like water. Needs me so much closer. Sees my face at every show.
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