I’m perpetually early. It’s a thing. And so I arrived early last night to the concert. I found a plum street spot straightaway, without a single loop around the block, without a doubtful “can I fit in there?” thought, which made my entrance that much earlier. The house lights still burned as bright as a child all jacked-up on the Christmas morning sugar that is wrapping paper and bows.
Ticket bought, ID checked, merch table perused, hair fixed in men’s room (why do I do that?). The usual procedures were followed.
Then I stood in the center of the room, a few meters from the stage, ready for the opener. This isn’t my thing, taking that spot. I keep my grandfather clock frame off to the side, against a wall, to not block the view of others. Always the considerate boy.
“Nice to see someone else not wearing plaid,” he said, jokingly. Wha? Oh yeah, shit, look at them all. More than half the dudes, and a few of the ladies in the house, were rocking some variation on the plaid shirt thing. Like a log roller convention was in town and the curiously scheduled 7pm breakout session spilled over into this particular bar.
He introduced himself and I immediately forgot his name. Old habits and Jack McClane, they both die hard. We shook hands and started chatting. I’m not approached by young men often, or young women for that matter. Or young children come to think of it, they tend to run away crying. My size is off-putting, I reckon, for some. Plus, who in the hell just starts up a conversation with a stranger anymore? This guy, apparently.
Turns out we share a lot of the same taste in music (Man Man, Josh Ritter) but we didn’t discover that until after we had talked for 20 minutes or so about our particular paths, the winding side streets and happenstance that had brought us each to the city in the first place. His story was way better, albeit more 17th-century than mine: college grad from a few states away, theology major, wandered east with a friend, no discernible plan, odd jobs, bartered physical labor for oil painting lessons, took an apprenticeship as a stained glass restorer, is now considered a ‘journeyman’ in said field. I was hanging out with Kerouac, circa 2013. I liked this kid.
The first set came and went. He left to get a drink, I to say hey to the opener at the merch table out front. The crowd from the back bar flooded the floor for the popular headliner and we lost each other before we could exchange our modern details. I felt an odd pit in my stomach. I was keenly aware that I was now in an unfilmed Paul Rudd movie. Two guys, each attending a rock show alone, each in some way looking for a friend, if only for one night — maybe more? — and now he was gone and I was gone and I felt like a smacked-ass for not at least giving him my Twitter handle. It is only 4 letters. Pretty easy to remember. Granted, I have no idea what his name is so I probably shouldn’t be the judge of what is or is not easy to memorize.
I left the place half way through the headliner’s pre-encore set. I was in the car — running, heat on — talking to my wife about my new buddy. The guy I’d happily met and sadly lost. She urged me to go back in and look for him. I considered the relative weirdness of me doing so, but did so, hoping I’d run into him naturally ’cause I wasn’t going searching. I waited for seredipity to take over, to see if it was meant to be.
Okay, maybe I thought it would be brilliant to find a guy who could possibly do some stained glass work in my house, but really, I imagined making a friend with whom I might meet up to go see bands we both liked. Trade recommendations of albums we’d just discovered. Maybe get a slice of pizza and share a soda pop. I’ve never had that. Ever. My entire youth was spent seeing shows alone, seeing bands no one I knew had ever heard of, bands no one I knew cared to know about. It was fun, sure, but lonely, even if I didn’t realize it at the time. Now I’m nearly 38 and with no babysitter on call, I am back on the road alone seeing bands a few more people have heard of but still seeing them alone in a crowd of hundreds. Except for this one guy who I met and too quickly lost.
If my Josh Ritter loving, stained glass pal is out there…let’s go see another show together. First drink’s on me, [your name here].
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