I Don’t Belong Here

What the hell am I doing here? I don’t belong here.

Even though it was an 80s cover band, I was hearing the 90s—Radiohead, to be exact.

I briefly lamented the fact that one of the most brilliant bands of a generation was known by many for “Creep”, a rather pedestrian offering relative to the rest of its catalog.

But that was a story for another day.

When Radiohead’s Thom Yorke speaks (or whines, if you will), I usually listen.

I come from the land of the MCAT, where fathers buy their daughters math books to peruse in the summer. And if you’ve been to a hospital lately, you know that means one thing—the Indian diaspora plays a lead role.

Anyway, as I looked around, I got the feeling that when the owner designed his ideal customer avatar, he wasn’t thinking of me. Upstate New York is a quirky place like that, where brief jaunts from town to town can seem like epic journeys through spacetime.

Perhaps I’m overstating it—the place was, after all, a beer and park.

As you know by now, the first part is not exactly unfamiliar.

The and park part, however, is something else altogether.

The MCAT crowd drives Teslas and Volvos and Audis.

This was a place for retro RVs. The murals said so, as did the old Winnebago that served hot dogs.

It was an indoor-outdoor place, the two spaces connected by garage doors.

The bathrooms were on the outside, made to look like elevated Porta Potties—if such things can, in fact, be elevated.

But the RV look—that was just a theme.

The actual parkers were on two wheels, and I’m not talking about the Tour de France variety.

I saw (and heard) Harleys and Kawasakis.

There was also plenty of bleached-blonde hair—I couldn’t tell if that was every night or whether the band had turned it into a de facto 80s night.

It was hot and humid, meaning the place was full of tank tops and short sleeves. And that meant a clean look at the other kind of sleeves.

There were tattoos of band names, current and former lovers, mythological creatures, and enigmatic designs.

I glanced at my arms, noting just a handful of mosquito bites.

I don’t belong here.

Then the tunes began. The bands, of course, were familiar.

Poison.

Def Leppard.

G N’ R.

I’m the guy who had embraced grunge and indie, also known as reactions against corporate rock. This set, I quickly learned, was the best of corporate rock.

Once again, Thom Yorke’s voice echoed in my head.

I don’t belong here.

But this time, he was wrong.

Because my son, it turns out, was in the band.