How could I ever have known that, at the top of the narrow flight of stairs, awaited an angry pack of radical leftists?
The March night had begun innocently enough—takeout pizza, a Honeycrisp apple, and flavored seltzer water.
We had never been to the community center before, so we left the house a few minutes early.
The lake-effect snow had finally moved on, making for a relatively painless ride. By that time of the year, of course, we were simply numb to the chill.
Yes, we were headed to the city, but it wasn’t that city. Parallel parking around those parts was a breeze, and I found a spot just across the street.
After rolling out of the car, I was surprised to see the dark and dimly lit sidewalk had foot traffic—as in two feet. I asked the young man how to enter, and he pointed to an unlabeled opening about 10 yards away.
That’s where the stairs came in.
We navigated them carefully and turned the only way we could, the one with an unassuming doorway.
Greeting us was a young and articulate woman. She reminded us that donations were welcome, also known as recommended.
I pulled open my aging wallet and emptied out whatever cash I could find.
Then I started to look around.
To my right was a kitchen-type area. I noted a utilitarian sink, a small microwave, and a fire extinguisher. The drop ceiling made it look rather cramped.
No big deal, I thought. I wasn’t there to snack anyway.
But nothing could have prepared me for the shock lying to my left.
There, on the wall, was a multicolored flag. I quickly scanned my iPhone to make sure I had it right.
Not a national flag, I confirmed.
I kept looking around.
My gaze fixed on the door to the bathroom. There was a circle with an arrow at the upper right. But there was also a cross at the bottom. And at the upper left was a combination arrow-cross. Thankfully, I hadn’t finished the seltzer water, so I didn’t have to go anyway.
Next to the bathroom was a metal box with a small key in the front.
OVERDOSE EMERGENCY KIT/KIT DE EMERGENCIA SOBREDOSIS, said the sign hanging above it.
I glanced the other way, noting the healthy crowd trickling in. Everyone looked a third my age.
Radical leftists, I thought.
I was suddenly jolted by an abrasive but familiar sound, the noise of steel running through a budget amplifier.
When I looked up, I saw the band.
The guy making the screeching sound also did vocals. I registered his dyed hair. Is that eye liner?
The drummer had long, curly hair. Typical. My eyes dropped to his uncovered arms. Are all those tattoos real?
They started playing, and my thoughts took a back seat to safety.
The radical leftists in the crowd had formed a mosh pit, and I wasn’t interested in my under-five-foot daughter being collateral damage.
As we inched closer to the wall, I took note of something strange.
The bassist—he kind of looks like me.
I squinted to get a better look.
About the same height.
Similar skin shade.
Less gut (for now).
It almost looks like this dude has half my genes.
The hair was standard.
The shirt was collared.
The eyes were unlined.
As the short set progressed, I began to fear for his well-being.
He doesn’t seem like the type of guy who should be hanging out with these liberal artists, I thought.
After the show, I instinctively made my way toward him.
We exchanged a few brief words, enough to let me breathe a huge sigh of relief.
Because the bassist, I learned, was headed to Tennessee.
2 Responses
That bassist has got it going on !!!
Hahaha. Indeed!