Across the Street

Just like so many other beginnings, this one started at a seemingly random place - across the street. Across the street from what? Across the street from a shoe store, facing an event venue. Not inside the venue, not at the colorful ticket stands with the pre-tattered shirts or the bar where the tender was tired but excited for the crowd. It didn’t even happen where the blue lights were shining on the building. It happened near the windows, littered with painted band names, smeared by a blonde college goer’s hands, and nearly trashed. The remnants of the too-late ticket buyers, at least the ones unwilling to leave even though they were not allowed in the venue, dancing and peeking and yelling songs at the top of their lungs.

He stood there staring at the mouth of the building, closed and guarded, and his eyes found something out of place. A long purple mohawk and a butterfly hair clip. For a moment he felt something, like a warning, a feeling of disruption. If he was leaving his house he would have checked if he locked the door, and if he was at work he would have checked his pockets for his phone. But he had everything, right? His mother was laughing too loud, out of the shoe store.

—

This is it. His thoughts were getting a little messy. He’d ordered the beer his friend recommended, gulping it down and giving it a fake review. He hated beer. I hate this place, and I think I hate everything and everyone.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to be at the festival, just outside the glaring shopping center. The tents rose up like tiny city buildings all around him. He missed home abruptly, suddenly alone with the people he had come with.

An orange tent came into view as he walked, and suddenly, people were cheering. His phone buzzed in his back pocket.

Where are you? His mother. He squeezed the phone tightly.

Out with friends. But he knew she’d be pissed at him drinking.

He put his head in his hands and tried to think. Maybe he could save up enough money to go back home in what, two years? He could stop this whole charade with his parents.

Come home, now. He stared at his phone screen. He wanted to go home. Not the home here, not the move-every-two-years homes his parents had created. He was always wanting to return somewhere. The last state he lived in, the last house, his home state. To any home that didn’t feel like it was temporary.

He pulled himself up from the brick wall he didn’t remember sitting down on, weighing his options. He was in trouble either way. If he came home drunk he’d be yelled at, and if he stayed out until he was sober he would also be yelled at.

He started walking again. That orange tent was growing louder, and he might as well peek inside. He fumbled his way into the crowd, past the entrance and to the seats nestled in rows. He froze - he must have left his beer on the brick wall earlier. He patted down his pockets to ensure his keys and phone were still on his person. They were. He checked his left hand - there was the beer. He had everything.

He looked up drunkenly, happy to focus on anything other than his mother right now. He scanned the front of the tent, stopping on a purple mohawk and a butterfly hair clip. His hands felt like cement blocks.

Wait. He watched the girl turn around, a small smile. Her eyes stopped on him and he felt glued to the floor. She was approaching.

“Have we met before?”