FFFri VIII Revenge of the Clods

Hell bent for leather and ugly as a dirt clod had taken up camp right outside my window.  There his putrid frame lay in wait for my inevitable return to my loathsome job.  I hope to leave this mindless job someday after I have completed my double Ph.D. in physics, concentration on quantum mechanics and theoretical mathematics.  The latter is sort of like basket weaving.  For every big name concert that has come to Providence in the last years he has camped out beside my ÜberTicketFührer booth.  Always striving to be the very first to select from the solid gold of head banger heaven.  The coveted “dude! First row!  Whoooo!”

The worst of all was the concerts that went on sale in the dead of summer.  He would be in his tent still asleep when I arrived in the morning.  The dead soldiers on the sidewalk as reminders of hard nights spent on “the road”.  As I was setting up my booth I could see him brushing his teeth with whiskey as he sat on the curbstone above his bathroom sink, the gutter.  Always wearing the same thing; a wife beater, black leather vest, black leather pants, and black lumberjack boots.  I was glad I had a window in front of me and positive air pressure.  The stench on the third or fourth day would be unbearable if it were to waft in through the change dish opening.  I often wondered what it was about the concerts that would drive him and many others to risk life and personal hygiene for the front row.  I devised that it all comes down to bragging rights.

He and the other campers would brag about their past exploits on the road.  “Yeah dudeman, I got fourth row center for Queensryche and the Scorps back in 87’.” Or “that’s nothin’, I got second row for Priest and Maiden in 86’.”  “The Civic Centre was a-crawlin’ with bitches.”  The heavy metal “bitches” of the big hair, souixsie makeup, and spandex type.  Half shirt and hockey hair euphoria.  The stoners always came to my booth to ask me when the tickets go on sale; meanwhile a large concert bill is plastered on the wall next to my window large enough for the dead to see.  I would get all my required daily exercise just pointing to the side of my window.

The day would finally arrive; you could cut the anticipation with a knife.  I would get to work early sometimes just to watch as the throngs gathered and reveled in their rockedness.  He would sit there in his lawn chair right in front of my window.  I felt like a court jester looking from behind him on his throne presiding over his faithful citizens with his scepter in hand, a GIQ of bud.  He bought as many of the best seats he could buy.  Afterwards it was time to break camp and harass the rest of the people on line.  I was glad the big concerts that people camp out for sell out quickly.

This is stupid.  I was uninspired to write this week   I shouldn’t have done it.  Blah!