Suddenly Metro Station seems a lot cooler than they did 20 minutes ago. In fact, I think the music is actually making my ears move; I can literally feel my ears dancing to the beat. The song "I Wish You Were Older" comes on, and I blissfully contemplate how this is the most appropriate ballad of the entire evening. I don't even need to tell you any of the lyrics; the song has exactly to do with what the title implies. And a bunch of skinny 20-somethings are passionately singing it to a multitude of underage girls. And gay dudes. And me. Awesome.
I'm swaying back and forth, examining the texture of Allessandra's pocketbook when she's not looking, when I realize Holly's disappeared. Just vanished. Oh well, I think to myself. I'm still having a pretty sweet time. Then, out of nowhere about 4 minutes later, Holly's back. She runs up to me and grabs my hand. Which feels awesome and a little tingly.
"Come on!" Holly exclaims to me, pulling on my arm. Which also feels kind of awesome. (I'm going to go ahead and point out right here that yes, I'm aware that I'm using the word "awesome" a lot to describe all these things. But drop some X and find me a better word to describe the events that happen next. Seriously.)
"Where are we going?" I hazily wonder aloud, squinting at all the pretty lights.
"Just come!" Holly insists.
"That's what she said." I can't resist saying this. Holly rolls her eyes, licks my cheek, and pulls me in the direction of wherever we're going.
I let Holly lead me to wherever we're going. We head over to one side of the stage, to an area that's roped off. Holly gestures to the 300-pound security guy vehemently guarding the rope, and he nods at her, letting us right on through. I'm incredulous.
"How...did you do that?" I inquisitively demand after we're out of the security dude's earshot.
"Do what?" Holly innocently replies.
"That, do that. How did we just get in here?"
"Oh, I blew the security guy a few minutes ago."
"You blew th--what?"
"Yeah, why?"
"Let me get this straight," I say, desperately wanting to get everything straight. "So you blew that dude...so you could get us backstage...at a Metro Station show."
"Yeah." Holly shrugs.
"OK."
Before I know it, we're backstage, hanging out with the stage crew and drinking scotch (why do boy bands and their crew drink scotch??). I wonder momentarily whether Allessandra knows I'm gone. Being as just the two of us came together, I suspect she does. Oh well. I look around for Marty, but luckily for Allessandra, I don't see him. We'd probably become instant best friends.
I spend the next twenty minutes or so feeling the walls, biting my fingernails, and sipping on scotch while Holly slips her hand into my back pocket and follows me around. Suddenly I hear the crowd cheer/scream wildly at the end of a song, and I assume the show is coming to an end. Sure enough, the band comes skipping offstage and joins us in the back. I resist the urge to reach out and touch their hair. Their long, flowing, really gay-looking hair. Instead, I go up and shake the hand of the bassist.
"Hey man, cool show," I say.
"Uh, thanks," replies said bassist. "It's not quite over yet. Encore and stuff. But, um....hmm, this is a little awkward...what are you doing here?"
"You mean how did I get backstage?" I inquire.
"Well, yeah, but I me--"
"She blew one of your bouncers." I point over to Holly, who's hopping up and down next to the drummer. He looks increasingly disgruntled.
"Oh. Well that's not quite what I meant, man. I mean, what are you doing here specifically? Like, our sound usually caters to tweens and gay dudes. It's kind of our thing."
"Yeah, I figured," I casually agree. "Don't worry, coming here wasn't really my idea to begin with." I take a good look around me again. "Or here."
"Yo, yo, dog!" The lead singer sees me talking to the bassist and struts over. He puts an arm around his boy and pats him on the chest, kind of giving his man-breasts a little squeeze. "You ready for the encore? 'Shake, Shake,' bitch!"
The bassist lets out a long sigh. "Yeah, man, I'm ready."
"Good," the lead singer gives the bassist one more breast squeeze and steps back a little. "'Cause I think I'm gonna pop this shirt off."
"Dude," the bassist rolls his eyes. "I'd rather you didn't. You do this every time."
"The girls love it, man! You know they do."
"Actually, dude," I kindly interject. "I think I've heard them screaming at you before when you've taken your shirt off. It might be in horror, though..."
The lead singer looks at me for the first time and throws a mild grimace my way. "Who's this guy?"
"Oh," the bassist shrugs and points over at Holly, who's now stroking the back of the drummer's head while he tries to inch away from her. "That chick over there blew Ronald, I think. He let 'em back here."
"Nice." The lead singer squints at my face. "He looks straight, though. And older than a high schooler."
I shrug.
"Yeah," the bassist agrees. "I know."
"Whatever, man," the lead singer starts ripping at his t-shirt like he's being attacked by bees. "I'm poppin' this shirt off."
And just like that, I'm graced with the presence of a topless Metro Station musician. A real dream come true.
"Watch them go ape shit when I pop this shirt off, man.""I dunno, dude, that's a little gay. And you clearly haven't eaten anything in like two weeks."
"Fuck you, man. Bitches need to know there's an eagle on my chest."
The bassist woefully shakes his head again, and I make some quick eye contact with him. The look he gives is what I interpret as a cry for help. Help to make this terribly skinny prima donna know his role, and put that shirt back on over his disgustingly frail body. T. James (or 'Justin,' as far as Holly's concerned) to the rescue.
"Dude," I put my arm around the lead singer's naked, skeletonesqe shoulders. They're a little sweaty. Gross. "Can I be real with you for a second?"
"Yeah, dog," the lead singer replies. "Real is how I live my life."
I half-roll my eyes and click my tongue a little. "Yeah, well, then this shouldn't be too hard for you. Here's the thing, man. Getting topless is great, don't get me wrong. I'm a huge fan. And being as I'm over fourteen years old and not gay, I know this is kind of a different perspective than you're used to. But your face and haircut decisions make you look decidedly feminine, dude. And if that's what you're going for, cool. But when you pop that shirt off, you kind of look like a girl version of Marilyn Manson. It's just awful."
The lead singer doesn't look too impressed by my advice. After giving me a good, hard, 20-second-long stare, he looks at something behind me and snaps his fingers. Then he and the rest of his crew go skipping back onstage and start singing "Shake, Shake," which for some reason is their most popular song. I'm confused a little by the finger snapping, but then I turn around. Shit, here comes Ronald.
Allow me to describe how it feels to be punched in the face on X. First off, everything slows down. I actually counted all of the hairs on Ronald's knuckles as they were coming at me. 76 total. Second, you know that Red Hot Chili Peppers song with the line "I like pleasure spiked with pain/Music is my aeroplane"? Nothing describes a punch in the face while on X better than "pleasure spiked with pain." Nothing. I can actually feel my incisors loosen a little after the original punch. Several more punches rain down upon me, of course, each one more awesome then the next.
When Ronald is done "teaching me a lesson," as he repeats over and over, he is kind enough to help me to my feet. I then give him a pretty sweet high five, and he shows me out. Onto the street. A little violently.
A few seconds later I get a phone call. It's Holly. I don't even remember giving her my number.
"Hey, what happened to you?" She squeals. "I saw Ronald toss you out."
"Yeah, well, some rock stars just can't handle being real," I reply. "Ugh, I never should have dropped that X with you..."
"Oh, that wasn't X," Holly flippantly retorts.
"W-w-what??" I stammer.
"Justin, I'm in high school. Where am I going to get X?"
"Then what did you give me?" I calmly demand.
"Ha, I gave you an Advil."
"An Advil??"
"Yeah. I thought you knew and were just playing along. I mean, it said 'Advil' right on it."
I pause for a long moment, allowing everything to sink in. "So did you even blow that bouncer then to get us in? Or was that a fairy tale too?"
"Hell, yah I did! He came all over m--"
"Goodbye, Holly." Click.
I find a few people on the street who I overhear making plans to catch a cab back to Astoria, which is where I live. Can I join them? I ask as I jump into the front seat of the cab they catch. Their confused shrugs are the only confirmation I need.
As my new friends and I head back to Astoria, I idly ask them what they're doing in Manhattan tonight to begin with. They're shooting a pilot for HBO called Making It In America, they say. Cool, I exclaim. That's exactly what I'm trying to do. Just want to make it. It doesn't look like I'm doing that great a job, one of them observes, since I'm bleeding from both of my eyes and one of my ears. I heartily agree, offering a couple nuggets of advice before I leave the cab in regard to "making it": Don't accept drugs from high schoolers who casually offer oral sex to overweight bouncers, or give blunt fashion tips to semi-popular rock stars. Not very conducive to making famous friends.
Will my sage wisdom make it into this HBO special? Time will tell.
"Dude," I put my arm around the lead singer's naked, skeletonesqe shoulders. They're a little sweaty. Gross. "Can I be real with you for a second?"
"Yeah, dog," the lead singer replies. "Real is how I live my life."
I half-roll my eyes and click my tongue a little. "Yeah, well, then this shouldn't be too hard for you. Here's the thing, man. Getting topless is great, don't get me wrong. I'm a huge fan. And being as I'm over fourteen years old and not gay, I know this is kind of a different perspective than you're used to. But your face and haircut decisions make you look decidedly feminine, dude. And if that's what you're going for, cool. But when you pop that shirt off, you kind of look like a girl version of Marilyn Manson. It's just awful."
The lead singer doesn't look too impressed by my advice. After giving me a good, hard, 20-second-long stare, he looks at something behind me and snaps his fingers. Then he and the rest of his crew go skipping back onstage and start singing "Shake, Shake," which for some reason is their most popular song. I'm confused a little by the finger snapping, but then I turn around. Shit, here comes Ronald.
Allow me to describe how it feels to be punched in the face on X. First off, everything slows down. I actually counted all of the hairs on Ronald's knuckles as they were coming at me. 76 total. Second, you know that Red Hot Chili Peppers song with the line "I like pleasure spiked with pain/Music is my aeroplane"? Nothing describes a punch in the face while on X better than "pleasure spiked with pain." Nothing. I can actually feel my incisors loosen a little after the original punch. Several more punches rain down upon me, of course, each one more awesome then the next.
When Ronald is done "teaching me a lesson," as he repeats over and over, he is kind enough to help me to my feet. I then give him a pretty sweet high five, and he shows me out. Onto the street. A little violently.
A few seconds later I get a phone call. It's Holly. I don't even remember giving her my number.
"Hey, what happened to you?" She squeals. "I saw Ronald toss you out."
"Yeah, well, some rock stars just can't handle being real," I reply. "Ugh, I never should have dropped that X with you..."
"Oh, that wasn't X," Holly flippantly retorts.
"W-w-what??" I stammer.
"Justin, I'm in high school. Where am I going to get X?"
"Then what did you give me?" I calmly demand.
"Ha, I gave you an Advil."
"An Advil??"
"Yeah. I thought you knew and were just playing along. I mean, it said 'Advil' right on it."
I pause for a long moment, allowing everything to sink in. "So did you even blow that bouncer then to get us in? Or was that a fairy tale too?"
"Hell, yah I did! He came all over m--"
"Goodbye, Holly." Click.
I find a few people on the street who I overhear making plans to catch a cab back to Astoria, which is where I live. Can I join them? I ask as I jump into the front seat of the cab they catch. Their confused shrugs are the only confirmation I need.
As my new friends and I head back to Astoria, I idly ask them what they're doing in Manhattan tonight to begin with. They're shooting a pilot for HBO called Making It In America, they say. Cool, I exclaim. That's exactly what I'm trying to do. Just want to make it. It doesn't look like I'm doing that great a job, one of them observes, since I'm bleeding from both of my eyes and one of my ears. I heartily agree, offering a couple nuggets of advice before I leave the cab in regard to "making it": Don't accept drugs from high schoolers who casually offer oral sex to overweight bouncers, or give blunt fashion tips to semi-popular rock stars. Not very conducive to making famous friends.
Will my sage wisdom make it into this HBO special? Time will tell.
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