“I’m In Your Area”

“Could I use my school ID?”

On the line, I overheard the kid negotiate with the bouncer.

“Come on man, I really need to watch this show. This band f*cking rules.”

The kid sounded a lot like me when I was 16. Desperate. Nervous. Definitely looking to wreak havoc. The bouncer sized him up with arms crossed. The bouncer threw an arm up with a thumb pointing back toward what was behind him. The kid threw his arms up in victory. When it was my turn to show my ID, the bouncer inspected it. “What year were you born?” he asked. I told him 1992 then he repeated his motions. All the pandemonium was bound to hit me. The questions of my origin, where I was born, how old I was, what I was doing. I hated over explaining. In a world filled with people, I detested the thought of having to answer anyone who sounded remotely like my father. Holding my ID up like a cigarette toward me, I snatched my identity back and walked through the metal detector and into the space.

It was my first time here, and I wondered, much like most places, when this place had been built up. Those days, the ways that buildings had gone up, I suspected were well within developer’s bait-and-switch. If it looked anything like a party, an establishment with mostly black walls and bars galore, the hip kids will come and find it. I was no hip kid, but I wondered if that just meant that being cool was also being full of shit. I made my way to the merchandise line to purchase a t-shirt. I rehearsed what I had wanted about 10 times. Letter A. Medium. Thank you. Letter A. Medium. Thank You. Letter A. Medium. Thank you . . . Then I beelined to the bar to consume a G&T. Nervous, I took a sip and sight of the coven of crazed fans.

The venue: Brooklyn Steel. The main and only act: Death Grips.