Tales from the Concert

                Normally I would start a story like this off in the stereotypical way of, “So, no shit there we were . . . .”  This time, however, I cannot really do that as I am referring to a story from my youth in which I was only sixteen.  I know what you might be thinking, “Sixteen, really?  Were you ever that young?  How the hell do you even remember that far back?”  Yes I was that young and I remember that far back because I have not consumed enough alcohol in my life to kill this memory.  Also, screw you for thinking that.  Ah, forget it.

                So no shit there I was at what was at one time called “The Summit” in Houston, Texas.  "The Summit” was an arena venue that hosted the Houston Rockets, the circus, concerts and whatever else the owners wanted it to host.  I had gone with my best friend to see one of those nineties alternative bands that was huge back then, but no one seems to give a shit about now, The Smashing Pumpkins.  We were both excited; this was our first alternative music concert and the first concert that we attended together, and we were ready to rock our faces off. 

                In total cool kid fashion my mom dropped us off at the main entrance to the venue about an hour before show time and we sauntered our way inside.  Once in the building we were treated to a visual menagerie of flannel, black finger nail polish on angsty youths, douche bags who were there only for the underage girls they hoped would find them deep, and some really freaking hot girls.  Our heads were on a swivel that had our necks hurting worse than head banging at my first Pantera concert.

                Whilst walking around we came upon the famed merchandise booth and spent several minutes debating on which shirts we liked, which ones we could afford, and whether or not we should get the same shirt.  After a few minutes we decided that we would both get the black shirt with the silver frowny face with horns and text that read “The World is a Vampire.”  As soon as I had my shirt in hand I put it on because I was too lazy to actually carry the damned thing.  My best friend, being less lazy than myself simply threw his over his shoulder.

                We continued on our trek of walking around to see what there was to see and eventually came upon the Green Peace booth that was attended by the afore mentioned “really freaking hot girls.”  We stopped for a brief second to “check out the booth” and ended up chatting with the girls as if there was the snow ball’s chance in hell of even getting a phone number from them.  After a five-minute conversation, of which I remember nothing but cleavage, we leaned down to sign the petition, or whatever the hell it was, while the girls probably gave each other that knowing look silently saying, “Suckers.”

                We stood up feeling good about ourselves and began to walk on to our seating section.  It was at this point that my best friend decided that he should probably put his shirt on as I had done earlier.  He reached up to take a hold of that magnificently expensive piece of fabric while I prattled on about the conversation we had just had with the interesting cleavage from Green Peace.  That was when I heard the words that to this day threw me into one of the most interesting spectacles of my life.

                “SHIT! MY SHIRT!”

                I turned to look at my friend, or at least the spot that my friend had occupied just a split second before.  I found myself staring at a cloud roughly the shape of my best friend that was rapidly dissipating.  

My friend, who is a husky “gentleman” standing a grand height of five foot four inches tall had already opened a distance of approximately thirty yards between us.  A distance that was rapidly increasing as he sprinted back in the direction we had just come and towards the cleavage of Green Peace.  I, being a skinny fellow and member of our high school football team, found it a rather daunting task to try and close that gap as I chased after him.

I only caught up with him after he had stopped at the booth and was asking the ladies if they had seen a shirt that he may have dropped.  Much to both our disappointments, they had not.  We began to back track our route knowing more and more with every step that we would not find his shirt. 

Suddenly, we saw him, a man that we had seen right before we stopped to talk to the cleavage that both of us remembered not carrying a damned thing in his hands.  Yet now this guy was walking with a shirt in his clutches that he could not have purchased yet as there were no merchandise counters between the Green Peace table and his location. 

A quick questioning of the guy as to how much that shirt had cost and getting the wrong sum as a reply told us all that we needed to know.  Unfortunately, without the burden of proof there was nothing that could be done.  Our first alternative concert music experience together was soured by one of the afore mentioned douche bags who was such a cheap fucker that he literally stole the shirt off my best friend’s back.

To this day, anytime my best friend begins to get too big for his proverbial britches, or I just feel like being an asshole, I will pull out the shirt and take a picture of me wearing it and show it to him.  After all, what are best friends for if not to make old wounds fresh and help you laugh about them while you punch them in the balls for being a dick?