by Michelle Ann King
On the way out of the gig, I stop at the merchandise stall to get a t-shirt. I find one in my size and pull out my wallet, then hesitate. It looks good quality, but the color--almost exactly the same blue as a scanner booth--puts me off. I read somewhere that they call that shade "Spectral Indigo," and ever since then it's given me a slight case of the creeps.
I put the shirt back and join Casey outside. Most of the crowd is heading for the station, and conversation buzzes around us. Everyone's smiling, looking like they enjoyed themselves. Well, nearly everyone.
"What's up?" I ask Casey. He's walking hunched over, his hands shoved in his pockets. "Didn't you like it? Don't tell me you're into that electro-folk now, or whatever it is Josef keeps playing at home?"
He doesn't reply, so I elbow him. "Or was it too loud for you? Is that it? You are getting on a bit, after all."
"It's not that. It's the opposite of that." He shakes his head. "You go to a gig, you're not supposed to stay in your seat the whole night, sipping coffee and clapping politely, then queue up to leave by row number."
I blow out a sigh. Oh God, here we go again. "Seriously? You're complaining that people don't get rat-arsed, fling bottles of piss at the stage, gob in your hair, and trample you underfoot in the rush to get the last tube? You miss that?"