thursday march 10, parallel spaces, heights

I am waiting outside the elsewhere line for S at the crosswalk where, two nights ago, P was almost hit by a car turning left on red while I was on my way to S’s to watch Oslo, August 31st (which I did not like nearly as much as worst person). Tonight I am unexpectedly but excitedly accompanying her to see Ross From Friends. I have to pee. I have just finished a hot dog made for me by the worlds nicest hot dog cart vendor who offered me a hot dog at whatever price I feel like paying. The hot dog itself was utterly tasteless. It’s cold and refreshing out. As I write this paragraph, S bikes by looking for an open citibike dock. Elsewhere feels like a room from a TV set, or what I imagined “Glow,” that high school club night, might have been like—it is too loud and too bright to feel comfortable, with neon LED strips illuminating every exposed beam and pulsating shapes behind the dj booth and a comically large disco ball. It also feels rather dystopian in that the bar doesn’t take cash and only takes payment via RFID wristband you connect to your credit card in the entrance. The crowd seems abnormally short and young compared to the other shows I’ve been to in nyc. It’s interesting to think that a big crowd, on average, looks taller than a small crowd because it’s easier to see tall people and gets harder to see short people. S and I, both tall, lean on the left side for the duration of the opener. This turns out to be the stage for Ross and co., meaning we are suddenly at the very very front, a position we neither expected nor deserved. We discuss briefly how we both feel guilty about this—two nights ago with P a man tapped me on the shoulder and asked me to move to the back because “a bunch of people back there can’t see,” which I did—but this time we stay put. So I spend the majority of the show with my elbows on the stage (read: bent over to minimize blockage), feeling the subwoofer vibrate my shoulders and throat at a level that cannot be healthy, doing a dance that involves ducking in place of jumping (I think everyone who was tall and awkward in middle school probably knows this move). At some point I turn to the right to see a very short girl staring directly at me while her very tall, vampiric boyfriend puts his fingers in her mouth; I turn back to the left quickly. Someone standing behind us taps S on the shoulder—he (also very short) is her friend from somewhere, but she does not know who or from where. A girl behind me repeatedly seems like she wants to move up, and I keep moving to the side to make space but she never fills it. Overall the show is great and I am glad to be at the front because the crowd is annoying enough to make me question my taste in music and up there I don’t have to see or think about them as much. S tells me she can’t really enjoy concerts anymore unless she’s all the way at the front. Citibike happens to be unavailable from 2-4 am today so we say a rushed goodbye so S can sprint to catch the L home. Two nights ago I sprinted from hers to catch a bus that I didn’t realize was rerouted away from her stop, but that I miraculously caught down the street after I ran next to it waving for two blocks. When I get home I have already taken out the trash. I wash my face in the sink for the first time in recent memory. I try to make this feel symbolic, but it doesn’t. The next night I run into S’s friend on the dance floor union pool who I briefly exchange hellos with. Someone catches him say to his friend, “that’s S’s ex,” which is not entirely true and this confuses me. I like S’s friend but I do not like the dance floor of union pool, the patio is much more fun.