Can I hold it all in? Everything that’s inside me? I mean literally. Something I ate is begging to explode out of me at the moment. Something that can’t be contained. I imagine it’s the frozen pizza I ate for lunch. What else could it be? Maybe it wasn’t cooked enough… Or maybe I ate it too fast. Hell, maybe it was sold past its expiration date. Whatever the case, I knew it had to be the culprit. I’d never had a problem before with this particular “cuisine,” but, lo and behold, something else to be ruined for me (and I was already such a finicky eater to begin with). Worse still, the formerly frozen concoction decided to turn against me right as I showed up to a concert. Already in a fragile state within such a context, where self-superior youths abound, the last thing I wanted to do was seem any more “out of place.” This by looking peaked and profusely sweating. But wait, what was I saying? Most of the drug-addled ilk here had the same “symptoms.”

In the bathroom, which I had now entered for the third time in about twenty minutes—likely making anyone who saw me assume that I was doing drugs—someone felt obliged to approach me and tell me to “have a good show,” as though I myself were performing. Despite the oddity of the statement, I nodded along and said, “Thanks.” Hoping it would be left at that, the male (and undoubtedly gay) “fan” proceeded to go on about how The Performer was a drug addict and that’s probably why she was so late to take the stage. “I hope she’s not too drugged out. You know that’s what she’s known for.” 

I smiled politely. “I’m sure it will be fine. Positive thoughts.” Since this person didn’t know me, they couldn’t have possibly detected my sarcasm.

Before he could say anything else both strange and unsolicited, I exited the bathroom…even though all I wanted to do was go back into the stall and keep trying to either shit or throw up. I was hoping for the former, but it seemed my body had other ideas. Which was a shame, because I had wasted the risk of placing my ass on a music venue toilet for nothing. Even with the layers of toilet paper I put over the seat, I doubted it would protect me from whatever disease was ready to pounce on my cheeks from within the gnarly recesses of that toilette. I wanted such a risk to at least have been worth it. But instead, my insides decided that whatever needed to be ejected (namely, that goddamn frozen pizza) would have to come through the front, rather than the back. 

After only just emerging from the bathroom, I turned right back around and ran for the same stall as before (better to keep my contagion roulette [both giving and receiving] to a minimum that way). It was in the nick of time, too, for no sooner had I managed to lock the door behind me than the entirety of that infernal pizza proceeded to pour out of me. Like I was a cement truck laying concrete. Albeit at a much more rapid pace, obviously. I tried my best to “keep it quiet,” but that was an impossible task. And honestly, was it even a “rock concert” if someone didn’t hurl? Those who heard me from outside the stall probably assumed I had already had too much to drink or ingested too much of some other illicit substance. 

They never needed to know my vomiting was the result of an apparently fragile stomach. Though I maintain through and through that there was something unholy and deranged about the pizza itself. In fact, I generally prided myself on having what I call a “stomach of steel.” Maybe those days were gone. Just as, perhaps, my concert-going ones ought to be. For there is no other environment in the world more tailored to making anyone over twenty-five feel old as fuck. The levels of stamina and immaturity it takes to even go to a concert practically insist upon youth as a prerequisite. 

But I found that prerequisite unjust to those who maintained their passion and love of music well beyond the “appropriate” age. Which, according to some studies, is after thirty-three (or even thirty). I found such a loss of interest in new music to be unfathomable. And vowed that it would never happen to me, no matter how much devolution occurred in songwriting (itself likely soon to be a thing of the past thanks to AI). Or how clipped in general music became (it seemed the average run time for a song had been whittled down to about two minutes and thirty seconds, if that). No, I had to soldier through this pain, this unshakeable queasiness and prove to myself that I could still handle seeing a show. Even if the little puta performing was too “rock n’ roll” to show up “on time.” Which, by normal “rock star” standards, would have been an hour late. But no, she didn’t take the stage until 10:30 p.m., two hours and thirty minutes late. The goddamn gall. On the plus side though, it did give me ample time to “empty myself.” 

When she finally graced the audience with her presence, I felt too drained, too warped to really enjoy her performance. Like something more than just a frozen pizza had been taken out of me. It seemed the entirety of my strength had been as well. It was all I could do to keep my focus on The Performer. Instead, I found my eyes wandering toward specific people in the crowd. Like the girl who had the gumption to show up in a dress that blatantly couldn’t zip all the way up to the top. They say youths lack confidence, but maybe that’s not really true anymore. If anything, I would say they’re overconfident at this juncture. 

Alistair, the friend I had forced to accompany me (and who was also kind enough to buy me a fizzy lemonade to help soothe my stomach after I yakked up a large trash can’s worth), actually seemed more engaged in the show than I was. Which I found rather heartening considering how averse he had been to going at the outset of me dragging him along. You see, I have a thing about going to concerts alone: I fucking hate it. More than any other milieu for “arts appreciation,” it makes you look and feel like the biggest twat for being there alone. Mainly because the clientele seems to think you’re a freak if you do something like actually pull out a book to pass the time (and believe me, tangible books are increasingly anathema). And there is so much time to pass before The Performer actually deigns to appear. That’s why it’s so hard to be alone within that context. There’s enough literal hours that go by for people to notice that, evidently, you don’t have any fucking friends. But what no one seems to consider is that not every friend is of the same socioeconomic status to even be able to go to concert (see: that Friends episode from season two, “The One With Five Steaks and An Eggplant,” which should have been called “The One With Hootie and the Blowfish”). 

Maybe that type of consideration is harder to make when you’re still of a certain age, and possibility seems endless, ergo matters regarding “finance” all feel relegated to the “Monopoly money school of reason.” Alistair only agreed to come with me after I said, “I already bought the tickets for both of us.” It’s difficult to rebuff anything that’s free, especially when extracurricular activities become too costly once you enter a particular era of your life (unless, of course, you happen to be a person of inherent privilege). So he conceded, “Fine, Alex, I’ll go to your goddamn concert with you.” And they say true friendship doesn’t last once your opposite sex friends get married. But Alistair’s wife didn’t mind that we hung out—in fact, I think she liked it whenever I could “take him off her hands.” But I really didn’t take him away for too long because, after the show had been going on for just an hour (or three hours and thirty minutes, if you include the wait time, which I do), I told him I wanted to leave. I didn’t imagine someone like her would play many more songs after an hour’s time anyway. Nor did I really care at that point. 

All I wanted was to get to my bed and recuperate. My “musical malady” would, indeed, take me out of commission for a few days afterward. Further confirming to me that concert-going is not for the faint of heart…or stomach. Yet another lesson I will have to apply the next time I decide to attend one. If I ever do again… Maybe I have way too many bodily demands now to endure such a “hobby.” Or maybe I could just eat next to nothing on my next attempt…but then, that could open up the potential for fainting. Oh, the limitations the body places on us all! Sooner or later…even for those self-superior youths at the concert.