“When you inhale, hold it in for a minute,” Pete said, his lips tingling my ear.
I put the joint to my mouth and sucked in. I tried holding in the exhale, but coughed. And not a single demure cough, but an all-out fit. To my total embarrassment, everyone laughed.
“Don’t worry—that means you’ll get a good high.” Pete took another drag, holding it in like a pro.
Reese handed me a pint of vodka, a miniature version of what my father stocked in his liquor cabinet. “Take a swig of that to soothe your throat.”
I gulped the harsh liquid, forcing myself to swallow, and passed the bottle. Our group drained it within a few minutes of arriving at the entrance where burly men in STAFF shirts conducted searches. I might have worried, except we’d already smoked the drugs and drank the booze.
We ran to the arena floor to claim a spot as close to the stage as possible, preferring that to the thousands of seats available around the perimeter. It meant standing during the concert, but I didn’t mind. I leaned into Pete, who put his arms around me as the effects of the marijuana hit. Like a bird soaring on a wind current, I relaxed without a care in the world. I smiled, marveling at my newfound freedom. Maybe my apprehension was all for nothing. I could handle this. It didn’t seem like such a big deal after all.
The lights dimmed and the Pat Travers Band took the stage. According to Pete, their job as the starter band was to warm up the crowd. Bright colored lights flashed in rapid staccato, mesmerizing me into a near-trance and offsetting the deafening music. I dug the band’s sound—brash, catchy and high energy, and I loved how Pete stood behind me with both arms wrapped protectively over mine.
My mouth turned sticky and dry, like Mojave Desert dry. I would kill for a soda, but we were miles from the concession area and packed like sardines from the crowd surrounding us on the floor. Trying to ignore my discomfort, I shifted my thoughts to Pete. How I wished he would kiss me. Now was the perfect time, I noted—aside from the parched mouth thing—as I glanced over at Reese and Jaime, making out with abandon. I couldn’t stop staring at their passionate kissing. I envied being wanted like that.
“Ridiculous, isn’t it?” Pete said in my ear, nodding toward our friends.
“What do you mean?”
“All over each other like that. It’s embarrassing.”
I disagreed. “They look like they’re in love.”
He shrugged and turned his attention back to the stage. “This band is alright but I’m ready for the main event.”
“They’re no Rush, that’s for sure.” I sounded like an authority now, didn’t I?
He smirked. “There’s hope for you yet.”
I leaned into Pete. I appreciated the solidness of him, which right now, also contributed to propping me up.
“I’m high.” I finally understood the expression. My body floated through space while gravity made it difficult to move a muscle. Pushing my hair behind my ear took effort, as if everything occurred in slow motion.
He laughed. “Do you like it?”
I nodded. “Why are you laughing at me?”
“I’m not laughing at you—I’m laughing with you.”
I eyed him suspiciously. “Do you smoke weed a lot?”
He shrugged. “I guess it depends on what you mean by a lot.”
That struck me as an odd question. His answer might be worrisome if only I could remember what to worry about. Ah, now I got it. “Monthly? Weekly?”
“Then yeah, a lot.”
The house lights turned on, blinding us. I winced. “Can we grab a drink?”
“Cottonmouth?”
I nodded with immediate understanding as he put a name to my current condition. “Yeah, and I’m starving.”
Pete laughed. “Come on, let’s go.”
We zigzagged through the crowd to the circumference. Unsure how we would ever make it back to our friends through the maze of people, I stopped caring, my focus singular. As soon as we made it through the long concessions line, I chugged my Coke and wolfed down a hot dog and some chips in short order. My senses alive, I experienced everything as if for the first time: the sugary burning sensation of each swallow of soda, the grains of salt on the crunchy corn kernels, the yeasty texture of the bun and the smooth, sharp mustard. The intensity of flavors bursting in my mouth made me swear nothing prior ever tasted so delicious.
We wound our way back to the stage as the lights dimmed. To my amazement, Pete located our friends with no difficulty. The three members of Rush jogged onstage, their long hair flowing hippie-style over shirts and jeans. The crowd went nuts, cheering, yelling and hooting while the band assumed its positions. Alex Lifeson slung his guitar over his torso while drummer Neil Peart climbed into the most elaborate percussion setup imaginable. Aside from the full set of drums before him, surrounding him from the rear were dangling triangles, cowbells, chimes and a large gong. Geddy Lee swung his bass across his chest, and the band played a song from its recently released Hemispheres album.
Lee’s haunting vocals, combined with the complex synthesizers, unique percussion instruments and rocking guitar riffs, blasted through the sound system, filling every inch of the stadium. In my altered state, the music pumped through my body, the constant light show only enhancing the performance. By the end of the concert, I was thrusting my fist into the air with the beat along with thousands of other fans.
With our cheers and lighters brightening up the dark stadium, we brought the band back for three encores until the
