A C L

ACL

The Capitol sat submerged in darkness against the exciting light of a new generation city, imbued with the bizarre essence of a bizarre future, but for a few lights that remained on throughout the night; quiet and ominous, dark windows and dark gardens of dark manicured grass, and populated by dark trees. One lone patrol vehicle stationed just outside the front, vigilant of trespassers, with its rotating red and blue lights. The pink stone looked cold. Silent. It was dead silent.

Some few miles away, however, there was life. The crowd had become one long, continuous pouring from Zilker park after the pyrotechnics drew the festival to a dazzling conclusion of red and green explosions of light, reflecting themselves on the eyes of the captivated viewers below. There was a cheer and a roar of applause at the last boom, at the last light, at the last moment of only silence and smoke in the air. 

There was a mixing of faces in the crowd that still beamed with the afterglow of excitement, pulsing in the dark like stars, talking about the performances, the artists, the proximity to the stage and the exhilaration of being pressed against the metal rails at the feet of idols, and of those that quickly moved on to other things as they thought of the work week ahead; the voices were everywhere speaking.

“We were at the very front! - Where is Kayla? I need to take a picture with them before we leave! - oh, Kayla! I see them, over here, over here! - F**k, I have so many papers I have to grade for tomorrow - Yeah, pick us up at the corner, on Barton - Oh my god, girl, your a*s looks great! I love your outfit. You look f*****g sexy! - hey! Meet us up later on tonight, my place - The Red Hot Chili Peppers f*****g were lit af - yeah, so I got passed up for the job, and they gave it to some white dude - f*****g hell, sorry man, that’s bullshit - Need a ride? Only fifteen! Fifteen! I take paypal, venmo, cash - ”

The crowd was making its way across Barton bridge when a few drops were felt, and the tired crowd cheered joyously for the rain’s arrival. Pit. Pat. Pit. Pat, on exposed shoulders and backs.

One in their midst, amid all the chatter and covered in a plastic poncho, was Mariano Fuastino, walking alone in the direction of the long procession of philopans. He was like an old man in his tired demeanor and the abnormal excess of gray in his dark hair at 28; it was not unusual to see the young man with his hands behind his back walking at the pace of slow drifting clouds at parks on violet dawns, or relishing the natural aroma of wet grass on people’s lawns; his life withheld nothing extraordinary, a quiet recurrence of neverending sameness such that the days came to him indifferently like some white sheet drawn over his eyes, past and future indistinguishable. Tomorrow will be another yesterday, without the zest for life he enviably found in others. It was self-imposed, this mood, this prohibition against everything fun and silly. Or rather not. He was never sure. He always fostered a mysterious desire for liberation, and the zest for life was there, but why he cannot surrender to it entirely baffled him. He lived on, and he lived on, and on, and on. He stood over the edge of the ship channel bridge once and looked below deeply into the brown waters of the bayou. Without courage, he lived on, and on, and on…

He had come with two others but they became separated from him at some point in the natural course of things. It’s alright he said as if it had not bothered him, so he left them to wander where their hearts may guide them, convinced that they will have a more fabulous time if he was allowed to be forgotten. He remembers that they had talked with much excitement about the festival in the prior weeks, all the time singing boisterously that together they would do this and do that, and for three days the festival went on, and for three days he felt the alienation of his parents when they first arrived on new and strange lands.

They were his college pals who appeared more interested in chasing the half-naked muses of their hearts that flitted the hilly park like butterflies, casting glances sometimes over the rim of their sunglasses to them that likewise engaged their inarticulate gestures of lustful love. He emulated them, tried to speak as them, he attempted to imitate their confident strides along the yellow grass and through the clouds of dirt that formed when the wind moved.

“Oh man, the girls are beautiful!” one of them said.

“Hell yeah!” Mariano joined, affecting an energy foreign to him, which made him feel strange in his own skin, and immediately he questioned the intensity of his enthusiasm. His friend looked at him approvingly, however, and this gesture he then felt validated his reaction.

“Yep, yep. I bumped into this chick on Friday at the SZA concert, ” the other friend said.

“For real? What happened?” the first friend asked.

“Bro, no lie, we made the f**k out. In the middle of the crowd. F*****g crazy.”

“Nice. Wait, where was I?”

“S**t, I don’t know. Probably throwing up somewhere. But she had a friend though,” he tapped his friend on the arm.

“Oooh yeah, that’s right. F**k… You should’ve come get me!”

“Hey man, stick with me next time and you won’t go home thirsty, alright?”

“Whatever man… hey, are we hitting the bar again? I’m done with my beer.”

“Oh yeah, for sure,” he looked back at Mariano, who was a few steps behind. “Hey, Mario, we’re gonna grab some drinks, you want some?”

He didn’t, but he said yes, and they went to the bar again for more drinks. They got to the queue and they added themselves to the end of it. They stood, and waited, and they talked some more.

“Dude, I can’t wait for the Red Hot Chili Peppers.”

“F**k yeah, dude. What’d you think of L’imperatrice?”

“Oh yeah, she was good. Honestly, it was my first time listening to her music.”

“Yeah, her s**t was dope. I love when she sings in French. That s**t sounds sexy. Beacoup, Merci, oui, oui. Cheri,” he jokingly passed his fingers through his friend’s hair.

“Bro, shut the f**k up,” his friend said, swatting his hand away, laughing.

They made visual contact with the clerk when she gave them a wide-eyed look in frantic search of the next customer. She stretched out her neck a little and raised her eyebrows to indicate that she was ready to take them, and waited for them under three large pink letters, “B,” “A,” “R.” 

“Hell-ooo, what can I get for you?!” said the young woman, in a tone that seem to come out of her with great strain. Her smile looked painful, like some garment or uniform that she after grew tired of wearing and was ready to throw away at the first chance.

They ordered their drinks. For Mariano, who wasn’t much of a drinker, it was a difficult decision to pick out something for which had no appetite, but he understood quickly that it was irrelevant. He spent some time eyeing the choices indecisively on the menu.

“Give him a Seltzer,” one of them intervened impatiently, and he looked back at Mariano, “strawberry flavor, if you have any,” he then told the young, bubbly female clerk at the bar, smiling.

The female clerk returned with their drinks, two lagers and a canned Seltzer for Mariano. She handed it to them, and his friend paid the tab.

After the bar, they moved across the pale yellow field and through more dust to be closer to the T-Mobile stage where an artist was due to perform shortly. They sat in some shade, and they enjoyed their brews mostly in silence.

“Whose coming on next?” asked one of them.

“Princess Nokia.”

“You know her?”

“Nah.”

“You, Mario? You know her?”

“Nah, bro,” Mariano said, shaking his head, contriving their manner of speech as best he could.

“Princess Nokia…” the inquisitive friend said to himself. He drank from his beer. “Princess Nokia,” he again repeated, aloofly.

All three of them lounged languidly under the shade of a tree. The crowd at the T-Mobile stage was growing more each minute that passed. Mariano watched it slowly swell as it fed on more people. The wind blew, disturbing one of its branches which moved the shade so that Mariano was fully exposed to the sun at brief moments but his friends were kept in the cooler shadow of the tree.

“Uhm, I’m having a good time, guys,” Mariano said suddenly to them.

Both of them turned to him as if rather surprised to hear him speak, but in a kind gesture, they raised their cups to him, grinning.

“Yeeeeeaaaaah, that’s my boy Mario right here. He’s a real one for driving us though,” said the friend that ordered the strawberry seltzer for him.

“F**k yeah, Marioooo,” said the other, hyping him up too.

Mariano likewise raised his cup to them, and they all took a drink together.

“Yo, Mario,” asked the friend who spoke last, smacking his lips clear of the foamy beer, “where did you park?”

“At a parking garage, on Barton.”

“How far is it?”

“About 30 minutes.”

“Damn, 30 minutes? You know there was parking closer, right?”

“I didn’t, actually… sorry.”

“Nah man - f**k - it’s cool. Don’t worry about it. It’s just that now we gotta walk 30 minutes after the festival, you know?”

“Is it too late to move it?” asked the other friend.

“I already paid $15 to park there.”

“Damn, and you paid? Dude… you could’ve parked for free,” he replied, nodding his head disapprovingly.

“Sorry. I didn’t know.” 

“It’s fine. Just ask next time, bro. We got you.”

Mariano felt unjustly reprimanded. A sudden roar in the crowd at the T-Mobile stage started.

“Dude, I think she’s coming on,” one pointed out. Instantly, his mood changed, and the matter of the distance faded rapidly under the excitement. His friend put on a joyous face when the music started before he got up to make his way down the hilly slope.

“Let’s go, let’s go!” said the other, also hurrying up from the ground. Mariano stayed.

“Mario, you coming?” one asked.

“Not now, but I’ll go in a bit,” Mariano replied.

“You sure?” asked the same friend, who was half-turned to Mariano, with one foot decidedly in the direction of the stage. 

Mariano knew that he asked only so that he had no right to criticize him in the future, employing a skillful maneuver that preserved their reputation of “good friend.” Mariano’s friend understood well the subtle science behind human friendships, which revolted Mariano.

“Yeah, you guys go on. I’ll catch up.”

“Alright man, suit yourself”

The two friends left for the stage; Mariano watched as they quickly became unaware of him as they crossed the desert-like dust, and the dry yellow field of grass, sipping their beer, gayly moving toward the euphoria before them. Mariano looked on. He was alone, and now he had the sanctuary of solitude to be earnest. 

In his own mind, he started, 

I can’t stand it! What they talk about, it Inevitably it leads nowhere except to an awkward silence - and the more I can’t stand it, the more alone I feel - I’ve known them for a year at least - I still don’t know a lot about them - they ask for things - they need me and then they don’t need me, and when they don’t they disappear  - They knew each other before I met them - I couldn’t say with certainty what they like or don’t like, but I share things about myself generously - I try to bond - These guys, they’re like the government, declassifying things about themselves when they choose - They’re so fake with me.

A shriek came from the T-Mobile stage, introducing itself as Princess Nokia. The voice became embodied in a thin, eccentric woman in a two-piece silver skirt emerged to the stage, with a bandana draped over her dark hair.

“Hello, Austin!” she yelled into the microphone hanging to the side of her cheek, moving across the platform with that new age elegance and liberation.

Maybe it’s me - I need to - no I can’t. God I couldn’t live lying to myself - it will take time not immediately but eventually you’ll get used to it - people go out and they have fun that’s it. So do as the Romans do! - but something feels wrong and it's either with me or the world but something’s wrong - I can’t pretend like they do. Sooner or later my mind would break if I did  - but that’s the price right if I want to feel free if I don’t want to feel alone?… I do feel alone…

She said something about the insecurity of men, and the crowd cheered.

They aren’t my friends. For over a year now they haven’t tried to be - they’re fake. And everyone I meet is fake -

She spoke something of sexual freedom, and the crowd cheered

Everything is fake -

She proclaimed herself to be a sex symbol as she shook her hips around, momentarily revealing a titillating view of what was beneath her silver skirt to eyes as young as ten, and the crowd cheered.

And everyone knows that everything is fake -

She declared to be against the oppression of conservatism, denouncing it as an archaic paradigm, and the crowd cheered.

That’s what’s crazy about it - How? How do I become okay with that like everyone? - 

She advocated abortion rights, and the crowd cheered.

I want real life not a staged version of it - 

At everything, the crowd cheered. A true wasteland worthy of Eliot!

Mariano heard fragments of what she promoted from the all-powerful stage; he only half-listened to what she advertised through the all-powerful mic, and he was bothered none at what she spoke to the all-powerless, but in some mysterious way that he could not quite pin down in his mind at something invisible and inherently sinister happening that was beyond the crowd and beyond Princess Nokia. 

A thousand hands and a thousand voices were aroused into claps and screams when the music began -

Get paid, I’m out the door

Make money, I spend it, want more

Get mine, looking so fine

Bad Gyals we chillin’ and whine

Get paid, I’m out the door

Make money, I spend it, want more

Get mine, looking so fine

Tell’em, so don’t waste my time…

One of his friends, returning, pulled away by an urgent need to urinate, stopped at where Mariano was seated, and he stood over him, his leg restless, “Are you alright, man? Lighten up!”

“Yeah, sorry,” he replied, giving him an awkward smile, eyeing the brands that covered him from tip to tip.

“C’mon, It’s f*****g ACL! Enjoy the music!” he gave Mariano’s shoulder a rough shake intended to bring a jolt to his senses that should have snapped him out of his gloom, “Get around, talk to some of these fine a*s girls, instead of sitting here by yourself,” his friend suggested as though he were a victim of Mariano’s low energy. Mariano felt pulled by his violent sympathy.

Did he care? Did he really care? - Maybe he is trying to cheer me up - maybe he thinks people are robots with settings that you can flip if you shake them hard… or scream at them -  I just don’t know with this guy. He’s fake. Who truly knows.

“Yeah, alright. I’ll get up soon,” he said softly, and politely to him so that he’d back off a little. He was invited again to join them in the crowd, but he declined on the reason that standing too long made his legs hurt.

“Are you serious? You know how much these entrance passes cost, right?”

“Yeah, I do,” Mariano said, coldly, regretting his decision to come, and now regretting that he felt pressured to engage and have a good time, or else be labeled a fool.

“Alright man… whatever, it’s your money.” He turned, and he was about to leave when he dug into his pocket and produced before Mariano a quantity of cannabis packed into a long roll of crumply white paper.

“Here, take this. Use it, or not, it’s whatever, but you definitely need something to chill,” his friend said, prescriptively.

Mariano accepted the gift that he was unsure he would consume. He had no way to light it, so he stored it in his wallet, but he remained with a look of dejection on his face despite the generosity of his friend. 

His friend left shaking his head in a resentful way. Mariano followed him with his eyes to the urinals as much as was possible before disappearing into the sameness of the crowd, and as he sat there, he was bothered by the mechanical way in which he moved: stoic, rigid, his sunglasses resting on his aquiline nose risen pompously to the air; he looked down at his phone, then up again; he had an air of emotional coldness, and through an instant, he was transmogrified into a Zolian creature by the nature of what Mariano witnessed in him. Mariano took his eyes off that specimen to look at what he realized was the same gait and posture in a deal more of the other  male specimens that followed the current of human bodies.

Look at him, no personality. It looks like he borrowed his personality - he bought it, maybe - he’s wearing it like he wears his t-shirt, plain, and understated - the others that try to look “unique…” - all uniqueness looks the same  - everyone looks like they are trying hard to be human - nothing seems natural - I don’t get why the masks - if you’re pissed off, then tell me you're pissed off  - what about these trees? Are they trying really hard to be trees, or are they just trees? - Jesus Christ!... I feel insane  - that’s what it's come to… I feel insane - 

Of a sudden, he heard a soft voice behind him say with some urgency in it, “Hey, do you have the time?”

When he turned his gaze upward, he did not think that he would find himself standing so nervously before paradise as a woman of wild reddish hair, and of lips coated in a fragrant rosey gloss that gave them a sensuous shine. Those eyes, he thought, were something reasonable in the calm, temperateness of their color, without pretense, lost as he was lost on this plane of reality, and they knew of the magnitude of the universe. They were of an intelligent ignorance that knows of itself, that understands the limits of knowing, and can bear it. She stood with the singular patience of an enlightened monk.

“It’s 1:42,” he answered, finally consulting his phone so that she was not kept waiting any longer.

“Thank you!” she replied, with that same measure of sweetness and cadence as before, but to hear again was a delight felt more fervently than the first instance. 

Her eyes lingered and regarded Mariano afterward curiously, then sadly when they perceived a hint of distress. 

“Are you alright?” 

There was something sincere behind her voice when she spoke, a sound that knew of the profundities of even the darkest soul where contained there is invariably the exrecement of all negative thought and feeling.

She removed her cowboy hat when she bent her knees and lowered herself to him; she pressed on her flowing white dress as she bent down to make sure that it would not fly when the wind picked up. She was close to him enough that the tip of her brown boots were less than an inch from his sneakers, and that small mundane detail thrilled him. He felt cared for, like a small bird with a broken wing in nurturing hands of satin skin.

“Are you enjoying the festival?” she then asked when she found the answer to her previous question in the momentary silence of his response.

“Yeah, it’s nice.”

“Then why are you here all by your lonesome? Did you come with anyone?”

The way she was bent on her knees made him feel like a child on the playground, and she felt to him like a child with him.

“Some friends. Two, actually.”

“Where are they?”

“One went to the urinals, and the other is somewhere over there,” he pointed to the T-Mobile stage where Princess Nokia was in a rather suggestive and commanding pose, relishing the applause of the audience that came at her after the conclusion of another song.

“Well, go to them, don’t stay here,” she kept one commiserating hand on his forearm, “unless you want to be alone, which is also fine.”

“Thank you. Yeah, I just might make my way over there to them, soon,” he could feel the end of their encounter near, and he pondered on ways or things to say that would entice her to stay, but prudence held him back as he did not want to presume the extent of her commitment in her concern of him.

“That’s great, I say you should. Hey, and we might bump into each other again!” there was a light suddenly in the dark of his eyes, “But, enjoy the festival, enjoy the park, enjoy the city, enjoy the food, enjoy the music!”

She took her hand from his arm, and she gave him a reassuring look. With a smile, she stole away toward the T-Mobile stage to no beat or lyrics as Princess Nokia was in between songs refreshing herself from the scorching Texas heat.

Rather, sadly, he followed her receding red hair to the extent that his vision could still distinguish it from the variety of things within the shifting mass, where at moments it came alive like an intense fire over a yellow-pale, lifeless grass. Her gaze was an honest revelation. Her smile reminded him of those days without the walls and fortresses of the mind that go up slowly over time, after youth and innocence have been beaten into the sepulcher that rests within the infinite depths of broken mind and feeling. She was not manufactured, he believed, as others are manufactured. She was who she was for no reason external to herself. A singular rarity of one in the world - real, unreal.

Who is she? - I want to see her again - I should’ve asked if she wanted to hang out... Would she have agreed? Maybe not… - I can’t see her anymore; she’s gone - I can still smell her perfume in my nose - it’s peaches - I can’t stop thinking about her…

He then thought of her in a peculiar light and imagined that she was an impulsive one, doing things without thinking of how she might give offense, but he also imagined she was of that special breed that blends civility and patience into one being so that backlash was not received with indignation, but with a warm southern hospitality in the heart. Someone never willing to abandon principle to temper. He imagined her angry, and he couldn’t feel the sweltering heat of a vindictive wrath, only the warmth of paternal, benign disappointment in her inexhaustible capacity to forgive. He imagined these qualities in her, and he could not help it to think that the real her might surpass even these, and for that, he grew listless for another meeting.

An hour later, Princess Nokia ended her show. The crowd dispersed and moved as one enormous mass to the American Express stage just a short walk away; the large letters of the stage were located high against the blue skyline of the city, which was cluttered now with new high rises towering above the park and the little people therein moving enchantedly to the music. The area around the American Express stage was quickly settled; blankets were laid down and lawn chairs were set up like flags of a conquering army. The tall towers of equipment were gradually surrounded by the swelling number of variously colored heads.

Mariano had gone off to another stage at the opposite end of the American Express where the artist Tobe Nwigwe was in the middle of a sermon on black power, and of the value of the black race, and that the whole world is one way black in the absence of light to which the crowd cheered. He listened at a distance to the applause which faded differentially and timely for the music to begin.

Ohhh

Miss Badu told me I’m

Most of these sheeple move like clones

That’s why I be on my own

My mama thought I was a joke

But Miss Badu told me I’m dope

Yeah, I'm dope

Yeah, yeah, I'm dope

Miss Badu told me I'm…

 

Mariano listened curiously to the song from the shaded haven of the tree he was under that sat on a hill overlooking the area where the crowd stood, jumped, danced.

 

But Dave Chapelle told me, I'm dope

Yeah, I'm dope

Yeah, yeah, I'm dope

Dave Chapelle told me I'm…

After another hour, the music stopped, Tobe and his dancers disappeared behind the instruments, and as the crowd fell away, he thought about her and the lingering traces of her on his imagination that refused to vanish, sequences flickering in and out of his mind. Her eyes, her gentle voice, her glossy lips like rose petals. He thought about how he might’ve miraculously found her down there in the labyrinthine crowd among so many others, walking so distinct to everyone around her, and he thought how he might search and search endlessly with no fruit to his efforts, and yet he felt quite complacent with the idea of her only, treasured up for his own desire to feel again.

I think it’s better if we don’t meet - you could be a lie - meant to keep me calm, happy - how do I know you’re real? - really real? -  but is it so bad if you are a lie? - at least I won’t feel like this - Yes, it is bad  - I want to believe you are, but how can you just show up so unannounced? - you left without knowing what seeing you has done for me -  Now I might never feel that again - if you are a lie, then I was right to let you leave, and I let you be as the lie that you are - still, I might never feel again.

The largest gathering of the day had formed for the Red Hot Chili Peppers, the final act. Mariano was under the shade of another tree, but in the twilight of evening, everything was shade.

His heart raced at the thought that he might have found her red locks moving in the crowd, but he was tricked by the pale dim light of the night as it was only an orange wig put on a totem that had been used previously for the Paramore show.

The band began to play, followed by the crowd’s cheering ignited by the sound of the first chord struck by the bass guitarist, and for the first songs that were played, Mariano stood and watched on silently in the shadow of their absolute pleasure, seeing how they surrendered themselves so freely to the music . His friends had moved forward without telling him to the front of the stage, pulled to the epicenter of where the stuff of excitement and euphoria is strongest.

Mariano remembered that his friend had given him something to help him “relax.” He took out the little white roll from his wallet, and realized he still had nothing to use for a light. He turned to his neighbor and tapped him gently on the shoulder once. It was loud, so he mimed the request for a lighter. The kind man quickly understood when he saw the little roll of packed cannabis, and he dug into his pocket and produced a lighter for Mariano.

Mariano with his thumb tried to ignite the flame; the wind made the task a finicky one, and after two sparks the roll was lit. A steady tail of smoke began to fly out from the end of it, slowly rising into the dark sky above. He puffed once, then twice, blew; he puffed a third time, then blew; a fourth, and blew. Mariano’s body started to sway without his permission, his head began to move to the rhythm of the music without his consent.

I can feel it, it’s kicking in - this feels good. The music, the crowd, seeing people enjoy themselves - I was a fool - this is what I’ve denied myself, this pleasure - I’m not thinking of anything. Just the music - this is nice - I feel… like everyone else - I think I like it -

It's the edge of the world and all of Western civilization

The sun may rise in the East at least it's settled in a final location

It's understood that Hollywood sells Californication

 

Pay your surgeon very well to break the spell of aging

Celebrity skin, is this your chin, or is that war you're waging?

Dream of Californication,

Dream of Californication,...

Maybe, it’s okay if she isn’t what I think she is - I mean, if she turned out to be like everyone else, so what? - what is real? Who the f**k knows - what am I even getting at? - someone who isn’t fake, I suppose - but we’re all fake, aren’t we? And maybe it’s necessary to be fake sometimes - Maybe I’m just as fake - I pretend, sometimes �" I feel like s**t when I do though - I want to really care and be interested when someone talks to me about anything - I would want the same - 

Space may be the final frontier but it's made in a Hollywood basement

And Cobain can you hear the spheres singing songs off Station To Station? 

And Alderaan's not far away, it's Californication

 

Born and raised by those who praise control of population

Well, everybody's been there and I don't mean on vacation

Dream of Californication,

Dream of Californication…

I felt miserable, just awful - I wanted to kill myself - f**k, what am I thinking? - no, don’t think that - anyway, why would I not want to stay like this? - if everything and everyone is fake… and there is nothing real anywhere - embrace it - why has it been so hard to accept? - damn, I’m really feeling it now - this is strong -

Destruction leads to a very rough road but it also breeds creation

And earthquakes are to a girl's guitar, they're just another good vibration

And tidal waves couldn't save the world from Californication

 

Pay your surgeon very well to break the spell of aging

Sicker than the rest, there is no test, but this is what you're craving?

 

Dream of Californication,

Dream of Californication

I couldn’t accept it because I hate fake things - I hate fake people - I hate it - hm, and so that’s my problem, I guess - how do I stop hating it, if it can’t be helped? - is it a problem? Or am I the only one that still has some fight in me? - no, don’t sound so delusional - no, I’m not delusional - that’s how it starts. That’s how it happens - divide and conquer - isolation is a greater weapon than fear - you feel alone, and you feel something is wrong with you. You feel crazy - there is nothing wrong with me! - there is nothing wrong with searching for something real - this isn’t my reality - I refuse it!

The song carried on without lyrics, held by an outrageous guitar solo executed by Flea, the band’s bassist.

Mariano’s eye had picked up something with its peripheral vision, a trace of some vague human outline with darkened red locks. His heart raced again, and he figured he might try to catch up to it before it was too late, so he started through the crowd.

It was all a chaotic maze with walls of dazzled spectators, but at every moment, he had caught enough of the red of that long hair to know which direction was the right one. Passing through, he was sure that everyone laid suspicious eyes on him, like sentinels that knew he was someone that did not belong. They could smell it on him, that strange odor that belonged only to the self-exiled and unconforming.

He went left, right, he slipped in through gaps between dancing bodies, he was careful of the people below, sitting, following after the wine-colored hair just ahead, always eluding him, getting away, getting farther away. It was becoming more difficult to penetrate the deeper he traveled through the immensity of that mass, knowing he was reaching the core of it, and it was impossible now to know which way he had come from. A red light then came from the stage that threw a shade of red on to everyone, disorienting Mariano a little, but the dark hair stood out against the more bright hues, even when all was red and red shadow.

He reached an impasse when he came to a wall that was too thick and too compact to pass through; his eyes had followed the red hair to it, which had opened up briefly for it and allowed it passage into its furthest depths. Mariano tried to find another way in, but all around proved impenetrable. The guitar solo was nearly at an end.

The impenetrable wall suddenly opened when a large group of doped out twenty-somethings retreated out of the center, hand-to-hand in a long human chain, letting Mariano take advantage of a small window of passage to go in. He looked around, and there it was, the wine-colored hair. He made his way over to it, sliding himself down a long thin corridor, his head blocking the view like the moon moving over the sun during an eclipse.

Finally, he was standing behind the mysterious red nymph that had until now successfully evaded him. Her hair fell over the same cowboy hat as he remembered that sat on her head; the same white dress; the same boots. It had to be, he thought. He was decided to touch her on the shoulder when a violent jerk from the crowd had incidentally pushed him into her. He immediately began with an apology, and she turned around, revealing her face. It wasn’t her, to his disappointment.

 “I’m sorry!” he said, nonetheless.

“You’re good!” she replied, robotically, and casually returned to performance. 

After that, Mariano stayed for a little while, listening to how the solo reached the end with heavier and heavier riffs rising to a climax until the sound fell off to a low, descending wave of music. Lower, and lower. The guitar sounded sad that it was almost done. Lower - the bassist chose a melancholy sound on which to consummate the solo. The crowd held their breath. Mariano was one more in the mass, listening. The guitar solo ended, and the music stopped. 

Pit, pat. The first few raindrops fell on his plastic poncho. He was leaned over the edge of Barton bridge for a view of the water flowing down there in the dark river. He was enough over the stone ledge that he could make out the wavy reflection of his own head in the water, in the middle of so many silhouettes of branches ramifying out to him like hands of an evil entity, clawing at him with sharp claws on thin, macabre fingers. He stepped away, with a new strength he did not recognize, and made his way across the bridge.

Trekking along, Mariano brought his gaze up to the side opposite to him of the street, to where a girl with wild red hair held out her hand over her face like a sailor looking out for land after a long voyage. She was looking for someone, a friend perhaps, or a boyfriend, but It was her. This time, there was no question. Mariano stopped. There was a green neon light behind her coming from a bright sign, and he watched her as she was bathed both by rain and light. Under the gentle drizzle, he looked on. 

Pit, pat, pit, pat. 

The sweep of her search eventually settled on one idle young man standing in the rain, surprised to discover that someone was looking back at her. Mariano felt a strong and sudden urge to look away and pretend he had not seen her, but it was too late. She knew of him too. It took only about two seconds. Mariano waved, and she waved back.

Author's Note

Let me know what you think generally. Thank you.