Just 25 Minutes It all started in this run-down club in the heart of Queens that my godfather owns. It was filled to the brim with post punk-alyptic Ramones wannabes. The kind that wear skinny jeans that are closer to leggings and sport a healthy dosage of guy liner. It’s the type of crowd where I look around and can’t help but think, “ah yes, these are my people.” Not that I’m punk rock so to speak. I’m more of the uptight girl from Midtown, double majoring in raging maniac and control freak. But the heart longs to be what it longs to be. I was sitting in the back of the club nursing a heavily non-alcoholic ginger ale. I was in charge of getting Henry home tonight. He was on the dance floor, no-doubt flirting with some shmoe of a band member. Hopefully he picked a guy with a car this time. I flipped open my phone to check the time: 2:30. I was in no mood to sit in the back of a club drinking diet sodas for the next few hours. I decided it was about time that I left. I mean Henry always does this. He convinces me to go to some club with shit bands, and then ditches me for the closest warm body he can grope. A word of advice: be careful whom you choose as childhood friends; you tend to be stuck with them. The band that was playing just finished. Their performance sported the usual angry fast beat of the same four chord progressions. Their name was something along the lines of Le Tigre’s More Attractive Older Cousin Le Panther. They had a lead singer who not so much ended the performance with a fizzle but a bang, literally. The hands of the crowd were up and pumping to the beat of the song. The singer was hopping around the stage in a pair of leather pants that were definitely tight enough to lower his chances of ever being able to have children, and he belted out the last line of the chorus, “ARE YOU READY FOR ME?” He jumped out towards those pumping hands. It was like watching the red sea part for Moses. Needless to say, he was nursing his injuries with an ice pack while the next act played.
Pillars of Salt 5
