“Awfully far away,” Sean says.
They keep talking as we work our way up to the front of the line. They’re chatting it up like long-lost best friends and I feel completely invisible, which I don’t mind at the moment, because I sort of wish I were. Fifteen minutes pass and we’re only a few feet away from the doorway now. The girl in front of us flashes her ID and heads inside. And that’s when I spot a big sign 21+ for entry. No IDs, No Entry, No exceptions! I nudge Sean, who takes something out of his wallet and shows it to the bouncer. A fake ID. I’m standing at the front counter, paralyzed. “Come on, Nina,” Sean says, standing just past me inside the doorway. I look at him. Of course. I have her passport. I take it out and hand it to the very hairy guy who’s sitting on top of a tiny wooden chair. He barely glances at it before stamping the inside of my wrist with the face of a tiny monster and ushering me inside.
Spit Pavilion is one giant room with scuffed wood floors and super high industrial-looking ceilings. There’s a stage straight back and a bar off to the left with dozens of people crowded in front of it and hung up behind it is a giant white-horned animal skull, the kind of thing you’d see tied to the front of a truck. The place smells like a mix of beer and wood smoke. I glance at Sean. His hands are in his pockets and he’s looking around, maybe trying to find the monster hands girl? I force myself to turn away and remind myself why I’m here.
An opening band is playing: two guys on drums and a girl in lederhosen and combat boots singing:
Nein nein nein! No no no! Nein nein nein I shoot you with crossbow.
And then, finally, the lederhosen girl stops singing, and a guy in a bright red suit comes onstage and takes the mic.
“That was Lady Bratvoorst direct from Germantown, Maryland. Give it up for Lady Bratvoorst everyone!” The crowd lets out a weak cheer. “And now, The Spit Pavilion could not be more fucking thrilled to bring back one of our very favorite bands of all time. We love them. You love them. Your momma loved them last night. Put your gray rubber hands together foooooor Monster Hands!” The crowd goes insane, cheering, screaming, making loud growly monster noises while two guys run out onstage and a third cartwheels out behind them. A moment later the music starts and the bar explodes in even louder cheers. All around me, people start dancing. I feel something inside me beginning to lift.
And then I feel something cold and wet splashing on my leg.
“Oh shit! I’m sorry!” I turn to my right, there’s a great big guy about one-and-a-half times the size of a regular person, with curly blond hair and giant rubber monster hands, standing there grinning apologetically. “Gravity!” he calls out. “It’s particularly strong over here I think!” I look down, there’s an empty beer glass tipped over on its side, pouring out around my flip-flops.
“It’s okay,” I call back.
“No one likes beer-feet! Let me get something to dry you off at least.” The guy takes one of my hands in his monster hand and drags me toward the bar. I turn back to look at Sean, but the spot he was standing in just seconds ago is now empty.
“Hey, Eddie! Big clumsy idiot over here spilled all over this girl! Hook me up with some napkins!”
The bartender smirks as he pours two different bottles simultaneously into a glass. “Spilling on a girl so you get to mop her? Oldest trick in the book!” He turns toward me. “Watch out for Danny over here!”
The bartender hands Danny a big stack of napkins which Danny promptly hands to me. “Lest you think I am not a gentleman, I will not attempt to dry you.”
I bend over and dry myself off, and when I stand back up, Danny is still there smiling.
“I swear I didn’t spill on you on purpose just so I’d get to talk to you,” Danny says. “But if I’d seen you before I spilled…I might have!”
“Thanks?” I say. “I think?” Danny’s smiling a big goofy grin, more funny than flirty. I crane my neck looking for Sean again. Where is he?
“Shall we dance?” Danny says. He sticks out his hand.
I keep looking around. No Sean. I feel a stab of disappointment. But then remind myself of that thing I seem to keep having occasion to need to remember—I’m not here for Sean, I’m here for Nina. He’s not my boyfriend, he’s just a friend, and we were drunk, and it didn’t mean anything, so if Sean wants to go off and do whatever else with whoever else, well that is not my concern, that’s his business…now if only I could really believe this.