A Destructive Piece of a Moshing Puzzle

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I will clue you in on my physical appearance a bit, since I realize its not clear through writing how small I actually am. I stand just a fraction lower than 59 inches above the ground. That’s roughly 4’10” and a half. I have never weighed more than 130 pounds at my heaviest (mind you, there isn’t much room to distribute that weight). So, for a girl of my stature to partake in activities such as “moshing” is rather ill advised.

Nonetheless, it was my favorite form of dancing for a long time. The reign of terror ended when I was nearly crushed at an ADTR show. I was at least 20 years old by the time I realized I was going to die in a mosh pit if I didn’t start acting my age. So I haven’t yet put myself back into pits of danger, nor do I plan on it. On the contrary, during the dark ages, I was very much interested in partaking in some random stranger beat-downs. It was exhilarating getting in fights with strangers for no reason. I would run around and flail my limbs and lose control of my body, letting the crowd dictate my movements. This is, of course, the reason I have had multiple concert-related injuries. It is also the reason I met my horrid ex-boyfriend.

You see, I used to go to every concert I could get to. It hardly mattered who was playing. I would pay more to see bands I liked, but I would go to a show for some no-name band I never heard of just as fast. That’s where I found myself this particular evening. To be honest, it wasn’t much of a concert. It was actually pretty lame, yet fitting for a band that proudly dubbed itself “Lame Excuse.” I was mostly there because my best friend had decided that the lead singer would be her new romantic interest. If it had been a bigger show, I might actually have been dancing around, myself, but the overall lack of excitement left me standing in the back: idle.

The music roared on and I stood in the front of the vacant storefront in Cambridge. We were in a totally hipster part of town, not too far from Harvard Square (home of the hipsters). The band was either renting the space for the night, or maybe they just “borrowed” it thanks to a clever locksmith. Either way, I was trying to enjoy the music when it hit me.

The mosh pit, that is. The slew of teenage and young adult boys came flying at me, head on. Before I could react, I was on the ground, having been sent right through the top of a wooden table. I was uninjured, but certainly not unharmed. The pain was real, nothing was broken, but I was a bit winded. I could hardly orient myself well enough to stand, when a somewhat familiar face emerged from the crowd, offering a helping hand.

The boy flung me over his shoulder and carried me through the crowd and out the door. He flopped me down on the sidewalk and presumably asked, “why didn’t you tell me you’d be here?”

“I didn’t think it mattered,” I replied.

“Well, its nice to see you, either way.” He charmed.

“There are better ways to get a girl’s attention than pummeling her with a mosh pit, you know,” I responded, irritated.

“But how else would I get to play the hero here?” He asked with a smirk on his face.

I was mildly unimpressed. My friend was alone somewhere inside; I was on my feet as soon as I realized. Rule #1 of concert going: don’t lose your concert buddy. I was readying to spring into action when he pulled on my arm to remind me we were mid-conversation.

“I have to go. Sorry. Caitlin is in there. Alone.” I insisted.

“She’s a big girl, she can take care of herself.” He remarked.

“That’s not the point.” I said, visibly annoyed.

I rejoined my friend inside who had hardly noticed my fall. She was very busy ogling the lead singer as he screamed unidentifiable nothings into the microphone.

“Where did you go?” she screamed.

“Through that table,” I responded, matter-of-factly.

“Ouch. You good?”

“Yup. You-know-who came to the rescue.”

“Fucking loser, ha!”

“Yeah, he tried to be cute.”

“Fat chance.”

“Low blow, dude.”

The show was over. The band ran out of songs. The crowd ran out of energy. We dispersed outside.

My friend lingered with the singer, practically biting his ear. No, definitely actually biting his ear. They’re not modest people, but I know she’s a good one. Him? He’s probably scum. I forget.

This time, when he approached me, I was ready for him. “So, did you know we would both be here?”

“No…” he answered, innocently, adding, “…but I’m glad you are.”

“Oh, stop it, with your… whatever the fuck…” I mumbled, shy and awkward.

“Are you alright? You took quite the tumble in there.” he asked, genuinely concerned.

“Yeah, I’ve taken worse,” I admitted, ever so vaguely.

“Well, you got a ride home?”

“Yeah… I think so, anyway,” I said, looking over my shoulder at my friend, still chewing away at the singer who was so blatantly ignoring her.

“Well, I’m gonna call you later,” he informed me, as if I didn’t already know this.

[Side note: You see, he and I had never met before this. We had, however, spoken for countless hours both on the phone and over the internet. Our soon to be relationship had somehow developed, without us having spent any time together.]

I turned and walked toward my friend, grabbing her arm as we drifted off into the back roads to find her mother who would be waiting for us where she dropped us off. We spotted the car a block away and ran to save seconds.

We hopped in and went right home. When I got there, nothing was out of the ordinary. Nothing was there, at all, really. I scurried up to my room on the highest floor in the tallest tower where I would await my prince, for he would save me.

And then, like clock work, the phone rang.

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