Part Two

The Masquerade, how can I explain the Masquerade? Well, it's a club in Atlanta, I can say that. It's a fairly small wooden building that used to be a mill or something. It has three levels: Heaven, Hell, and Purgatory. Sometimes, three different bands will be playing at the same time, one for each area. That's the way it is tonight. There's a big parking lot right next door for all us car-happy Atlantans to station our vehicles in for the time being, but tonight they charged me five dollars just to park.

I'm not a really big fan of punk anymore. I used to be a few years ago. Now I like mostly the stuff they play on Dave FM—older rock songs (from the 70s, 80s, and 90s), though I'm really digging Gnarls Barkley's song "Crazy". But Sarah is still really into the punk scene and she doesn't have a car yet, so here I am. We waited in line to get in the venue next to a young couple that was furiously making out. It was nasty to witness because there was slobber and tongues and I really wanted to puke. Plus, the guy had those washer things in his ears that widen your earlobes. Those are the epitome of disgusting. I could feel the bile rising in my throat, so I turned to Sarah and tried to block out the noise of the couple.

The noise hit me the moment we entered the venue, as well as the temperature. Sarah was dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, and I already described my outfit, so we were adequately prepared for the obvious lack of a heating system, but some people were shivering as they entered.

"WHERE SHOULD WE GO?" I screamed to Sarah.

"HEAVEN," Sarah replied. "THE TRAP IS GOING TO PLAY UP THERE, I THINK. I DON'T KNOW WHEN." I nodded, only comprehending the word "Heaven", as I followed Sarah up a flight of creaky wooden stairs, feeling afraid that they would break. Heaven was only about as big as a large classroom, with a stage on one end and a little bar on the other that served water and a bevy of alcoholic drinks. It stank of cigarettes. Right now, a young man with an asymmetrical haircut was screaming incoherently into a microphone while a guitarist played the same chord over and over and the drummer was apparently playing Whack-a-Mole with his set.

Sarah peered at a schedule of bands printed on bright pink paper, running her finger over the band names until she settled on The Trap. That band, however, was listed as playing at Hell in a matter of mere minutes. I read Sarah's lips as she cursed before coming to my side.

"MARIE! THEY'RE PLAYING IN HELL IN A FEW MINUTES AND MY MAKEUP ISN'T READY." What is she talking about? It was fine! Oh, wait, she wants to impress The Trap's vocalist because she has this big thing for him. "COME WITH ME." She took my arm and led me down those rickety stairs, turning and leading me into the women's room. There was a woman who looked like Courtney Love applying bright red lipstick at one of the dirty mirrors, shifting under the binding of her corset. I've never understood corsets. As a feminist, I think they're just another way of subjugating women. Think about it! If your anatomy is all ruined, is that not subjugation?

Sarah stationed herself at the next mirror, opened her purse, and brought out tubes and bottles of various makeup products. She started to furiously touch up her already immaculate face while I picked at my cuticles and hummed "Crazy" to myself. When Sarah had finally primped herself to an acceptable point, she threw her stuff back in her purse, looked at her watch, and fluffed her hair out before leaving the restroom. Of course, I followed, though I was already feeling tired and really wanted to go home, sit in my comfortable bed, and watch V for Vendetta again.

Alas, I followed Sarah down to Hell, which also had a stage and a bar. There were a few clusters of people hanging around because it was that time between one band and another, when people on stage move equipment around and perhaps do microphone checks. Hell, too, stank of cigarettes. Plus, there was another couple making out near me. The girl was shoved up against the wall, making noises of approval as her inept boyfriend shoved his tongue down her throat. This is not my night.

I sat down Lotus-style and put my backpack down in front of me so nobody could see up my skirt, opening it up and digging around for my bag of Goldfish. As I dug, my hands ran up against something soft and silky. I looked in my bag and remembered that I had my Halloween costume still in my backpack. That day, I wore a cool feathered, sequined Mardi Gras mask and a big black cape over my normal clothing. I even wore it to school, though I was one of the very few that even bothered with dressing up at all (Sarah was absent that day with a cold, I know she would have dressed up too). Some people are just no fun at all.

I found the Goldfish right as The Trap took the stage, fronted by your typical punk boy—super thin (needs to eat some meat, if you ask me), snarling, bleachy-haired, eyeliner-wearing, torn-shirt, torn-pants, torn-boots, torn-up voice, you get the picture. I think he looks a little like a bum; Sarah, on the other hand, has been having dreams about him since she last saw him at Warped Tour in July. She has told me, in detail, about some of these dreams, and all I have to say is My God does that woman have one dirty mind.

Sarah squealed when the first note was played and scrambled to get right up front, which isn't that hard to do at an event like this. Now, at a concert with a big-name artist like, say, Gnarls Barkley, it would be impossible to get up front. I hate it up front. The moshing that people do makes me sick, plus I've been hit in the face before by some jerk that was crowd-surfing and started moving his feet around whilst doing so, so I pretty much hate it up front. I decided, for the time being, to stand off to the side and munch on some Goldfish.

Mmm, Goldfish.