500 Words Before Bedtime: Year 4, Day 23, Metallica, Sort Of

500 Words Before Bedtime: Year 4, Day 23, Metallica, Sort of

So the whole thing with the Metallica concert is that it’s not even a good story. In fact, I *barely* remember it. I’m pretty sure it happened sometime in late high school or early college — so, late 1990s — and I’m pretty sure it only happened because a) I had a car and b) Anton couldn’t get anyone else to go with him.

Anton was a friend from church. He’s even on Facebook and could possibly be reading this post. Hi, Anton! 

When we weren’t in church, he and I spent a fair amount of time skipping school together. The Pittsburgh Public Schools of the late ‘90s had much bigger fish to fry than two quiet white kids who occasionally didn’t show up. So Anton and I, after coordinating by phone the night before, would leave our homes as usual, and then, instead of heading to school, would hop on a city bus and rendezvous at a pre-determined location downtown. Sometimes Anton brought cigarettes he bought from the shady guy who owned the corner store. 

Frankly, adolescence was much more clandestine and cool before cell phones. Nowadays your parents would just track you the whole way on their weird parental stalking apps and the jig would be up before you made the wrong turn out the front door. And can you imagine a shady guy selling cigarettes to a 14 year old?  A school just *never calling* when you didn’t show up? What do they do now? Issue automatic Amber alerts? Send out the drones? I can’t begin to imagine. But as God as my witness, our parents did not hear word one about our truancy. Not a single time. What marvelous, good old days! 

As an aside, I once told my college students to turn those tracking apps off. They looked at me in horror. I said, “NO. Look, you are 20 and 21 years old. You are grown adults. Your parents *do not need to know* when you leave your chemistry class to go to the bathroom.” I couldn’t convince a one of ‘em that it was true. But I stand by it. Mom and Dad will be ok without up to the minute updates on your trip to Tasty Freeze. 

But I digress. I’m talking about Metallica. Some summer, at some point, Anton convinced me to go with him to this concert. He may have even bought my ticket. Did I pay for my own ticket? Surely not…would I have done that? I don’t know. Possibly I did? I hope not. 

Here’s what I remember: It was loud. It was extremely loud. I remember parking in the grass and wending our way past Porta-Potties through thickets of the very drunk and very high, to stand quite close to the stage, where it was extremely loud.

I lasted about ten minutes before saying, “ANTON!!!! ANTON!!! HEY! I’LL MEET YOU BACK AT THE CAR WHEN IT’S OVER!!!!” Then I wended my way back through the thickets of inebriation, past the Porta-Potties to a place where it was quieter. Eventually, the Metallica concert was over, and I never had to go to a Metallica concert again.

The End!