Part 1 : Smoke, Spit, and Future Concert Hits from 1994

I'm taking a trip back with a tale loosely based on true events about smoke, spit, and future concert hits from 1994. If you want to read, read on, my friend...read on...

In 1994, a time before ubiquitous cell phones, the internet a mere blip, a nascent of technology on the verge of exploding into the world and changing everything. My horror writing journey was in its genesis. I was an awkward, tall, what I considered "fat" guy, an avid reader buying up every new King release and exchanging Koontz paperbacks with family members. I was inexperienced in a lot of aspects both in the writing arena and life skills. My life was an open giant conundrum at times, a confusing crossroads where I didn't know if I was coming, going, or the world had me by the balls and I was ignorantly following the path of every other young person. I was direction-less, in the sense of which career choices to make. I had a good paying job, yes, but as far as where I wanted my life to be was a mystery. My imagination, like an everlasting gobstopper never reaching its soft center, wasn't too helpful for career moves.

Being a homeowner was on the horizon. During the winter, prior to delving into homeownership and a mortgage, I heard about a concert from my favorite band, Metallica. Maria, being the good future wife she was, encouraged me to go get tickets. In the nineties you didn't sit on the couch, or the edge of your bed, holding your smart phone, waiting in a proverbial queue. You journeyed to the Harmony House at the north end of town and waited in a line from midnight onwards into the wee hours of the morning, or until they opened their front doors. My sister Danielle agreed to go with me.

It was a fucking cold winter night as I pulled up to the music store. One of those midwestern nights where plumes of smoke, could be seen coming out of everyone's fucking mouths, smoking cigarettes or not. I parked my red Cherokee Sport and we hopped out into line. We had never done this before, so were in awe of the entire late night process and the menagerie that surrounded us. There were about thirty people in line, more came piling in behind us later. Mullets were dominant, as well as plaid shirts instead of winter coats. A sea of short hair in front, party in the back, everywhere the eyes could gander. You could hear music playing loudly, older Metallica as well as new stuff from someone in line. People were sipping on booze, smoking weed, and I thought in my naive brain that we were already at a fucking concert, but alas, we were not.

Danielle stared at the people as if she were looking into a pool of piranhas that would strike at any minute, clearly out of her comfort zone. Each long hour passed and the crowd grew louder, drunker, higher, and just more stupid. I looked blankly at them, somewhat enthralled by their ignorance, the scene growing mundane until it wasn't. I saw one jean jacket wearing fool run through the parking lot and strip off his clothes. His pale white skin glimmered against the blacktop parking lot, his ass a full moon for the crowd to see. Everyone laughed hysterically. I watched as a truck pulled into the parking lot. The driver held brakes down and pressed the gas pedal, spinning his tires. Smoke from the rubber filled everyone's noses and the crowd cheered for the asshat.

Danielle looked away, and I stood stupidly like the scene was blood and I a vampire, not able to get my fill. From the front of the line a balding tall man with large pointy eyes, appeared; a smile spread comfortably across his jaw and disappeared up into his ears. The man grunted, an animal grunt, walking toward the stopped truck. His bald head was smudged with bad tattoos, that looked more like bruises, as if he had made bad decisions in his younger years or age had got the best of the ink. I couldn't pin point how old he was as I gaped at his giant size, he towered over my six foot five stature. He smirked flashing a mouth full of yellowing, chiclet-square teeth, some filed down to points, as if he wanted to be a blood sucker for the movies. He strutted to the truck's driver and grunted. The driver, a clean shaven man with a "Don't Tread on Me" snake tattoo on his neck, pointed a thumb to the tailgate.

"I be drinkin'." The bruised bald man said.

"Just get fuckin' on! Let's do some surfin'!" The driver slurred.

The giant stepped on the open tailgate and the driver held the brake again, power braking, as the tires spun crazily, plumes of black smoke and rubber filled the cold air. As the bald man stood on the tailgate, and before he got his footing, the driver spun out of control. The tall bag of bones flipped off the tailgate and landed on his back. I heard the THWACK! as his head hit the hard surface! His head bled profusely. The crowd cackled and cheered as if they were watching the finale of a three ring circus. The tall man brushed himself off and stood up, blood soaking the tattered Metallica shirt he wore. He sneered at the crowd, smiled and wobbled to the truck's passenger side.

"You'll get the tickets, right Brad?" The driver yelled out the door at a dirty wide eyed man puffing on a roach.

I assumed the man giving a thumbs up with an almost toothless grin, was Brad. The truck sped off and the two in the cab cackled before burning rubber out of the parking lot. I was getting tired, and Danielle was continuing to not make eye contact with the rest of the ticket tribe.

The night dragged until I saw two employees enter the side doors. The fluorescent lights inside could almost be heard clicking to life through the thick panes of glass. Finally the doors opened and everyone walked in, one by one. We walked up to the counter, said how many tickets and the printer spit them out. They were $22.50 a piece, for lawn seats, and I couldn't wait for the beginning of summer to see the band I've dreamt about performing live for many years.

Little did I know, it wouldn't be the last time I'd see the bruised head of the deranged tall man. He would make another appearance in my life, but I had tickets and couldn't read the future, so I didn't give a fuck.

Part II, coming next Tuesday, if I don't chicken out, procrastinate or end up lost in the woods. as always, thanks for stopping by!

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Tim Eagle

Tim Eagle is an author of the novellas Stolen Seed, Life Ship, and the Vasectomus Collection. He lives full time, on the road, with his wife, Maria and their dog, Cocoa. He grew up in Michigan and is inspired by the dysfunction of America. His books are available on Amazon, godless and this site timeaglefiction.com 

Mullets, Metallica and Concert Tickets, circa 1994