Judith (1) is written by Alicia E. Goranson and read by Dee Arbacauskas.
Transcript:
[Read as Judith] I have always been a terrible musician. I blame it on my terrible taste in music. My latest obsession is Taylor Swift, from albums sent to me on burned Compact Discs from Esther. I hate how music has disappeared from people’s homes. Records were fine, as were cassettes and Compact Discs but then music you owned yourself vanished. You needed a phone to beg a company somewhere to send you a cut-down version of a song and my ears are very sensitive. A whole society lost control of its music and I have to beg Esther for any pop artists with music made after 2008.
I used to be in more music scenes, always in the back row of Joan Jett and the Blackhearts, or the Ramones, or the Cars (I hate the Cars) in some punk club. Music was accessible then. Today, I hang out in the rafters or VIP boxes of Sodo clubs to hear what the kids are into these days, and I can’t handle all 100 of the gecs, no matter how many mushrooms I hand out to the kids around me.
Then Esther tells me that Taylor Swift is coming to Seattle. In person. At one of the stadiums, the one to the south, whatever company has branded it now. I am not known for my squeals. If anything, I’m known for causing them, both pleasurable and otherwise, but Swift’s arrival is enough to have me emit my own. Of course, long gone were the days when I could pay anyone to stand in line for tickets, and they sell out online in seconds. And I quickly determine that none of the scalpers had tickets for the VIP box seats in which I need to hide. Esther informs me I need to suck it up and talk to someone who can help. The worst person who I never want to speak to without my full compliment of bruisers ready to throw down.
Lorea agrees to meet me and yes, she has VIP box seat tickets for Swift. We meet in a small bar by the waterfront, that we break into after hours. Lorea thinks she is being clever by arriving an hour early but I have already been there for two. I will not be stood up. Everything is a power play. Lorea pours herself a shot of something and offers to get me a drink, but no, I had two hours to myself and emptied the bar of my favorite cocktails. I’m good.
We get down to business. I can sneak into Lorea’s private box at the stadium, provided I stand for the entire concert. The terms are not negotiable. If I can grow mushrooms in my belly, I have the patience to stand that long.
I retorts that I will stand provided that Lorea lets Esther come in tow. And that Lorea provides refreshments. In return, I agree to look away exactly once the next time Lorea tries to smuggle in something for which Aaralyn would typically demand a tax. Usually drugs.
The night of the show, the Link is packed. The roads are packed. The parking garages are packed. People are renting out their apartments’ driveways as parking. The streets are packed with Swifties and T-shirt salespeople. The turnstiles are packed. I am very good at sneaking but the stadium has nowhere to hide. I cover myself in a hoodie and face mask, and grudgingly join the crowd, having no idea how to reach Lorea’s VIP box otherwise. I will suffer for Swift, and then, who knows who will suffer for me.
-END-
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