Humid air against my skin as more and more people trickle through the entrance. I stare at the door guy with envy as a continuous cool breeze musses his hair. I want to be his hair. I look out the tall windows of The Percolator, and I feel like a fish in a fishbowl of sticky people and perfume mingled with the sweet scent of sweat. Outside I see a group of people smoking, talking, watching, as a slew of instruments and sound equipment makes way between the guy with Buddy Holly glasses and giggling girls in ballet flats.
Although I'm at the very back we talk, my friends and I, that we have secured the best location. There is an invisible line between the seated and the standing, our tall stools keep us at the same height of the standies, but much more comfortable and not sardined against the other moist people inside. I listen to the chatter as people walk by.
"Is this seat taken?" "I think its Johnny Costello then Mexicans at Night, then Jim Ward, I think..."
"Thanks for coming" "I'm gonna go smoke."
"You know this thing doesn't start till 10 right?"
"Where yo man at?" "Do you need anything?"
"Do you need another beer?" "Who was that again?"
"It's so hot in here!" "I"m gonna get more wine." "He's got a good voice right?
"Who is that again?"
A loud cacophony of voices intermingling into one another. The first band, Johnny Costello, has already played and like any intermission people brace themselves for the glide towards the line for another cold one to quench their thirst. People talk about their set and his voice. I hear the words soulful and bluesy used. I think of a warm blanket even in this heat. I see the Mexicans setting up, until a tall guy with a ponytail stands in front of me and blocks my view. So much for invisible lines. The music starts and I look at my friends to see them nodding their heads in unison. I look at the crowd and see tops of their heads and bodies shimming to beat of the song. Moist silhouettes dancing and moving to notes being strummed and drummed.
"They're really good," my friend yells in my ear and I nod a yes, my head still moving with the beat.
We stand on the rungs of our chairs to see over the crowd of bobbing people. The more people dance the hotter it gets in the room. The slicker my skin feels. The slicker the people around me look, but I still move, they still move, and step and yell out "Otra! Orta!" when they play their last song.
"Do you think they'll play another?"
I shrug my shoulders and try to see over the crowd. I see the drummer not just the top of his head now, but his face, as he talks to the bassist and gestures with the drumstick in his hand, the masked singer holding a pink guitar starts to move off stage. I look back over and shake my head.
"Maybe next time."