Inside My Head

the literary rantings of Angie Frissore

Night of the Screamer

When I met The Screamer, I knew nothing of who he supposedly was. In fact, I’m fairly certain didn’t care given the multitude of other issues I had going on at the time. The only reason I was even out that night was again, a mere attempt to distract my downtrodden-but-not-quite-heartbroken self and try to just have some fun.

The night had been an all too familiar scene for me…I was one of very few women there, to start with, so upon walking into the gallery I was met with the leering stares of the scattered men in attendance. The Screamer was one of them. But he was a friend of Jeff’s, and someone I had heard enough about to render him non-sketchy and worth sharing some drinks and laughs with.

The Screamer was quite a flirt, and at several points throughout the evening I caught myself digging the attention I was getting. Romantically speaking, I was at that somewhat vulnerable place where one needs to feel that they have maintained a level of animalistic attraction despite having had someone do an Aztec two step on your psyche. It did not matter to me that I really didn’t care to pursue this little flirtatious adventure after that evening, I was just happy to have that “still got it” feeling and used the opportunity to fine-tune my feminine prowess.

The night’s inebriated adventures soon morphed into a field trip from the gallery to a seedy club on Belmont to see some thrash band that The Screamer knew. As I stumbled down the sidewalk, trying to keep up with Jeff and The Screamer in my four inch heels (which were slipping against my now sweat-drenched feet), I suddenly caught a glimpse of what I was in for and looked at Jeff nervously. If there was ever a scene that was clearly not mine, we had stumbled upon it. Hordes of heavily-eye-lined, leather-clad girls were milling about outside the club, smoking cigarettes and trying to look as cool and tough as they could (apparently the show was all-ages).

The arrival of The Screamer caused quite a commotion, to which I had to stifle a chuckle. I was glad to have grown well out of the “I think you’re hot just because you’re in a band I know” mentality that was obviously plaguing these girls who were now swarming him. I was losing my buzz, and could barely keep my jeans up due to the massive amount of sweat now soaking them. I could think of at least 37 other places I would have rather been at that moment than standing on Belmont Street surrounded by a bunch of morbid-cool teeny boppers who thought they were badasses.

We lingered outside for a moment, due largely in part to the oppressive humidity and certain kiln-like temperatures inside the club (I had overheard a rather large, somewhat scary individual ranting about the lack of air conditioning as he exited the club). Within minutes, we lost The Screamer to the crowd of metal chicks (who were so concerned with maintaining their image that they didn’t seem to care that each one had thick black eyeliner melting down their faces). Upon the realization that The Screamer was indeed not coming back for us, I stepped off the curb and hailed a cab for Jeff and me and headed back to my place for some much-needed air conditioning.

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October 23, 2008 - Posted by | No Messages - Excerpts from the Draft | , ,

1 Comment »

  1. I really like the names The Screamer, The Southern Man. I dig this one.

    Comment by Mike | October 25, 2008 | Reply


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