It was a hot, sticky, stinky summer night… one of those really, really hot nights where you can’t sleep, even with the fan on. There was no air-con at my parents’ house, which was miles away from the city anyway but still, living by the river only meant a different kind of heat. A crickets and mosquitoes heat. No relief for restless bodies.
In the city, I was mosying on over to yet another Rialto gig. A band called Lizard were playing. My friend Adam, who I very much fancied, had put me on the guest list. Adam was the bassist of this outfit and very much into Ayn Rand and having arguments with me over coffee. I adored the guy. Plus he was hot. Very hot. But as per usual I did fock all about it because I was fat. Too fat to be a punk rock chick. Most punk rock girls were rail-thin. Even at the very edge of fringe culture, I was still not belonging. But I didn’t care. I loved the music so I went to as many gigs as I could.
I got there and I went right up to the front. Big and tall as I was, I always went to the front/ I never understood why some people hung back at a gig. Or sat at the back of a movie. I wanted the full blast of sound. I wanted to feel the drops of sweat from the singer, stare at the fingers plucking and strumming over guitars, watch every expression. But mostly, it was about the press of bodies. I wanted to melt my huge frame away in the frame. I wanted to be anonymous. Another face in the crowd, no one taking notice of me.
Of course, everyone takes notice of you when you’re in the pit. Especially if you’re a woman but there were Rules. If someone fell in front of you, you bent over and helped them up quickly. If someone wanted to crowd-surf, you gave them a leg up and helped the, around. Seeing as 99% of these pits were male, there was a strange, violent but utterly intoxicating solidarity about it. The ebb and flow of bodies was like swimming in the sea. Everyone tacitly respected each other’s limits.
Well, most people.
There’s always one in the crowd. Usually a little guy. Usually so shit-faced he can’t tell his arsehole from breaktime. There’s always the damned bottle covey who pushes you and tries to goad you into pushing him back harder. A real masochist and utter bastard. And I was the target this time, from the little guy. Long, greasy, straggly dark hair, 70s prog rock facial beard, rat-like features and skinny little body. A good 4 inches shorter and looked like he weighed as much as a photograph of himself. As French as poutine-galvaude.
Smash. Slam. Poke. Prod.
“Arrete!”
Smash. Slam. Poke. Prod. Right in the kidneys this time.
“Estie tabarnac! Arrete!”
Poke. Poke. Prod. The little asshole was grinning. I’d had enough. I whipped around and grabbed him bodily and threw him clear across the pit. Hair flying. The bouncers were cheering. Poutine-galvaude was known to them for the same airplane-seat-kicker tactic. The band finished their set. PG comes up to me after the gig.
“Hey… ah… what’s your name? Wanna go out some time?” Big huge grin.
“Get the fock away from me!”
A week later, I’m walking down Ste-Catherine. Gumby, my fuck buddy/fellow stoner sees me on the street and laughs.
“There she is!”
“What the fock?”
“I’m just back from seeing the Lizard video! I saw you throw that guy across the pit. You are so focking sexy when you’re mad!”
“I was FILMED?”
“Yeah! So hot!”
Thank fock there was no Instagram then!
pulpefriction 