Going to a Show Tonight

by Bruce Buchanan

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The words once meant magic. But middle-age reality overwhelms 1993’s exuberance. Parking costs too much, and the walk to the amphitheatre is too long. My knees already throb, and the opening act hasn’t even started.

The first time I saw the headliner, I was younger than my kids are now. Our dorm rooms resonated with that jangle pop sound; Gen X anthems that we are loath to let go.

My college buddies, faces now framed by crow’s feet and smile lines, amble to their seats and greet me with hugs. We brag about children, complain about work. But inevitably, the talk shifts to memories. Some funny, some painful. All indelible.

The stories mingle in the sticky, buggy evening air. Remember the guy who ate peanut butter with his fingers? And the girl who crank called us at 3 a.m.? She’s a lawyer out west now – we trade Facebook messages every so often.

Memories bridge the transition into night. The lights fade with the ache in my knees. Practised fingers strum a Rickenbacker and sounds unused in years rumble from my throat. Spotlights spill colour over the stage.

And it is 1993 again.