It’s seven thirty in the morning. The air is cold, it smells like back to school. I’m old enough to wait for the school bus in my little suburb, but I’m in front of the Métropolis. I’m wearing a blue dress with green tights. For the occasion, I’ve put on makeup: eye shadow, lipstick, and foundation. I stole my mother’s makeup. I’m waiting to go see a Rob Zombie concert. I want to keep busy, but I don’t have a cell phone. At this time of year, I only have a pager. I get calls from my parents on my pager and I have to find a phone to call them. My parents read very little, but I brought some reading material: a novel by Janette Bertrand and a 7 days. I meticulously read all the articles in the magazine, I eat the sandwiches at baloney that I made before I left home. Two o’clock in the afternoon. Shit, that’s a long time. I have some pocket money that I put in an old purse of my grandmother’s. I go to a convenience store and buy a big bag of chips. I check the beer fridge. I get two big pints of Wildcat and don’t get carter. I drink one quickly in the toilets of a fast food restaurant. I drag the other one in a plastic bag and go back to the queue: it’s five o’clock and there’s still no one there. I open the book by Janette Bertrand and read random sentences. I burp, I laugh to myself. People start to line up behind me. They’re mostly goths and punks. Next to them, I look like a clown with my handbag and my book by Janette Bertrand. I’ve arranged it like this for John 5 and I hope with all my heart to attract his attention. The sun is starting to set, my hands are frozen. At the same time, the doors of the Metropolis open and it’s a relief. The man who tears up my ticket tells me that I can’t come in with my big beer and my book. What do you have against Janette Bertrand, poor guy? I put it all on the ground. I run to the stage and reach the barrier. I realize that I am very drunk. I am happy, this is the best day of my life. A crowd quickly gathers behind me. I am pushed. I cling to the barrier with all my strength. I feel like I am floating as if I were in the open sea. It is a human tide that makes me move from right to left. A technician arrives on stage and begins to adjust the guitars. At the same time, I feel an urgent need to urinate rising in me. Oh no. If I leave my place, I will never be able to go back to the front. This idea is unbearable to me. If I leave now and watch Rob Zombie from the balcony, it will be the failure of a life. I decide to pee in front of me, through the fence of the barrier. No one will know. I urinate a lot, and for a long time, too long. A security guard sees me and shines his flashlight on me. He crosses the barrier, takes me out of the room by the arm. It’s ten o’clock. I haven’t heard a note of music. I’m outside, in my dress, and I’m looking at the moon. I see that no one has touched my pin and my book. I take my big beer, open it and drink half of it. Okay, think about it. As I dig through my purse, I count my money: sixty dollars and twenty-two cents. All the stores are closed at this time. I go to the restaurant’s bathroom and take off my makeup. I tell the people in the restaurant that I need a pair of pants: I’m willing to pay top dollar. A man asks me to follow him. I follow him to his car. He opens the trunk, rummages around and takes out a pair of jeans. He gives me two hundred dollars for them. I only have sixty dollars on me. He puts the jeans back in his car and closes the trunk. I say: ” Come on, manI really need your pants.” He leaves. I take off my dress. I’m wearing a white sweater and gray underwear. I manage to get back into the Metropolis. The room is packed. Through the hubbub of the crowd, I hear: ” He’s still here. » Two security guards grab me by the biceps. I no longer touch the ground, no, I float. The sensation is not unpleasant. I would take a nap like that. I find myself again in the street in a sweater and underpants. Janette Bertrand’s book has not moved, it is there, near one of the doors of the Metropolis. In the taxi, I cry with my book in my hands. The driver thinks I am young, he feels sorry for me. He asks me what happened. I answer him, with tears in my eyes, that I have not managed to find any pants.
This text is part of our Opinion section, which promotes a plurality of voices and ideas. It is a column and, as such, it reflects the values and position of its author and not necessarily those of the Duty.
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