Grow

I hear a faint ringing. It’s still there form a few nights ago. I remember the concert. Taking a high school friend I liked, Jen, to go see a Spanish synthpop band in a venue whose sole distinguishing factors were the cramped quarters and the emptied cans and sticky residue of Pabst Blue Ribbon on the floor. The wall of sound, the thick Spanish accent of the singer being overwhelmed by the lush, decadent instrumentation, sounded like 90’s club music with an 80’s alt-rock band thrown in for good measure. Layer after layer of synthesizer being added as songs went on, made it feel like those songs could go on infinitely. Dancing, strobe lights, waves of people, plaid shirts or not, jumping to the beat of the drum machine. We left very satisfied and excited and soon realized that we could barely hear each other speak. That post-concert ear ringing, more of a combination of high-pitch noise and a whoosh that stays stuck in your head after one too many hours standing next to the speakers. We laughed about it, holding each other up by arm as we walked back to th—

“Dude, dunk your nuts in that shit.”

Startled, I stop intensely staring at the salt shaker I was involuntarily handling and put it down. Steve, whose bearded face and gruff demeanor paralleled his speech pattern, spoke up. Pete sat there, laughing at the comment as he chowed down on his kebab sandwich. We were at Moby Dick House of Kebab. It was near closing time, so the place was, for the most part, empty. I realize that we were all talking… or something. “Uh, excuse me?”

“The hipster chick?”

“Uh… Jen or Sara?”

“Whoever was with us when we were at the pizza joint the other night.”

“Sara. She’s not a hipster. She listens to fucking Ricky Martin for god’s sake. Anyways, she has a boyfriend, remember? I’d rather not go around and try to compromise that by messing around with her anything…” Furrowed eyebrows glared at me. I remember talking to him about this before. Dammit. “…more than I already have already. Dammit dude, I’m not evil!”

“Stop being a pussy, man. He live around here?”

“…think he goes to JMU—“

“Then hit that shit like… like... like Chris Brown!” Pete and I cringe. He’s not very good with the similes.

“Oh, come on dude. What about Lisa, huh? Don’t tell me that didn’t suck completely. Especially her with that jackass.” For a split second, he held a sullen expression that betrayed his entire persona.

“Dude, that ogre? I can’t believe I actually tapped that! Or that anyone else would.” A wide smile on his face. He was back to normal.

“Well, whatever. I seriously can’t see myself with her anyways. We don’t exactly have much in common, and the 80’s pop star fascination and refusal to take anything seriously is… well, kind of a dealbreaker.” I tried to list the exact opposite traits Jen had to get Steve’s sometimes simplistically boorish sense of the world from intruding on my life once. I wonder if he ever plans to grow up.

Pete chimes in after finishing his sandwich in a sing-song voice “Fuck buddieeeees!”

Oh, Pete. “I fucking hate you. So anyways, I dunno. I want something to actually last this time? With someone I can actually envision myself being around on a regular basis.”

Steve, still laughing from Pete’s , picks up a doogh from the drink fridge, pays the cashier, and sits himself back down, chugging it down. That damn thing tastes like a watered down bottle of carbonated salty yogurt. Which it is. I never did understand why he always gets that when we’re here. He continues. “Anyways, I should call back that chick I met at that pizza place. Total freak, but man…”

“Weren’t you dating Mallorie?”

“Yeah, she’s all the way in Oregon now though. We decided to take a break. I’ll see her in December though, maybe get it on with her.

“Wait. Isn’t she Mormon?”

“Not like that’s gonna stop me from trying. Anyways, we gotta go. This place is about to close and Pete needs to get home. His parents are bitching about him getting home early tonight. And every fucking night from now on. Asshole.”

Pete speaks up. “Hey! Not my fault.”

“You’re the one who crashed their fucking car, retard.”

We walk back to Steve’s car, dropping off Pete before eventually driving me back, with little interesting occurring in between the few hours. I immediately head towards my bed and fell face first on the mattress. I have to close my ears now to hear the ringing again. It was starting to grow faint, as it usually does after a fairly long while. I might as well appreciate that haze of excitement, the energy that I associated with, absurdly enough, temporary hearing damage. It, after all, might not last.