A Bit Solicited...

As he pointed to me, another large man pulled me onstage. I was given an instrument and, wide-eyed, shown how to play.

Hartford, Connecticut. A sophomore in high school. A famous band.

I had snuck a poster into the concert hall, folding it and wrapping it underneath my little black skirt, making it stiff and stick out. I got it through and made my way with my two best friends to the ground level of the concert arena.

Our tickets? For the nosebleeds. But we were determined to get as close to the sweaty rock stars and as deep into the energized crowd as we could. I went first. In my lime green Converse sneakers, falling apart, and my black-and-red outfit (complete with feminine tie), I scurried my way past a trio of security guards. They did not like this very much, and as I looked back, my stiff skirt protesting my quick movements, I saw one of the yellow-shirted guards bearing down upon my intrusion, like a wasp aiming its dripping stinger at a child's finger.

The guard? Approximately 300 pounds. Me? Skinny little punk girl in a skirt.

But I made it in, diving through the crowd until my five-foot frame was deeply hidden in the mass of jumping concertgoers. As I stood there, I set my face and my body into my goal: getting as close to the stage as possible. Never mind that I had lost my friends along the way. There were bigger things at stake.

A few songs in, the lead singer, a black-haired guitarist, called for volunteers to come play instruments with them onstage. I was prepared; my cardboard sign, soaked with sweat, popped quickly out of my skirt. I bellowed as loudly as I could, destroying my throat. All to get his attention. As he pointed to me, another large man pulled me onstage. I was given an instrument and, wide-eyed, shown how to play.

My bass-playing skills? Suddenly very gone from my mind.
My attentions? Firmly on the hugs I had given the band members.

After a disastrous rendition of "Knowledge," I was led off the stage and given a picture of myself by the real bass player. I wormed my way back to the crowd below.

My memories? Blacked out from the adrenaline high.
Reminders? The enormous purple-and-blue bruise from the bass guitar. Oh, and 15,000 witnesses.

Yes, that's my story of how I met Green Day. My brush with my high-school obsession and fame.

Comments

No comments yet, why not leave one of your own?



Leave a Comment or Share Your Story

Please Sign In. Only community members can comment.


 
SMITH Magazine

SMITH Magazine is a home for storytelling.
We believe everyone has a story, and everyone
should have a place to tell it.
We're the creators and home of the
Six-Word Memoir® project.