PARTY OF HELICOPTERS

Another endless day rolls into evening, and I decide to actually make an attempt to go out and be sociable. I’d heard rumor of a decent band playing downtown, so I put on my most appealing youth costume. (I decide to go with the sensitive artist look.) I hit the corner store and drop a couple bucks on a pack of smokes. Not because I’m a smoker, but because they’re nice ice-breakers. Another few bucks gets me in the door of the show. Once inside, I size up the crowd, and decide that I chose the right clothes for the evening. Art school girls litter the floor by the dozens. At the fringes of the crowd, the emo boys try to look as discontented as possible. Everyone busies themselves, trying to be appealing. The band, The Party of Helicopters, start their opening number. The crowd moves little. Maybe a head or two nods in rhythm, but no one here wants to look over-enthusiastic. That wouldn’t be cool at all. It’s a decent first song from the four-piece band. It sounds typical of the discorded art rocker style. The guitars wander and rummage around, and the drums keep switching tempo. Wouldn’t want to be too predictable, would we? The singer, though, needs to remember that some people are just not supposed to sing high notes. I eye up a group of girls toward the front, and strut forward through the crowd. Damn, I’m cool! One of the girls, the shortest and cutest of them all, smiles at me over her shoulder. She yells over the noise of the band, “You like these guys?”
“I wasn’t really paying attention.” I yell back.
She smiles and nods. Tonight, I’ll get to find out what color her panties are.
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