The Art of Breathing Underwater

Chapter 17

What is it about Western culture that we are obliged to mark a special occasion by getting plastered? Society is quick to point an accusatory finger at youth, but it's not like adults set a shining example to follow. Birthdays, funerals, weddings, divorces, victories, and losses, all celebrated by mature adults in the tried and tested manner. One which usually requires treatment with paracetamol the following morning.

To Robbie and myself, our first concert was a special occasion and we were keen to commemorate it in the time-honoured fashion. Alcohol was out. My dad insisted on driving us to the venue, otherwise I couldn't go. Hash was out. On the off-chance Roley proved reliable, our previous encounter with the police had taught us the city centre was not a safe environment for smoking a doobie. Our dilemma required some creative thinking.

Inspired by an article he had read in a tabloid, some idiot—that would be yours truly—suggested we try cough medicine, the kind that causes drowsiness and renders the user incapable of operating heavy machinery. Codeine-based mixtures were readily available to paying customers of any age in local pharmacies, and you couldn't get arrested if you were found in possession of one. So, you could trip balls without fear of some drug-detesting police officer stomping on your balls in a holding-cell. Sounded like a win-win.

The bespectacled, white-coat wearing owner didn't bat an eyelid when I arrived at the counter clutching two bottles. The cover-story I'd been running over in my head wasn't required. Nor the dry cough I gave as I handed him the tenner.

The bell rang as the door closed behind me. Robbie glanced up from the pebble he was playing footsy with, hands buried in his jacket pockets. I winked and his frown metamorphosed into a smile. The party was on.

I downed half the bottle of sickly sweet syrup while we waited in the queue. Robbie finished all of his. Everywhere you looked on the street, girls and boys with dyed-hair, long hair, spiky hair, in black skin-tight jeans and matching black tee, multi-coloured striped tops and flared jeans, leather, eye-liner, and mascara milled around in an amorphous gender-fluid mass. As though somebody had snatched up all the outsiders and dropped us into this melting pot of vibrant colours and bubbling personality, gelling into a mixture so strong nothing could dissolve us. A curious collection of glittering oddities, flashing our weirdness credentials with pride. Here, we were the norm. My guayabera shirt, far from marking me out, seemed positively restrained compared to some of the more inventive fashion creations on display.

When we got to the theatre door, a burly security guard rustled through my pockets and found the cough bottle. He unscrewed the top and sniffed the elixir, in case I had replaced the contents with alcohol. "What's this in aid of?"

I coughed. The guard grinned and ushered me in.

The dark, cavernous hall hummed with the energy of over two thousand enthusiastic kids crammed into the venue. The excitement was palpable, like static in the air. This was our church, and we'd come to rejoice.

Wild, jostling concert-goers crowded the area around the stage. That was fine with me. Being of a claustrophobic disposition, I had no desire to be front and centre. I'm a firm believer you see more from the peripheral, anyway.

I finished the bottle while Robbie disappeared to hunt for a bathroom.

And that's when the craziness started.

The sensation of floating. Unfamiliarity. The stage lit up like a space station. Reverb thundering from the multitude of speakers, distorted echo. A support act that nobody had paid to see manifested from the smoke.

A slinky brunette in dark hip-huggers sidled up close and shouted in my ear that I looked kinda like Brett Anderson. "The girls are here for Brett." Eyeing me through smoky eyes, she said, "Most of the boys, too."