Ghost Town

It’s a small venue off of one of our main streets in town called Nettleton. The long stretch of street is flanked by quant stores and shopping areas. There is a bookstore, a toddler’s clothes store and a map store. There’s even a retro shop where the remaining hippies in this yuppie town gather and sell their goods that they have built, sewn or painted. During the day the street of Nettleton is a busy place. People bustle back and forth shopping, laughing, slamming car doors and ringing doorbells as they enter the shops. Every store has come to life in the strip with the exception of one; it is nestled in between the map store and a candle shop. It sits with white walls and a naked cement floor, sleepily winding the day away. The windows are empty. Compared to the surrounding stores, it gives the building the illusion of having an eye gouged out. One article of decoration graces its door. Instinctively my eyes pass over the small old English lettering. The white coloring of the letters contrast against the shadows that lurk inside. I read it and take it in with a grain of salt and go about my day.
When the sun slips down behind the flat horizon of the Arkansas farmland, and the moon comes up, the street of Nettleton sings a different song. The stores that were once lit up with the hustle of the day now sleep silently, all still except for one. The familiar white walls are lit with dim lights and candles with dancing flames that cause shadows to chase each other restlessly on the ceiling.
A strange buzz of excitement fills the air in and around the area as I step out of my car in the dark parking lot. I’ve parked down by the hippy store in hopes that I can just slip in the back unnoticed. I toss my Burberry scarf over my shoulder as my breath turns to fog. I am immediately recognized and noticed, and I realize to my dismay that invisible is the last thing I’ll be tonight. I ease in and they part, making way for me, acting like they don’t want to touch me. I’m ashamed to find myself relieved that my showing up here appalls them. I have come here tonight to watch an old friend’s band play. I was not here for anyone else than him and his band. I glance around at the crowd they have drawn, soaking in every detail.
They are all looking at me now. They give me the kind of looks that I associate with contempt and disdain. They look at me like they feel sorry for me. By nature my head drops down and I stare at my feet as I consider leaving. I’m wearing my favorite pair of shoes, black Nine West pumps but oh how I hate them right now. I can almost feel my feet burning though them, wishing I didn’t wear them. I swallow my intimidation and look back up. I find the same expression on some of their faces, but the majority of them have turned away, already bored of the thought of me. When I think no one is looking, I quietly make my way closer to the stage by edging up against the wall.
The room is packed shoulder to shoulder with the mixed group of people. They’re anywhere from 14 years old to their later 20s. They seem to churn and boil against each other with their own agendas as they move to and fro. The air is hot and stuffy like it has been breathed too many times and the sweet mixture of wine and sweat intertwined with cigarette smoke hangs in the air, with the occasional gust of cheap perfume floating by, as well.
So I stand against the wall and watch. Their black clothes don’t fit them. Either they drape to the floor in ropey frays or they hug their white hips too tight. T-shirts pop up over midriffs revealing bright tattoos of mushrooms, butterflies, cartoon characters or the ever so popular Celtic cross. The girls look aged beyond their years with black eye shadow and inky dark dyed hair. I see blue lipstick and purple hair. Boys wear spike on their wrists and things that resemble dog colors around the necks. Fingernails are painted black and almost every boy and girl has a big black X drawn on the backsides of their hands. They wear four or five inches worth of bracelets on each arm and chains hang around their necks. Some wear more than others. I wondered if this was a status thing.
They had piercings. Lots of them. Everywhere. The boys wore earrings that purposely split open the lobes of their ears. Belly button rings were shown off with cut off shirts. Spikes protruded through chins and bars stuck out of eyebrows and lips. I give my pearls a gentle tug. What was I thinking coming here? I noted their skin was so fair, as if they never saw the light of day. I found myself somehow hoping that in the mix of things, perhaps my fake tan would not show up under the candlelight. Or my pearls.
Their arms hung lifelessly at their sides under slouched backbones. I straightened my back even more as if it would somehow magically make them want to correct their posture as well. It didn’t work. I edge up against the wall even more trying to stay out of everyone’s way.
They all look the same to me but I understand this is the way they choose to state their independence. They want so badly to stand out as individuals, so they express it by wearing black and coloring their eyes black with eyeliner. I found it intriguing.
There was one girl I noticed in particular. Perhaps it was because she was taller than the others. She had a long slender figure and beautiful hands with long fingers. She wore the black clothes well. She wore them with her chin up and a smile on her face. Her auburn hair tumbled down her back in curls and her dark green eyes shown in the candlelight like emeralds. She moved gracefully in a dignified manner. She wore her jewelry like the other girls did, thick and black except for one Care Bear slap bracelet she wore on her right wrist. Bright and pink. The black clothes didn’t do it justice. I hadn’t realized I was studying her until our eyes met and her smile faded into curious pursing of her lips. My eyes assume their nervous position of starring at my shoes.
As if on cue, the lights dim almost like a last call for smokers to stop mingling in the night air and push into the small room. I slowly pull my colorful scarf off of my neck and stuff it into my purse, as if that will make me fit in better. Simultaneously, the black lights are turned on. The walls that were once so white hours ago are now illuminated in colorful graffiti. Invisible to the naked eye, under the black light, neon blues yellows pinks and reds emerge from the wall. They form words with detailed curls and sharp edges. They were sad words: destruction, ruin, devastation. Carefully sketched creatures appear, some have glowing bulblike eyes, others peered through paranoid slits. Individual scales have been carefully drawn and colored with different glow pens. Demons lurked in corners, curling their talons around scribbled poetry that went on for yards at a time. Gargoyles were perched above the door with hands outreached as if they were collecting the people walking in. On the wall opposite from the three-foot pentagram a detailed crucifix was drawn. Individual colors brought out blood sweat and tears on Jesus’ chest, then pooled more towards the floor in an ocean with even more monsters swimming around in neon hues.
The rumble of the first bass strums scare me-I had been so enthralled in the wall art that I hadn’t noticed the band come on stage. The drummer does a count off by whacking his sticks together and the music begins. I feel my lungs vibrating inside my chest with the different sways of the bass and angry beats of the drums.
The audience has gone wild. They are screaming and have begun dancing to keep rhythm with the music. The room is now phenomenally crowded and they pulsate in one steady movement like a whole. A few of them form a circle in the center of the room that reminds me of a wigwam and they begin something that has the same ring as an ancient African tribal dance: one person stands in the center and the others begin circling him as he flails his arms and legs about in no particular form or fashion. Another person will push into the center of the circle and throw the first dancer out and so on. As time progressed the ones that made up the circle began dancing-tossing their heads to and fro, shoving each other around.
I am fine standing in my corner watching them. Then without warning one of them trips out of the dancing circle and swings into me. I fall to the floor before I even know what hit me. My breath is knocked out of my chest and now I am frightened. The boy who hit me lies next to me. He snarls and stands up, dusting himself off and walks away without offering to help me up. I pick myself up and the tall girl stares at me as I smooth my hair down and tuck it behind my ears.
Yes they all looked at me now. They looked at me the way I looked at them: unable to understand why I would choose to live the way I do. I represented everything they hated about society. The SUV, the RAZR phone, the gaudy rings and designer bag. Heaven forbid my high heels. I was on their territory and I realized I hadn’t come in with enough respect for it. I had simply waltzed in like I always do. It was time to go.
I turned on my heel for the door. It was so crowded. I felt rude pushing my way out but I didn’t care. It’s hot now. Beads of sweat form on my forehead and I still push for the door. I remember a time when I was little. I had dove into a dark lake and I was on my way back up. I could see the sun wobbling on the surface of the water, I was clawing my way up for air and for that one second I thought I would drown-but with one more pull of my arms and with all that was in me, I surfaced. My sweaty palm slapped against the cold glass of the door, immediately forming a fog. My eyes are drawn once more to the old English words that are now just inches from my palm: Ghost Town.
I push the door open and emerge into the cool night air. Clean. They were what they chose to be. I found the title of the venue quite fitting. Ghost Town. They were something I knew I was too afraid to ever try to understand.