Let me introduce Girl A

Taylor Parsons

As I’m sitting in my living room trying to decide what to write my inaugural column about, I decide to take a leap. I’m hoping to write my column every week about a faceless person we all know. These columns won’t be based on any one person in particular and aren’t intended to hurt feelings, so take it easy. So now I would like to introduce you to “Girl A.”

You walk into the dingy rock club that reeks of Pabst and dirty hair. You got through the door for free by knowing the older, slightly creepy doorman who you stayed with last night after blowing coke off his toilet lid. Some small-time band’s name is on the marquee, but you’ve coined yourself their biggest fan because you found their MySpace before anyone else. You’ve got on that white v-neck to show off your chest piece ripped from the liner notes. Your straw-like hair is looking extra dingy, as you’ve sworn off showering to save the earth. (We all know you spent your water bill money on an eighth from the guy who delivers your pizza.)

The opening band comes on and your God-like ears decide this band is as shitty as what you were fan-girling on last week. You walk back out of the club and the cold air native to the city you’re tattooed for meets your scarf-wrapped neck, and your ironic lighter from 7-Eleven meets the end of your lung-blackening cigarette.

Because all that’s in your stomach is cold coffee, you decide to walk and get your favorite meatless dish from Zagat’s hippest rated restaurant. You manage to finish your soy and make it back to the bar just in time to buy a tall boy and snake your way through the crowd to thrust your hips against the barrier like they were the merch guy’s Levis.

Finally the band comes out, and you let a slight nod escape your neck as though you think the bass player remembers you from that drunken bathroom stall lay in Albany. He doesn’t. Instead, he spits on the side of the stage, to which you reply with a slight clap before they dive into the throaty-sounding bass lines. You light another cigarette and blow the smoke in the face of the high school junior who sneaked out of his bedroom window to see the drunken vocalist swallow a microphone and wallow in self-pity.

The show finally ends and you find yourself at the bar with another 16 ounces of piss-warm beer. You try to seductively sip it without your facial jewelry getting stuck on the lip of the can. And suddenly one of those boys we all know walks up, condom in pocket and hat on head, and you see a stick drawing of a fixed-gear bike tattoo peaking from beneath the cuff of his plaid shirt. Suddenly you forget all about that bassist, the merch guy and the seventeen-year-old.

Taylor Parsons is a junior applied communications major and columnist for the Daily Kent Stater. Contact her at [email protected]