Wednesday night at the John Grant concert,
my friend and I sat mesmerized by his
witty stage banter, his beautiful voice,
one man, a grand piano, and a synth.
A low volume rock show, in between
songs after the enthusiastic applause
we could hear the theater seats creak,
and while he played, even in the quietest
moments, I could hear my hands rub
together. It was cold AF in that
theater; on a wet and cool spring evening
they had the air conditioners working
overtime. Despite the cold and the intimacy
of that crowd, it was one of the most
attentive audiences I’d ever been in.
There’s always one guy, some guy (always a guy)
who would rather hear his own voice
than listen to the music, but not this time.
Except–during the first song or two
I swore I heard something like a transistor
radio playing music somewhere close
to me. No one has transistor radios, so I
assumed for some reason some fool
had his phone out watching or listening
to some bullshit–at a concert?!
At a low volume concert like this one?!
I looked around me to find the culprit.
I could see nothing in the dark
of that theater and I think I heard
myself saying what the hell is that noise,
and in that same moment a man was
approaching me from the aisle and almost
immediately I understood that the music
somebody was playing was coming from
my pants pocket. It was me. I was that guy.
My only defense is that it was accidental,
a butt-dial, an app triggered as I crammed
the stupid smart phone into the front
pocket of my damn cargo pants.
In a panic I left the theater and scurried
to the lobby where I shut down my device
completely. Mortified, I returned to my seat.
I enjoyed the show, but for the next hour
and a half I could not help but feel
the embarrassment resonating within,
the shame of knowing that, however
briefly and painfully, I was that guy.
michael jarmer 