Illegal Smiles

Sometimes you have one of those nights where the stars just seem to line up and everything is groovy. The Bruce Springsteen concert the other night was one of those times. I’d gone with some friends, but instead of assigned seats we just had tickets for the floor in front of the stage. As expected, it was really crowded and hectic and soon I found myself separated from my posse. No worries, I had a cold beer in hand and Bruce was kicking into my favorite song, “Girls in Their Summer Clothes”, off his new cd. I was singing along when I suddenly noticed an arm around my shoulder. I looked over and a young (college-aged) Latino guy was drunkenly singing along with me. We finished our little duet (along with Bruce and the many other concert attendees) and the boy smiled real big and patted me on the back. Next thing I knew, he pulled out what appeared to be a hand-rolled cigarette, winked at me and said, “Make my night, dude. Split this with me!” So I did. By the end of the show, he & his friends had adopted me into their clan and we were taking pictures together and singing along with every song. It wasn’t until after the final encore that I remembered I had actually come to the show with another group of friends that I would have to track down (which I did very easily thanks to the miracle of cell phones). When I found them, I recounted my story with them and they were appropriately jealous. All in all, a perfect evening.

There seems to be something about music (and dare I say, what appears to be hand-rolled cigarettes?!) that brings people together. I’ve always found that to be true. A few months ago I was going through old photo albums trying to decide which pictures to scan for my online profile. I stumbled across a picture of me with a very regal looking African-American woman. I had no clue who she was, at first. Then I remembered and had to smile. I had gone to another show (the Who, I believe) back in the ‘80’s while I was in undergrad. It was a similar dynamic—I was with a group of my fraternity bro’s, we lit up, and found ourselves dancing and singing along with this super-cool couple (one of whom was the woman in the picture). We hung out with them the entire night, took some pics, and then never saw them again. But still, it was another perfect evening.

As you probably assumed, I haven’t seen the Latino guy since the Springsteen show. I don’t even remember if I gave him my email address so he could send me copies of the pictures. I’m fine with that. Part of me hopes, though, that one day—years from now—he’ll be going through his old photographs from when he was in his twenties, and he’ll stumble across the one of me with him. I’m sure he’ll wonder who the hell I am. And if and when he remembers—I hope he smiles.