Nicole Sell
English 105
Essay #1 - Description


The rain was more of a mist than anything. Now and then, a large droplet plopped into a puddle, causing tiny little ripples. The pavement was warm, even though the sun had set hours ago. Clusters of teenagers lined the pathway up to the old warehouse's door, waiting eagerly to get inside for the greatly anticipated show. They all looked differently the same. Leather jackets, spiked collars and multicolored mohawks speckled the crowd. Peppered throughout were skinheads wearing their usual uniform of boots, braces and bomber jacket. Almost everyone hugged their clothing closer to their skin, because though the ground was warm, it was still a chilly November night.

A heavyset man with a ponytail stepped outside to make an announcement. Although it was muffled, the message quickly buzzed down the line of patrons. All spikes and potentially hazardous items had to be removed before entering the show. This statement immediately caused a stir in everyone present, and they began scrambling to remove their studded bracelets and accessories. Boots crunched across gravel and car-doors slammed as the offending items were placed in the safety of automobiles. Girlfriends were begged to hold paraphernalia into their purses. A few dim-witted punk rockers attempted to put things in their pants. Around this time, the line started to move, albeit slowly.

Once inside, everyone resumed standing in clusters; a few scrawny boys in matching bondage pants scooted from group to group, apparently friends with many people. They laughed loudly, and cast sidelong glances towards the other groups. After closer inspection, it occurred to me that I knew these boys too, they were regulars at all the punk shows in the Lehigh Valley. I had dated one of them when I was only in junior high. I blushed inwardly and stared at the floor, ignoring the tattooed blonde girl next to me who was excitedly chattering away. I looked down at my shoes and studied the way I was dressed; black and white plaid skirt, black tights, black and white steel-toed wingtips, and a black Violent Society shirt. My bomber was slung over one arm, its pins and badges indistinguishable except for the large crossed-out swastika. I knew I was in mild danger with the amount of "real" skinheads (AKA: boneheads) at this show, but I wasn't about to be mistaken for a racist skinhead. I pushed my bangs out of my face and ran my hand over my shaved head, which was already slightly damp from sweat.

The speakers overhead were playing a cover of an old Billy Joel song turned punk (Only the Good Die Young). I sang along softly, trying to remember if the words were correct, then gave up and studied the inside of the warehouse. It was impossible to tell what it had been originally used for; all traces of machinery and grime had been removed. The walls were painted a glossy black, and the previously clean concrete floors were already littered with discarded cigarette butts.

I reached into my bomber and found the pack of Marlboro's there, pulling one out and sticking it in the corner of my mouth. I groped around in the pockets for a lighter, but my hand found nothing but my car keys, a can of mace, and the aforementioned pack of cigarettes. I frowned slightly, when from the shadows to the left of me an impossibly tall, well-built man with a shaved head held out his Zippo. At closer examination, he wasn't a man, just a mature 17 or 18 year old. He smiled at me and said something in a thick German accent. I stared at him a moment, unable to make out his exact words between the drone of the earsplitting punk music and his unfamiliar dialect. As he leaned closer and repeated the question ("what's your name?") the first band took the stage. The U.S. Bombs weren't one of my favorites, but I didn't feel tortured to have to listen to them as an opening band. I mumbled my name to him, and scurried away, pushing my way to the front of the stage, and the show began.