A phone call my mother has received more times than I'd like to admit. It's a system we developed to spare her the three agonizing minutes of waiting to hear how much trouble her only daughter managed to get into this time. So, when I launch into a story involving police officers, less than sober decisions or broken bones, I always start with my immediate safety, go into the worst part, and then explain how I got there. And so I started.
A warm, comfy Friday evening. Wrapped up in warm blankets and glasses of wine, my roommate, a dear friend and I gleefully wandered through youtube, reliving our favorite angsty teen bands. As the instantly identifiable drum beats fill our apartment, we laugh in unison, collectively remembering inside jokes of our adolescence we shared with friends long lost. "I Miss You" by Blink-182, a unifying sigh of nostalgic comfort and another sip of wine.
Friend: You know they're playing tomorrow night, right?
Me: FD45SJKL45FAH3r2SU:GJKLDSASE{WR(*XVN
Roommate: No way! Where?
Me: JFLSDFa3AHHH
Friend: Riot fest. It's a huge three day music festival in Humboldt Park. I think it's sold out but you should check out craigslist!
(Flip coffee table over, punch through wall to get to bedroom, repeatedly throw face against the keyboard until finding tickets on craigslist)
Me: (from bedroom) Got 'em!
After a long day of napping to prepare for maximum concert enjoyment, the roommate and I were off. Two busses and about 40 stops later we pulled up to the packed park. Walking down the cracked sidewalk alongside hundreds of bikes stacked atop each other, we followed the large masses of pierced and dyed rockers, just barely hiding their 9-5 white collar looks beneath patched denim vests and combat boots.
We walked through the camp absorbing the music, sweat and corn dogs in between long lines of hungry, half-stoned kids ranging from 14-65. As tradition follows, we paid 40% more money for 60% lower quality of food, but even our undercooked, flavorless shoestring potatoes they tried to market as fries still filled me with excitement. I was finally fulfilling step two of the plan my best friend and I hatched in eighth grade.
Step One: Get cars.
Step Two: See Blink-182 live.
Step Three: I marry Mark, She marries Tom.
Step Four: Live the most awesome lives of all time.
After seeing/hearing bits of Taking Back Sunday, Public Enemy, Blondie and The Violent Femmes, we started camping out for Blink. We got there an hour early and rushed to as close to the front as we could, still about 30 yards from the front. In my experience, typical rock show protocol is as such: very front is super fans trying to get as close to the band as possible. Certainly rowdy and dancing but more focused on the music than trying to beat the shit out of each other. Then, there's the mosh pit. A large mass in the center of the crowd, aggressively flailing limbs around in search of pure adrenaline and endorphins. Finally, there's the rest of the audience from that point back. The swayers, the fist pumpers, the lip syncers, the iVideo recorders. In many (and preferably all) cases, there's a relatively clear division between these sections so no one gets pulled into the pit against their will. Unfortunately, the overwhelming mass of people, who had now entered their seventh hour of drinking, completely obliterated this notion. Within seconds, the crowd became crashing waves of sweat stained t-shirts and cigarettes burning just a little too close for comfort. This is when control started slipping away.
Lights shift on the stage. The now silent crowd deeply inhales in preparation. The band takes stage. The crowd bum rushes to the front, forcing the people in front to slam back from the gate and sending out shock waves. Realizing what's about to happen, the crowd begins to panic. Guys shielding their girlfriends run through lines of people paved together like a retaining wall. Tom DeLonge, the lead singer grabs the mic. A wave pulls me under. I struggle to pop my head back up, clinging to the arm of a man next to me. A cool sip of fresh air fills my lungs. I gain my balance back on my feet. "WHAT'S UP CHICAG-". The current pulls me under. It's getting hotter and progressively harder to breathe. I reach up and grab the shirt of the guy next to me. I pull myself up by his bicep, my nails digging into his skin, when a crowd surfer above tumbles on top of us and brings us both down. Climbing arms and legs like a tree in a park, I slowly work my way up to my feet.
Me: I can't breathe. I have asthma. I need to get out of here.
Guy: What?
Me: I can't breathe. I need to get out.
Guy: It's okay, just breathe.
Me: I CAN'T. THAT'S THE PROBLEM.
Guy: You can, just relax.
Me: YOU ARE GOING TO GET ME OUT OF HERE NOW.
Guy: Everyone, we're getting her up. Get over here.
I turn to see a girl sobbing next to me, her foot was trampled and people around her were trying to pick her up but there wasn't enough room to get her standing. I feel hands around my knees and I'm lifted atop the crowd, a familiar freedom I hadn't felt since my high school years. I hold my over-the-shoulder purse tight to my chest, making sure not to lose my phone/keys/id. I tumble over hands, heads, elbows and screaming girls clawing to get their way out, desperately reaching ahead to the front. As I swim through an unstable crowd waiting to collapse any minute, I feel a tug across my shoulder and quickly grab for my purse. The leather strap tightens around my neck and I start panicking. Flailing, gasping, kicking to get down until the person beneath me goes down with the weight of another escapee crowd surfer. I finally fall to the ground and rip the purse off my neck. Struggling for air, the heat, the panic and the purse have caused the first full-out Asthma attack I've had in years. After a few more yards of tumbling, crawling, reaching, I finally make it to the security in the front that has every person they can pulling people out and take them to the EMT's. A man carries me to the tent and onto a cot. I look around and there's close to 15 people around me with air masks, wrapped broken ankles and knees and bloody faces. They hook me up to a nebulizer with epinephrine for two rounds to get my breathing steady. I'm sitting on a cot, face covered in mascara and sweat, breathing through a tube, all in a city that I've lived in for just over two weeks. It started to click that this was one of those defining moments of me buttoning up the big girl pants. That's when things suddenly shifted.
A sweet looking girl, a little taller than me, with a doe-like face adorned with retro glasses sits next to me. She's also having an Asthma attack and is about to get a nebulizer, as well. Her fragile eyes dart around the room as her breathing quickens. Hyperventilating, reaching around her, terrified. Unable to speak due to the tube in my mouth and not knowing what else to do, I reached out my hand toward hers. We lock eyes and she slowly reaches out her hand to grab mine. Our focus now shifts to our clasped fingers, her chipped blue nail polish blending in with my bright purple. We stay like this for a long time as more and more people come into the tent. I finish two doses of epinephrine and am finally able to catch my breath. A paramedic kneels down in front of me.
Paramedic: You doing okay?
(I nod yes)
Paramedic: Things got pretty rough out there, huh?
(I nod again, the paramedic puts his hand on my shoulder)
Paramedic: You're okay now, you're safe.
When any person of authority comforts me, my inner 12 year old doesn't know how to handle it and just starts crying. I burst into tears on his shoulder for about three seconds before realizing that was super weird and quickly sit up. Tears slowly falling down my face, I feel a hand reaching out towards me. The asthmatic doe holds out her hand to me. I lay my face in her palm and we stay there for what felt like an hour of complete silence. Lights from an ambulance jolt me awake and I see all the beds filling up, someone had a seizure, someone was in a neck brace, the girl in front of me had her throat stepped on. I was clearly at a lower risk point so I moved to sit by the fence outside the tent with some others that couldn't be attended to. Luckily, I had gotten out before a lot of the more serious things came in so I was able to sit with people waiting.
I sit down on the dusty earth below the chain link fence, reminiscent of the dug out of neighborhood baseball fields, and start to catch my breath. There's a young girl, couldn't be more than sixteen years old, sitting next to me, shaking and softly crying. For whatever reason, my social competency filter was turned off and my first instinct was to throw my arms around her and try to get her to breathe with me. Soon, her breathing slowly calmed and she turns to look back at me, a mouth full of braces and large brown eyes.
Girl: Hi.
Me: Hi. You okay?
Girl: I think so.
Me: What happened?
Girl: They trampled my ankle.
I look down to see a swollen deep purple and blue ankle, bursting out of her impossibly skinny jeans. I grabbed onto her again and elevated her foot with my purse (if for nothing else but to balance out its Karma after attempting to murder me) and went through Yoga breathing and meditation techniques to calm her down and steady her breath. We sat by the chain-link fence for another half hour or so until her dad and friend found us, they had been at a different part of the concert at the time and cellphone reception was notoriously horrible for everyone in the park. We carried her to her car and got her situated in the back. I turned around to see ambulances and firetrucks blocking the street. The bus had lines for at least two hours and I couldn't get a taxi through on the street. My roommate, not being able to find me after we were instantly separated in the crowd, managed to get on a bus right before everything got blocked off.
Girl: Hey, Dad? Can we give Caity a ride home?
(Brief flashback to the Berenstain Bear's "Stranger Danger")
(Brief flashback to the Berenstain Bear's "Stranger Danger")
Me: Oh, no that's okay. I'll figure it out.
Dad: You shouldn't be alone in this neighborhood at night. We can drop you off at your house on the way home.
Me: Don't worry, I can find a ride home some-
(Turn and see dads expensive, soccer-dad-esque car)
Me: Well, if you insist.
I enjoyed a safe trip back to my apartment, chatting with them about riot fest and living in Chicago. I rested my head on the seat belt and looked out the window, listening to my new friends chatter, watching Thai restaurants, pizza places and 7-Eleven's pass by. As tired, sore and generally upset as I was, I was filled with a warm sense of union. Union with my community for the help of the paramedics, union with my fellow concert goers for the gracious, kind hearts that opened up when they were called upon, and union with myself for being able to comfort others. Within minutes of meeting, these injured, scared, frustrated people were opening up to each other like family, the way concerts are intended to be. Smiles cracked through mascara stained cheeks. And as we sit pressed against the fence, beneath the sirens from the ambulance out front, you could just barely hear "I Miss You" playing yards ahead. I closed my eyes and shared this collective inside joke with strangers, that within minutes, became friends.
I would also like to proudly state that when I was being carried out of the pit to the medical tent, I got like 6 feet away from Mark Hoppus. So, I'm pretty sure we can cross off #3 on my to do list.
CS
