You are outside, in the middle of Arapahoe, between 21st and 22nd street. It is only two blocks away from the warehouse you live in. You are drenched in sweat, wearing no shirt, having recently placed it on a chair inside to dry off, but you've just put on your tight leather jacket. You are sticking to its sleeves, the jacket itself immersed in our odiferous scent, the scent you'll notice tomorrow when the jacket is put on again to go out early and get coffee. In front of you is a beat up old VW Van, parked on the side of the street. Inside is Germain, wearing a fur bikini. Nothing out of the ordinary. Outside is Amy and a girl you have never met but talked to briefly just tonight, taking off skeleton suits, also wearing bikinis. Amy's getting the bass guitar she has on ready, by ready meaning: affixing a firework to the end. You are surrounded by at least one hundred other young, sweaty people. We're all sweaty; Buddy's band just played inside and these May nights are getting more temperate. A bubble machine starts and we are enthralled, all of us, in simple bubbles. We reach for them and try to pop them. A light breeze wisks them from our reach. Lights turn on. Fireworks are set off on top of the van. The band starts to play. Everyone jumps up and down, except for people on the sides; some of them taking pictures, others, filming. The songs have no words and no real main line. It's just this simple droning of a bass, a drummer and the keyboardist. DUN. DUN. DUN; DUN. DUN... They play and play and play. Periodically, police cars drive by without a whimper. They have been, since setup. More firewords are lit. A smokebomb is lit on top of the helmet the keyboardist now has on. Suddenly, stuffed animals start raining down from nowhere, clouding your vision, it's so thick. They come down and bounce everywhere. Everyone in reach of one of the hundreds of critters throws them towards everyone else. You find a small one and stuff him down your pants, so his head sticks out. It's subtly disgusting, but nothing subtle is being picked up on anyones sight. Someone grabs your shoulders and they're on top of you- piggy back style. You run around and dance and jump as if you're not noticing them. They slide off finally; your sweat mixing up with theirs and adding to the musk around you, a musk thick enough to withstand the Outside. The band continues the play. Without any warning, you start crying. You cry and the tears you cry are the same kind that come out when you had spoken to a sinisterly special One emoting that you have are in Love with them. They are the tears of joy. They are the tears that run out when you accept your triviality and your temporality. They are the tears of happiness of understanding and admiring the World around you. Another moment you can say that you've seen a glimpse of It. All these people were needed to make this happen. You could not imagine a happier time and place then Now. A giant stuffed lion comes flying your face and wipes the beginning of soft tears from your checks and bounces playfully between dancing feet on the sidwalk. Your crying does not last long. You had it for a second, but you are now back in this world, around so many people, most you know of - but then again, most you do not the who - their names even, are mysteries. But, over there, is Andrew taking pictures, framed by the window of the VW fan he's standing on the opposite side of. Todd is up in the air, being carried aloft by the few who pass their dancing to bring him from one direction to the other. A giant fireword is exploded in the middle of the street and - The band has finished playing. It wasn't long. The fire chief has appeared in a large SUV, no lights on, just parked in the middle of the street; waiting for... The crowd disperses as a fire truck lazily appears nas well. The band starts packing up the equipment; they know what to expect and what to say to the Authority. You gather yourself and your friends and walk home. It was a simple night in May in Denver. Nothing is wrong with the world. Everything is at peace. Celebration in the streets. Death tomorrow would be a blessing.
