Method of Mancy

It’s a surreal, shitty Sunday. Cold and cloudy. Wet and weary. But an opportunity has fallen into my lap and I have nothing better to do than take it. So I let myself get swept along.

I’m swept along with my friend and a group of people I’d really rather not be around but I can’t be bothered to summon up a single shit to give. I just squeeze into the packed car with everyone else and stare out the window as we drive. 

When we get to the fairgrounds, it’s immediately clear that I did not dress warm enough. So begins six or so hours of discomfort. I trail behind the group, absentmindedly taking in our surroundings but really not paying much attention at all. I just let them lead me where they want to go. We end up in some building I vaguely remember. The last time I saw it, it was full of sheep, but now there’s an enormous queue and the walls are lined with tee shirts and other merchandise.

We slowly shuffle through the queue, and I make little comments when necessary so I’m not just haunting the group like a shadow. I can’t help the surprise that bubbles up when I’m directly addressed. Just three days earlier, I would have been brimming with charisma and enjoying the game of conversational back-and-forth. Now I only have enough energy to stare.

One long wait in line, one sidequest, and one $30 corndog and funnel cake later, we’re sitting in a field waiting for the next act to go on. I shiver uncontrollably on the ground and the other girl in the group offers me a poncho to help retain some heat. Her tiny skirt can’t be nearly as warm as my denim pants, but she doesn’t seem affected at all. Like a tiny glimmering star among our huddle, she’s bright and sweet. I start to think some of my chill must be coming from within.

I curl up into a ball and tuck my head in, trying desperately to conserve any meager warmth my body will generate. The wind beats at me, ruffling the plastic, and I close my eyes against the weather, against the world. The noise of a hundred voices fades away and I feel myself start to sink down into a light slumber.

Someone touches the top of my head and I’m immediately rigid with attention, disoriented from being yanked out of sleep. I pull my head out of my little den and open my eyes to a circle of shoes.

I don’t move right away. Something about that touch felt familiar, even through the fabric of my hat. But I have no idea who it actually came from, so I dismiss it from my mind.

We’re standing up now? I ask, and the group is quick to confirm.

I climb to my feet and suddenly feel like I want to hide my face. But there’s no need; everyone is facing the stage now. The lights blink and swirl and images flash across the screens as the music begins. I’ve never even heard of the band, but we only get maybe ten minutes into the set before tears start to sting my eyes. 

He sings about the joys of being free, of exploring the world, of being able to go anywhere. And in that crowd of strangers, it forces me to confront my own newly granted freedom–all the possibilities that lie ahead. There really is something beautiful about having my whole life in front of me, my future completely unknown. 

But I thought my future was known; I could see it just by looking into someone else’s eyes. I had a very clear idea of where I was going next. But now, it could be anything. Anything at all. The singer seems to be jumping right into that freedom, but I feel like I’m falling. A few tears manage to escape and I brush them away with an ice-cold hand. I hold that pain and that wonder tight in my chest as the song comes to a close. 

We stay for a few more songs and then the group splits. Three of us off to get a spot at a new stage, and two staying for more of the current band. I split off as well to hunt down a bathroom that is blissfully warm once I finally get inside.

Getting back to my side of the group is far more of a challenge than I had imagined. They’re completely invisible, deep in the crowd and I follow a beacon my friend holds up in the form of a can of booze. I manage to push through to him, but it feels like swimming in honey; everyone is packed so tightly together. 

I try to muster up some excitement for the band as it’s one I actually really like, but I’m still too empty inside. By some miracle, the rest of the group pushes their way in to meet us, though the crowd between us and the edge has already doubled in size.

The rain picks up and I do my best to rearrange my poncho and hat to best see the show without getting soaked. The crowd is so unbelievably dense that we can barely manage not to touch the strangers around us. Dozens and dozens of us are squirming in the rain like a bucket of worms and fears of being crushed start to sneak into my mind. 

There’s a commotion to my side and quite a bit of squishing and I turn to see that someone has passed out. Everyone around is quick to acknowledge the situation and after a minute or two with no change, the crowd begins to call for a medic. Hands go up in the air trying to call attention to the situation. People shout and chant but there is no response. It seems no one is coming to help, that no one can reach us.

Suddenly the stage lights up with sound. The band starts playing and my panic rises as the crowd begins to move again. In the blink of an eye, the unconscious person is carried away and the bodies around me go from stiff to constant motion. The crisis is gone and I try to switch my attention back to the show.

The singer parades around the stage like a cosmic fairy princess and I can’t help but feel captivated by her strange energy. A few minutes in, they play a love song—cinematic and grand and full of hope. The waterworks begin—no surprise there—and steadily increase as the music goes on until I’m literally sobbing through the chorus. I can’t even see the stage anymore through the tears. The crowd jumps and dances in joy. Someone is touching my shoulders. The rain is coming down. The singer is prancing across the stage. And I cry and I cry and I cry.

The song ends and she moves into some other tracks I like but haven’t heard in quite some time. A few minutes later, after I’ve recovered, she starts a slow song I don’t know that well. But I’m emotional enough today the lyrics penetrate me like a virus. She enchants us with her voice and stabs me right in the heart.

Vampire in the corner, am I scaring you off? I wanna dance, I wanna learn how to love.

My chest starts to burn.

Someone call the coroner ’cause you’re breaking my heart. My God, I think I might’ve loved you too much.

Ah, shit.

She moves into the chorus and a new fountain of tears streams down my face. The wet and writhing crowd of strangers around me begins to feel almost like a hug and the soft, romantic words of the singer finally hoist my feelings out of the depths so I can actually taste them, so I can actually feel them. I start to loosen up, to come back to myself—back to the present moment. The pain isn’t everything anymore, but it’s definitely still there. By the end of the set, I find myself dancing along with everyone else, smiling into the rain and singing along. 

When the show ends, the massive crowd pushes toward the exit. I’m no longer moving of my own accord; instead I’m being transported by the rush of people like we’re being dumped out of a bucket. The river of bodies speeds up and tightens at once, pushing on us all and I think, if we’re going to get crushed today, it’s going to be now. 

But soon enough, space opens up and everyone swims away to their various objectives. The warmth of the crowd disappears, to my dismay, but at least the rain is gone, too. We split up again and it’s just me and my friend standing together in the cold. We push up through the crowd to see how close we can get, then change our minds and turn back to where we started but the group has disappeared.