The Worst Kind of Fans E-Book

Julia

The needle hung a hair above empty as I followed tail lights around the maze of a parking lot. Shit. Shit. Shit. I said a little prayer the gas wouldn’t run out as attendants wearing reflector tape waved me toward an empty space, sagging in relief when I finally threw the car in park. Getting back home was a problem for future me.

The Walking Disaster song blasting from my speakers cut off, leaving me in sudden silence, momentarily untethered. I gathered my enthusiasm, and with a final check of my lip gloss and eyeliner in the rearview mirror, I escaped the cramped front seat I’d been plastered in for the past hour. It shouldn’t have taken more than thirty minutes to drive into town, but traffic around Charlottesville on event days was always a bitch.

The folks in the car next to mine shouted with early revelry, and I fell in behind a small crowd funneling toward the arena. I had to roll my eyes at all the Walking Disaster merch, a total no-no—unless the T-shirt was so vintage it lent some hipster cred, and Walking Disaster hadn’t been touring long enough for aged collectibles. I’d become a fan about two years back, before their recent rise in popularity, and I didn’t even own more than a handful of shirts from shows they’d played at smaller clubs. But you wouldn’t catch me flaunting their T-shirt at one of their shows.

Personally, I’d gone for dark ripped jeans and a black crop top. Just in case I met my idol tonight, I wanted to stand out. I’d even spent an evening coloring my hair, opting for Virgin Pink, which was too on the nose of late. If time could restore virginity, my drought would surely have done the trick by now.

I had to admit I looked hot as fuck tonight, but my nonchalant exterior hid a secret. I could judge those n00bs in their fan gear, but none of them could touch my hero worship of the band playing tonight. Or more specifically of Adam Copeland, the songwriter, lead singer, and god. All I came here to do tonight was find a way to meet him, to tell him what his music had meant to me, how it had reached into the darkness and pulled me back to the surface.

Until a few years ago, I’d never understood people who didn’t feel the power of music, the exquisite pain of a good heartbreak song, the cathartic triumph of an anthem, the quiet beauty of a slow ballad. I’d never understood them until music turned against me, and my world went silent. After that, music only dredged up my mistakes, my loss, my pain. Adam’s songs had come to me in that emptiness and reminded me that music hadn’t betrayed me. The industry had. Or more specifically one agent had crooked his finger, whispered in my boyfriend’s ear, and, with a snap of his fingers, stolen a year of my life.

An errant song by Walking Disaster had woken me back up again, gotten me back on my feet. I hadn’t yet recovered from the devastation of that lost year, but at least I had music again, and I had Adam to thank for that. I knew he wouldn’t care. But I did.

I fished out a granola bar from my purse and choked it down as I clomped up the sidewalk in my kickass ankle boots. I hadn’t eaten since lunch, opting to skip dinner to rush over to the arena straight off work. I hoped to make it to the fans’ meeting place before the tour busses rolled in.

Excitement oozed outside the concert hall. It’d been so long since I’d been to a show, the second-hand energy gave me a buzz. I stopped to breathe in the ozone-drenched air as it hit me: Adam Copeland was in my town, breathing the same electric air as me.

Soon, he’d be right inside that building, performing for a crowd of thousands.

Not that I’d be joining them because at one hundred bucks a pop, I couldn’t justify the cost of a ticket. Maybe someone outside might have an extra they’d sell at a fraction of face value, but even at half price, I didn’t have that kind of cash on hand. If I hadn’t flunked out of college after blowing off a semester playing road wife, I might have found a job with a better income, but these were the mistakes I was paying for. So, poor me, I was heading to a concert with only a slim hope of catching Adam Copeland stepping off the bus before the show.

Behind the stadium, on the other side of the parking garage, I found my people. Beyond a barricade, the trailers for the bands had backed up to a loading zone, and crew were hauling out the black cases holding instruments and other gear. The tour busses hadn’t rolled up yet, so I still had hope of at least catching a glimpse of the band.

I waved as I approached, and someone yelled, “Louisa Ferncliff’s here!”

I grinned at the familiar nickname. “Hey, Loki!”

That wasn’t his real name, obviously. Loki was an Indian kid named Nick who worked in IT at the University of Virginia. They all knew my name was Julia, but it was hard to stop using our fandom names.

Past Nick, I saw the rest of the gang. We’d all met on an unofficial Walking Disaster fan forum. Not one of us appeared to have anything in common with another, with ages ranging from twenty to fifty. Every hair color, seriously—blond, black, brown, true red, green, violet, and unicorn. And my pink. We were tall, short, average height. Between us we probably hit a fair number of ethnicities, races, and world religions. The only thing we all shared was invisible: a love for a band.

“LF!” said the older unicorn-haired woman. “I didn’t think you were coming.”

I reached over and gave her a gentle side hug. “Hey Karma!”

Without much hope, I asked, “Any chance one of you has an extra ticket?”

They all shook their heads.

A security guard wandered over from the loading dock, a walkie-talkie at his mouth. He waved at us. “Y’all need to clear the road.”

Without argument, we fanned to either side of the street. The guard dragged the barricades behind us, and the tour busses started rolling in.

This was it. I might not get another shot.

We gaped as the busses ground to a halt, anticipation heavy in the air. The barricades were dragged back across the road, a flimsy reminder for us to stay in our places. It would have been so easy to slip underneath and make a break for the band, but that would be very bad behavior. I knew that. It tempted me nonetheless. They were right there.

My stomach fluttered.

The bus directly in front of us opened, and four hooded people emerged—the opening act apparently. For a band with a tiny following, they sure were super secretive about their identities.

Nick cried out, “Fortinbras! Over here!” but they just waved, heads down, and continued up the loading dock and into the arena, no chance to get a peek at who they might be under those hoods. “Fuckers. How tall is Beck? Does anybody know?”

I rolled my eyes. “No, no way it’s Beck. Guaranteed it’s nobody you’ve ever heard of. It’s just a gimmick to garner attention.”

Karma said, “I heard Adam discovered them at a club in L.A.”

“When was Adam in L.A.,” I asked, and three different people said, “Last month,” at the same time. I sighed. At least I could take solace in the fact I wasn’t so far gone that I stalked him on social media. Though some people would argue it was a fine line between following his every move online and showing up to wait outside the venue for a chance to meet him. The big difference in my mind was that this was a part of the job, and Adam could decide not to meet fans if he didn’t want to. There was still this physical divider to separate the mortals from the gods. It wasn’t like I was gonna climb on the bus and jump him unawares. I did have some standards.

“There they are!” Nick shouted.

Sure enough, the four members of Walking Disaster sauntered toward the same entrance Fortinbras had disappeared into. Other fans had gathered at the barricade by now, some holding signs or autograph books, others empty handed, like me. We all started to yell their names to get their attention. Adam turned, and the screaming intensified, as if he’d be more likely to approach a completely rabid crowd. He put his hand to his mouth and blew a kiss to us with a follow up wave.

The security guard came over, hand on his hip, a warning that he could tase us if we got out of control.

“What is this, a police state?” I muttered. “You think we don’t know our place?”

The energy of the gathered fans dipped as disappointment sank in. Nobody expected anything more than a glimpse, and we’d gotten one. And yet, the hope had crystallized like sugar for a brief moment, and nothing they’d given us would have been enough.

“Oh, well,” said Karma. “We came to hear the music anyway, right?”

The rest of the group nodded stoically as they gathered their things, preparing to head toward the concert hall.

“Will you all come back out after the show?” I asked. I was debating how pathetic it would be to sit on the curb until the show ended. It could be hours and longer for the band to come out after their post-concert engagements. I should just go home. Or bide my time at the nearest Taco Bell.

But going home felt lonely and sad. And Taco Bell tore up my insides. Surely, other fans would show up at the busses, other people without tickets. I’d have company. I’d still have hope to get my face-to-face with Adam.

My family thought I was too old to have a crush on some barely famous musician, and they might be right about my impending spinsterhood. All my high school friends now had their lives sorted out with marriages, kids, solid careers, nice houses, the whole American dream. I had a basement apartment in my parents’ ranch house, a 2006 Toyota Camry, and fifty bucks in my checking account. My credit card statement would have been impressive if I’d had that balance in a savings account. My student loans had somehow grown larger than what I’d initially borrowed, despite not graduating, and I wasn’t working in the field I’d planned to. As for marriage and kids? I couldn’t even get Tinder to work in my zip code.

But for the record, it wasn’t a crush. Yes, Adam Copeland was hot as fuck and sexy as sin, but I wasn’t a groupie, and I wasn’t delusional enough to hope to get laid. He was my hero, even though I didn’t fantasize about him like some of the other fans on the forums. Besides, after my last debacle dating a musician only to have my heart thrown away, there was no way I’d ever get involved with anyone in the music industry ever again.

As Nick and Karma headed toward the front doors, off to rock out, I sat on the curb alone, staring up at the gray clouds gathering in the pink-purple twilit sky, praying it wasn’t about to rain.