I sat on the train with my feet stretched out on the seat in front of me. Heavy rain fell on the platforms outside and on the tracks. It sounded like the ocean. I wondered if people were listening to seashells on the beach and hearing this. I was sure they were. I stretched out the fabric of my black tights and ripped them with my car keys, trying to look rock and roll enough for the band I was going to see, for the friends I wanted to have, for the feelings I didn’t understand at the time. I had a habit of listening to music that hurt my head and yelling at my parents for no goddam reason. I was so confused. Was it possible to not know who I was but also hate that person? My reflection wore too much eyeliner and her hair was so straight it looked like dried out hay. No wonder the people around me looked at me like I was an alien. They all sat there with their black suits, their argyle ties, their neat squares of newspaper folded like napkins on their laps, and glanced at me in shifts, as if on cue, as if the movie script said not to make it obvious, not to hurt my feelings, not to show just how uneasy they were, not now, not just yet. But I never knew what the script wanted me to do. No one ever wrote one for me.
On the Way to a Red Hot Chili Peppers Concert
