This Magic Will Not Fleet

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There were plenty of reasons to say ‘No’, and we made certain to name all of them.
“Hey there girls! How do you like where your seats are?” he asked, with glasses over his eyes, and deep inflection in his throat.
“I love nosebleeds,” I said, defending our seats, displaying my many apprehensions.
“I sense your sarcasm,” the guy said.
“What’s the catch?” Gab inspected.
“No! No!” he claimed, “No catch here – you just gotta’ have a good time!”
“I mean,” I said, elongating what I was thinking, “there’s always a catch,” I explained.
“Always,” Gab said, as though referencing a previous memory where the outcome had taught her that ‘always’ is always a reliable answer.
“He’s wearing a Pink Floyd sweater,” I narrated aloud, “like, you’re on the wrong team.”
“You know, you two ask a lot of questions,” the man wearing the miscellaneous sweater, said. “Usually I just have to say, ‘Follow me!’ and it’s that easy.”
He looked away for a moment.
Gab and I turned to one another and telepathically commented: “But like, you’re a super questionable guy,” we made joke.
“Seriously though,” he said, marking the moment, “do you guys want to see Fleetwood Mac, front row, filling up the negative space?”
“Duh —,” we stared. “But I need to see something concrete,” I announced, “like an I.D. or a warrant,” I said, slightly joking.
He laughed, concerned by the impossible predicament of being stuck, having to persuade us.
“This is how it works: You just follow me, I’ll take you to the floor, and you guys just stand back until the show starts, you keep your tickets, and if you’re uncomfortable…you can go back to the nosebleeds.”
“Well,” we discussed, Gab and I motioning in morse code, grabbing each others wrists. “First things first, we need to use the washroom. Then we’ll go with you.”
This guy, decked out in navy Nikes, straight-edge, blue jeans, and a very well hidden Fleetwood Mac pass escorted us to the lavatories.
“Hey, what’s your name,” we asked.
“Freddy,” he told.
Freddy I mouthed to myself.
“You guys are?”
“Gabrielle,” she revealed. “Tamara,” I introduced.
Using the washroom, we passed words of grave suspicion and propaganda underneath the stalls.
“Right! Like who is this guy? You’re wearing the wrong sweater even,” I said, turning it into an ordeal.
But what if he gives us Roofies. Then it’s all over…like, before it even started, we agreed.
I think it’ll be ‘ok’ if we hold hands, we suspected.
But why us!? You think we can google this? ‘Ticket upgrade,’ I announced, already having started my search.
Let’s just do it, right, we looked to each other for affirmation.
Yeah. This will be amazing. And if it’s not, we’ll hold hands, we attested over the sounds of the hand dryers.
Upon leaving the lavatory, catching Freddy waiting for us, I said as quickly and discretely as possible, “He’s lucky we didn’t climb out of those tiny bathroom windows,” I said, “I mean…”
“All ready girls?” he inquired.
We nodded, “Yup,” playing it cool.
“Okay, so just come with me, and we’ll take the escala(va)tor back up.”
Gab and I looked to one another — Freddy leading the way to our doom — with our faces in the forms of question marks.
“The what?” we asked him to repeat.
“The escalator,” Freddy clarified.
“Oh, ohkay!” we exhaled.
“I’ve seen that episode of S.V.U. before. That’s where it all ends: in the elevator,” I said, mostly to Gab.
“You guys are tough to crack,” he said.
“I’m basically Det. Olivia Benson, soooo I’m going to ask you, ‘How did the story go again?’”
We stood for a moment outside of a small entrance corridor to the Bell Centre’s stadium of seats, curious to be placed.
Eye-balling a security guard, we tried to verify Freddy’s invitation, and defensible role in having to fill the negative, front row space at a Fleetwood Mac concert with, well, us.
The woman by the door, without showing our tickets, confirmed our entrance, and put-to-rest our suspicions.
On ground level, Freddy instructed us to wait, reassured, for one of his recruiting buddies to meet us, and take us to our new seats.
In the mean-moments, Gab and I stood alone, beside the large camera-appratus’s den, and repeated — probably too many times — “Oh my gosh! Is this real?!! Is this real life? Pinch me!!”
When two more girls our age arrived; fresh looking, funny, and soulful, the sheer excitement, and utter randomridiculousness of the situation settled in.
Letting out a pig-like squeal I cried, “This is real life! I cannot even! Like…what? How!? Hi Stevie! Hi Lindsey! I can’t. —”
“I need to tell everyone right now,” Gab said, addressing our truest needs.
Not long after ping-ponging conversations consisting mostly of squeals, and dialogues of disbelief, the lights dimmed, and a man with a flash light told us just to follow him.
Completely obedient, we followed — giddy — hand in hand, enthralled in authentic, suspenseful excitement.
As the guiding man lead us right under Lindsey Buckingham’s microphone, he said, sternly, “You cannot move from here, otherwise we will remove you.”
“Oh, you mean I have to stand right under Lindsey Buckingham for two and a half hours? And I can’t move?!” I said to myself. “If that’s what you need!” I thought with a smile.
“This doesn’t make any sense!!” we heard a girl behind us say.
“Right!!? Literally making no sense,” we turned, confirming the feels of another spectator.
So we did what we were told.
We danced, sang, and conversed — both verbally and Mimeically — with Lindsey Buckingham with glee-filled hearts and transcendent smiles.
While Mr. Buckingham spoke for a moment about the whereabouts a song was recorded, he told that is was in his home.
Eye-level to his feet, my mouth opened and words flew out: “We could all come over,” I said on behalf of our girl-group, “we don’t like Meatloaf!!!”
He stopped speaking for a moment, scrunching his eyebrows, touching the lobe of his ear: “What?” he asked.
“We don’t like Meatloaf!!” I repeated. “Ba dum tsss!”
He smirked, confused and resumed his speech.
At a moment filled with a guitar solo, Buckingham looked to us, shrugged his shoulders, mouthing the word: Meatloaf?
I nodded with confirmation.
He sat on a speaker in front of us, and said, “I don’t like Meatloaf either…”
Sticking out my hand, effortfully trying to redeem my non-kosher punchline, he shook it classically and said, “Okay, back to the ‘Gypsy!’” as he proceeded to jump up and play just that.
As my adult life in that short frame of time was made, I also took note to capture the rapturously roaring claps, and girly-groupie howls inside a portable time-box for myself, that whenever need be, I could re-open when the moment is dull enough for it.
This concert-high is something I road out all night in my sleep, and vigorously too, with vacuous satisfaction, through my day today.
Much like Gillian Lynne, the cheographer of “Cats” and “Phantom of the Opera”, I stood in place on the ’tro this morning and danced, agitating — in the same way a dryer on spin cycle would — to all of the Fleetwood Magic, replaying in my ears, with very minimal kinaesthetic control
Two people, acting particularly like girls, sat side by side on seats to the left of me.
“Omg” I head the first one say — despite my earphones, “I hate it when girls wear glasses like that on their heads, keeping their hair off their face,” reading her face.
“Seriously,” the second one said, agreeing. “It’s so ugly. Why? Just take them off,” she articulated.
But ruthlessly, and without any typical social-compliance, I stared deeply at them and whispered as ghostishly as I could: “I can read lips, too!” widening my eyes, and smirking as I shut them down, ten to eight in the morning, giving them hypothetical slaps on their foreheads.
That’s just part of the Fleetless Magic, I guess.
Thanks Freddy.
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