Gossip [&] the Devil

Briefly, before the story continues:

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January 31st, 2000, 6:00 a.m. [continued]

I’ve taken a handful of change to pay for the tolls down I-35 in Kansas. I’ve also managed to steal a pack of my father’s Marlboro Lights, and a pack of Djarum Black clove cigarettes from the smoke shop his girlfriend owns. My boyfriend has his father’s gas card, a gallon of water, an atlas and eight bucks. We don’t check the oil or tire pressure. We don’t call in sick to school. These small things don’t matter. In my 14-year-old mind, we have all we need: A destination.

My navigational skills are less than stellar as I chain-smoke against the boyfriend’s wishes in his car. We end up lost somewhere along I-35, thereby turning a four hour drive into a six hour joyride through the flat lands of Kansas. I’ve never stepped foot outside my hometown alone, and as the clock progresses I become anxious, worried that the whole entirety of the world is going to be in the very same line to meet these people and I will have the opportunity snatched from my nail-bitten fingers right before my eyes.

January 31st, 2000, 1 p.m.

We arrive around 1 p.m., greeting the 40 or so people in  line with open arms. Everyone around me shares my enthusiasm, discussing various albums and interviews, singles, vinyls, the Mellon Collie demos [and the ever-mysterious "666" tape] vs. the final product, various guitar sounds and vocal melodies.  Did Billy’s voice sound better on acoustic or electric recordings? I am in fan-girl heaven, able to let my tongue loose to those that understand.

The cold begins to settle in, and I stand shivering in the 17 degree weather, freezing rain sporadically pelting down, huddling under a flimsy cloth awning and readily drinking warm apple cider born from powder packets, courtesy of a local radio station. A record store worker goes on a pizza run although it only ends up feeding the first few in line. A group of older boys in front of me, about 16 years old or so, ask me to hold their place while they run to get sandwiches from Yellow Sub. They leave me their giant, silver, puffy “moon” coat in the meantime, while I apologize in advance for making it smell like smoke. They don’t care, they’re as happy as I am. When they return they bring me and my boyfriend a sandwich too. I could have kissed them.

As I eat I talk to a girl behind me who’s flown from England for the meet-and-greet. She’s holding the Adore vinyl and I’ve never seen it before: A beautiful color shot of a gaunt model in a red rose, almost more impressive than the original black and white album cover itself. I touch it like an ancient relic. Everything of theirs is so precious to me , this music that’s changed my life so readily, these people I’m about to meet. Another boy behind her has the Pisces Iscariot vinyl. I don’t have access to these things where I’m from, and my wide-eyed expressions and elicited gasps are palpable. The minutes crawl by, the sun sets and still we wait.

The world fucking stops when that black van pulls in…

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