In the Moment

When they said the concert was in “Terminal 5,” I knew it would be a long night.

The space was cavernous, more like an airplane hangar than a waiting station, what with nowhere to sit (except for the upper tiers, which were jammed with bodies by the time we’d arrived). The whole place was jammed with bodies: young bodies, bodies that can stand and dance and stand some more without their backs throbbing; that don’t mind pressing against a stranger's flesh in the dark, or being knocked about as passers-by make their way to the bathroom or the bar; that consider proximity to pot smoke, a bonus.

Against a back wall I took refuge, until a twentysomething looked up from his IPhone to inform me, This space is taken. A piece of wall? Seriously?

Images filled my head: the recent tragedy in a Brazil nightclub, where locked exits trapped hundreds trying desperately to escape a fire; the stampede at a soccer tournament where fans were fatally trampled in their attempt to leave a stadium.

A light flashed. A text from R. Are you still at the concert? She was impressed that F. and I had joined our friends (who generously gave us the $130/apiece tickets) to hear the band. I vented about the crowdedness, the lack of seats. Be in the moment, she wrote.

Then I found it: a steel, three-sided, floor-to-ceiling beam with a deep recess. I tucked myself in and watched the crowd.

F. tugged on my arm, leading me toward the stage. He wanted to see the band, to be near our friends. Reluctantly, I followed, holding his hand. We found a small clearing, just enough space for one person to dance, alone. And one person was dancing there: the friend who’d given us the tickets, who is terminally ill, who wants to soak in the love of his friends and the rhythms of his favorite music, as much as he can. Oblivious to everyone, smiling and singing and waving his arms in irrepressible joy, he danced.

F. stood behind me and I leaned into the hollow of his body, as his arms held me close. We swayed together.

I was dancing too.