On the Seriousness of Tourists #14


I don’t want Ray to think I’m a downer.  He already says I’m too judgmental.  Really, how long do I have to hang out here before I can leave?

I know this is epic.  I mean really, it’s The Rolling Stones in Havana.  But they’re old, right?  Do I really have to care?  The stage is still a long way away.  It’s gonna be like watching my grandpa sing karaoke in a mosh pit of sweaty people.

Ray says it will be awesome.  Yeah, I’m sure —for him, right?  He says the crowd and vibe are awesome.  He says Mick Jagger is awesome.  He says rock n roll is awesome.

I say he needs a better vocabulary, right?  What man says awesome that many times in a row?  He flips me off in that flirtatious way of his—twisting his middle finger in circles until he kisses it and presses it to my lips.

Doesn’t make me want to stay.   Makes me rethink what I see in him at all.

He’s playing air guitar with his friends now.   He’s pretending to be that Keith Richards, right?  He doesn’t notice me judging him.  He doesn’t notice people taking pictures of him.  He is just jamming out to the music that isn’t yet playing.

And then I see.  It takes me a moment to let go of the humidity, to let go of the hordes of people walking past me, to let go and be.

He is joy.  I keep watching.  I feel lighter.  I soon forget the heat, the crowd.  I feel excited.  I begin to dance to my own rhythm, music yet to come.  After all, it’s epic, right?

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