Introversion
By Julia Delisle
Photo by Jackie Weik
It’s a Friday night — the weekend before Halloween, and although the late autumn breeze has turned into frigid gusts, hordes of your peers are already standing in line to get into the bars on Main Street in inapt uniforms consisting of spaghetti strap tank-tops, ripped jeans, and freshly flat-ironed hair.
On nights like these, you usually stay in with your friends, drinking cheap box wine and watching that Comedy Central show that never fails to crack you up. But tonight, your friends want to do something more. There are no parties going on, but your friend saw an Instagram story about a basement show where some local bands made up of UNH students would be performing. You see that the kid you worked on a class project with the year prior and his band is playing, and although you are in no way a “metalhead," you think it could be cool to experience some music that is different than what you typically indulge in.
The flyer says that music would start at nine, but you and your roommates start getting ready at six; the makeup you applied ten hours prior has lifted and smudged, and you need time to put on a fresh face. Your roommates take turns touching up their eyeliner in the bathroom mirror while you sit at your desk staring at yourself in a compact under fluorescent lights.
You don’t like going out. Your introversion allows you to enjoy small get-togethers with familiar faces or crowded music venues where nobody knows who you are and where you don’t have to worry about introducing yourself. A sinking feeling encroaches in your stomach as you begin to think about the inevitable half-hearted exchanges of pleasantries waiting for you. You consider telling your roommates that you’ve changed your mind and would rather stay in and continue binging that show you’ve been dying to finish, but you know you'd feel worse if you did — you hate to disappoint people.
So, you power through. After you finish your makeup, you try on all the clothes in your closet only to realize that they are all variations of the same outfit; blue jeans and a black t-shirt. As usual, you finish getting ready before your roommates, so you sit on your bed and run through every possible outcome of the night. You’re afraid that your more socially adept friends will disappear into the crowd, leaving you alone in some back corner of the unfamiliar basement. It was during this time of apprehension that he replied to your invitation.
Photo by Jackie Weik
He doesn’t usually go to these things. On weekends he usually comes over to your suite for a chill night of tipsy movie-watching with you and your roommates, but you implored him to join you tonight. While you’ve only been friends for seven months, you found a companion in him almost instantly. You have the same slightly sardonic personality, and people who don’t know you may think you’re jaded. When you’re together, you never feel the need to impress him. He seems to enjoy your company, and you definitely appreciate his.
Your group of seven arrives at an apartment building on Old Landing Road. Thirty or so of your peers stand in circles, declaring their social groups. The uniform of these people differed drastically from your peers on Main Street. In the backyard, some people are wearing skirts that dragged along the muddy grass paired with oversized leather jackets and platform combat boots, and others wear long-sleeved shirts with short sleeves layered over top, along with jeans with holes so large that their plaid boxer shorts peeked through, and Chuck Taylors with soiled laces. There were no empty hands amongst the crowd — if they didn’t have a can in their hand, they were holding a cigarette, and some held both. You followed suit; lighting up from your communal pack of Marlboro Reds that were only smoked on such occasions. As you look closer at those around you, you regret going out tonight.
You see the cool girl with the shagged haircut from class and the guy with the low-swung head you pass on Thursday mornings while on your way to the dining hall. Your imposter syndrome kicks in as you think to yourself, God, I wish I looked that cool. You see people wearing t-shirts with photos and logos of bands you enjoy and makeup that resembles your own, but you have never seen yourself in them. You always manage to separate yourself from those around you. Your insecurity distracts you as the cigarette you’re smoking has been sucked down to a mound of ash. You feel him nudge your shoulder, which brings you back to the present moment. He isn’t smoking; he never has. But that’s not the only thing that sets him apart from the rest of the people in the yard. He’s wearing his usual attire: a Nike sweatshirt and gray sweatpants. He doesn’t match the aesthetic of the people surrounding us, but he doesn’t seem to care.
You go to the table by the back door, where donations of $5 a head are appreciated. You give your money to the kid you worked on a group project with the year prior. You fear that he will pretend he doesn’t know you or that he's thinking, She doesn't belong here. But instead, you exchange pleasantries, and he says he’s glad you could make it.
The cliques begin to make their way inside to claim their spots before the show starts. A wiry fence creates the perimeter of the audience, serving as the inspiration for the name of the basement; The Rage Cage. While most of your friends disappear into the crowd, you and he stand as far away as you can with your backs up against the cage. “I have no idea what to expect,” he says. “I’ve never listened to metal before.” “Yeah, it’s not really my thing,” you explain, “But I’ve been to a few shows like this and the music is usually pretty good.”
Photo by Jackie Weik
When the first band begins to play, a separation between the crowd and the two of you forms. The only other people standing as far back as you are two sets of couples, heads swaying in tandem, with the boyfriends standing behind the girlfriends, arms wrapped around them. The two of you stand side by side stiffly, but the tension soon breaks when the mosh pit forms. Together you watch as a girl emerges from the depths of the pit, her face streaked with dirt and blood. You lean over to whisper something in his ear, but the music is so loud it is more like a shout, “Don’t you wish you were up there?” you ask sarcastically. He replied with a laugh, “Oh yeah,” he began, “I would just love to get elbowed in the face right now!”
It's at this time that you realize something; You are having fun. You've been to so many of these shows before, and every night was the same; you stood awkwardly still in the crowd surrounded by head-bangers, confident that you looked out of place. But tonight is different. Tonight, you don’t have to force yourself to join your friends in the crowd and worry about whether you look like you belonged there. You realize no one is paying attention to you except for him. You don’t have to worry that you’re ruining your friends' night, and you don’t have to suffer waiting for them to be tired enough to leave. Everyone has a place in this stuffy basement; whether you’re there to mosh, get stoned in the back, or listen to the music and observe — as you and he were — you belong.
