An Open Letter To The Tall Man Standing In Front Of Me At Every Concert
I know your neck tattoo better than I know my own.
Hey Man,
Here we both are again. After months apart, fate brought us back together. It feels a little serendipitous that our first concert since the pandemic would lead us both here, doesn’t it?
Somehow, you always know where I’m going to be, and then get right in front of me.
I try to look around you, but it’s like you know. You know we’re meant to attend every concert together. That you, Tall Man with the Phoenix Tattoo, will always be here, right between me and my view of the stage. I know your neck tattoo better than I know mine.
I forgive you, of course. In fact, I admire you.
Who else could find the strength to stand so boldly in front of mere mortals half your height? Who but you could gather the confidence to hold yourself there, resolutely, even as folks measuring a foot beneath your towering 6’5 frame try to see around you?
Who but you could be oblivious to our frustrations? You have this endearing quirk of being so in the moment you can ignore 20 people beaming death glares at you. Your confidence has a 100-mile radius, much like the radius of your neck sweat. It’s a superpower.
I remember when we first met: Jack Johnson back in 2005. Shhh — I know we’re both embarrassed about it. But it’s okay. If “Bubble Toes” led us both there that day, how could it be wrong?
There you were that hot August evening at the Ford Amphitheater, the tendrils of your red-brown hair curled at your nape. I know because I was trying to catch a glimpse of Jack crooning “Banana Pancakes” but all I could see was your thick, sweaty neck.
It was nice how you left those few hairs unshaved. They made you feel more relatable. It must be hard to be so far up in the clouds, so far above the rest of us mere mortals. What’s it like up there? Do you see God? Does she tell you you’re perfect?
It must be blissful. That’s why you can’t hear my pleas from way down here, asking you to scootch your butt so I can see the stage.
I’ll admit, my feelings were lukewarm until we met again at that Spoon concert in 2009. The day you turned and I caught a glimpse of your face, I hate to admit it, but everything changed.
The chiseled jawline, the amber eyes. How could I stay mad at you? Like a puppy who’s just shat on the sheets, your sweet look of innocence wiped away my anger. That face! Who am I to complain about that face blocking my view, but revealing my destiny?
It pains me to admit this, but I fell for you that day. And not just when you leaned back mid-dance and knocked me into a puddle of Bud Light.
Alas, I know it can never be. You’ll always be in front of me and it’s not healthy for me to pine after you this way. But you teased me so, growing out your chestnut locks so they swayed to every beat of Jim Eno’s drums.
What I’m really trying to say is, thank you, Man. Thank you for always showing up for me. In an uncertain world, you’re the one thing I can count on.
See you next month at the Elton John concert.
Love,
Sonya
