It was our first time seeing Michael Bublé, my mother and I. We were in the nosebleed seats, a place where I usually find myself, due to my remedial Ticketmaster skills, about five rows from the last in the arena. The place was filling up, thought the two seats in the row in front of us remained vacant. When we saw that no one was coming, we took the liberty of dangling our feet over into the next row.
When the opening act finished, the seats were still empty. I had grown confident in the prospect of free foot seating for the entire evening.
A couple turned the corner and began to ascend the stairs towards our row.
“That’s them,” my mother said.
I sighed, sad to lose my feet seat, and returned my open-toed black platforms to the floor.
The couple was on the younger side – I’d say late-twenties, early thirties. The guy had sort of a Nick Lachey/Situation thing going on, all v-necked and shiny, and the girl was tiny, highlights, extensions, and a red halter dress that seemed to be missing some pieces.
I thought nothing of the couple until we caught a whiff of the chick. It may have been really great, expensive perfume, but due to the sheer quantity, I was unable to tell. I squinched my nose. My mother, whom, in her advanced age seems to have lost her inside voice completely, began sighing loudly, the way one does when someone at the checkout drops sixteen items on the belt in the twelve-item express line.
The ladies next to her waved their hands in front of their faces. The people behind me coughed. It was a little uncomfortable.
We figured it would dissipate, and I returned my attention to the show. After all, I didn’t pay $104 a ticket to see them.
When Mr. Bublé emerged, with a sassy slide, from behind a curtain, they whipped out their iPhones. The woman took about 87 pictures, while the guy texted? Emailed? Not sure. Something with words. I didn’t mind the glare, though – I had my phone out, too.
Two songs in, neither had released his stronghold on the iPhone. Passkey…do something…put it down…passkey…do something…put it down. I’d had my sandaled foot puked on, in the rain, at a Bon Jovi concert. I’d had my handbag submerged in beer. Drunk people had fallen on me. I’d lost a shoe, hopping on one foot for two hours, until I found it. I’ve clearly experienced worse at concerts.
Once the phones disappeared, and possibly realizing there was nothing with which to busy one’s hands, the couple started getting a little frisky.
The dude slid his hand up her dress. She kind of rode side-saddle in her chair. They kissed. They kissed again. She kissed his ear. He wrapped his arms around her. She yelled “Wooooooooo!! I LOVE YOU!!!” towards the stage in the middle of a song. They straight-up made out. She got up and sat on his lap.They swayed in the seat, like two sixteen-year-olds who had just had their first taste of Smirnoff Ice.
I was embarrassed for all the older people sitting around us. And myself. Clearly, executive functioning appeared suspended.
Were they drunk? I had no idea.
Eventually, awkwardly pulling her dress back over her what I can only imagine were waxed (or very carefully trimmed) lady parts, the woman returned to her seat.
Both pulled out their phones. She took another 257 pictures, while he did something with words.
She leaned back, with her phone in her hand. Kissed his ear. Made out some more. I’m not even sure they realized they were at a concert.
I really, really tried not to pay attention to them. But they were moving and swaying and making that sucking sound. She had also buried her knees in the man (again, older gentleman) next to her’s legs, as she sprawled across her seat, grinding on her Backstreet Boy. The man pretended not to notice. I silently hoped his pacemaker wouldn’t explode.
It was around an hour-and-a-half in, I began fantasizing about kicking them both in the head. Or just leaning down and having one of those there-are-older-people-all-around-you, are-you-kidding-me conversations, but I spent the time (between crass WOOOOOOs and I LOVE YOUs) just willing them to leave.
Before the encore, she put her clothes back on, whipped her hair around for the hundredth time, and they shot off down the stairs. Back to their hotel room? To make people at the game tables puke? Or worse? Who knows?
Our two rows looked at each other, nodded, congratulated ourselves, like we had just discovered the cure for Ebola.
I leaned over to my mother and said, “I think I picked the wrong seats.”
I always pick the wrong seats.
But it sure was a good show. HEY-OOOOO!
