2. The Ticket Queue
The Ticket Queue
Sixteen years later and I still can’t hear that opening song without my pulse catching.
Somewhere between seventeen and thirty-two, between grinding my way through undergrad, med school, and residency, The Riven Altar became one of the biggest bands in alt-rock.
While I was memorizing retinal vasculature and surviving the onslaught of Johns Hopkins coursework, they were climbing charts and selling out arenas.
Their records have gone platinum, and tickets to their shows vanish faster than the page can load.
Getting one feels like trying to barter with the gods.
Tomorrow is my first real day as a retinal specialist after two years of fellowship with Dr. Conrad, our resident tyrant, and here I am, cross-legged in cat pajamas, waiting for ticket sales like a teenager with no self-control.
The Katabasis Tour goes live at midnight, so here I am, their dutiful acolyte, clearly no life of my own or an important job to get sleep for.
It’s hard to believe it’s the same band I saw in a cracked brick basement, the one whose signed CD I still keep in a drawer like a relic. I cringe thinking about how much I’ll probably have to pay for these tickets, but I simply refuse to care.
The clock on my laptop reads 11:59. My heart kicks up like it’s prepping for surgery.
I’ve got every device I own open, laptop, phone, tablet, refreshing every few seconds.
The presale code just sits there, mocking me.
I whisper a prayer to whatever gods manage online queues.
Midnight. The page reloads, then freezes, then crashes.
“No, no, no, come on,” I hiss, hammering refresh like I can will it back to life. One device times out, another throws me into a queue with ten thousand people ahead of me. Then a miracle, the laptop loads. Every section is available, so I choose the pit.
Maybe a responsible adult would choose a seat, or go to bed, but I’m tired of always making the calculated choices.
Being reasonable, rational. There’ve been too many years of missed shows, too many nights under fluorescent lights, hunched over scans of retinas that belong to my future but never my present.
Life got small and exact. This feels like finally getting a piece of myself back.
My pulse spikes. Payment details, my brain blanks.
My wallet’s across the room. I lunge for it, nearly tripping over the rug, yank it open, and grab the card.
My fingers shake so hard I hit the wrong field twice entering the number.
The checkout timer bleeds down, forty-five, forty-four, forty-three, each second punching louder than my heartbeat.
“Don’t you dare time out,” I whisper.
Thirty seconds. I hit submit. The page hangs like it’s mocking me, then, confirmation.
Pit, section A, my name. For a heartbeat, I just stare.
Then the rush hits. I did it, I actually did it.
A laugh bursts out of me, a mix of hysteria and disbelief, then I realize I’m crying. Genuinely crying, over a band.
“Get it together,” I mutter, wiping my face with the back of my hand, but the laugh keeps slipping through anyway.
The memory of that first show still lives in me: sixteen, eyeliner smudged, the sound shaking the walls and my body with it. That first track still feels like a hand at the center of my chest, the one thing that keeps me moving when I don’t know how to anymore.