He was bulky and nearly a head taller than most of the others around. I gestured, pointing to the ceiling. “You mind?” I had to scream into his ear to be heard over the Celtic punk music, which was so loud the wooden floors vibrated.
He looked at me appraisingly. Probably guessing how much I weighed. “All right,” he shouted. “Come on.” He tapped the shoulder of another big guy and pointed at me, then pointed at the ceiling.
I checked my hair. It was lopsided and straggling out of its bun, but not yet completely loose. My newfound friend cupped his hands and I stepped as gently as I could into them. The other guy steadied me by grabbing my thigh.
“One…” he counted, hoisting me and lowering me instantly. “Two… Three!”
With a huge heave, I was flung over the crowd by one foot. People’s heads slammed into my ribcage. With one hand, I held my pants pocket, which contained a wad of cash and my cell phone. With the other, I reached out to try to spread my weight across other people.
Soon people realized there was a crowd surfer nearby. They threw up their hands and grabbed whatever part of me that threatened to crack their skulls. I did my part; I kept my feet elevated so I didn’t smack someone in the face with my shoes. My body heaved in time with the music, held up by a dozen people.
I surged forward and tipped over the front, just before the stage. A beefy security guard caught me and lowered me to the ground. Here, the music was a solid thing; it pushed me back. The security guard pointed me in the direction he wanted me to go. I looked up at the bass player, whose foot was near my head, and smiled. I turned and jogged back to fight my way back through the crowd and do it all over again. From my chest bubbled a strange noise, a hysterical screaming laugh from the thrill of a great show.
