How Not To Be A Groupie

Chapter Eight: The Python

Crickets chirped as the shadows took over. I finally finished writing down everything that had happened to me so far, from my journey here, down to details about the seventies themselves. I smoothed out the crumpled flyers I had collected while I was here and placed them in the notebook as keepsake memories. My water bottle was empty and I threw it away. After using the public bathroom again and staying far away from the nasty smelling stall that was only getting worse with heat and time, I clutched my book under my arm and headed towards The Python. 

Action swarmed the place. There was another man out front checking IDs and pulling open the rope. I had no idea AC/DC ever played at such a swanky joint. People were lined up getting tickets from the stand just like yesterday and it looked like the price had increased. I was sure I didn't have enough for another ticket and I didn't have an ID. And in case you haven't noticed, I don't look my age. 

Bon's note told me to go around to the back where the buses were and somebody would let me in. Being as casual as I could be, I sauntered around to the back of the building where streetlights were scarce and my nerves were on high. The buses were there as promised. A group of men were passing a joint around and laughing while another group of young women hung out by the door. 

I couldn't believe it. My people.

Real, authentic, seventies groupies! 

They were all dolled up in their finest clothes and makeup. I looked down at myself and felt ashamed. Same outfit as last night, unacceptable. Most of the women were a little on the tall side and I considered standing on my toes, hoping I wouldn't lose my balance. No, that'd look silly. And why try so hard? You're already in good with the band. 

Right?

The group of women didn't seem to be with each other so much as just happened to find each other at the same place. A couple of them talked with each other while a few others kept to themselves. I would be keeping to myself. With my pens and notebook I went to stand by them, carefully avoiding too much cigarette smoke. This would make great material for my story. I flipped the book open to an empty page and started writing. The other groupies didn't seem to mind, or they just didn't notice. Maybe I wasn't good enough competition...

I started getting antsy. The show might be starting soon! And so far not one person had come out the backdoor looking for me. Actually, no one came out the door at all. Would we be standing here for the entire show? Only let inside when the band finished? How could I be a proper music journalist when all I could write about was the band's bedside manner?

The night offered cool relief from the hot sun of the day. My bare legs felt a cool breeze and my hair whipped around my face. It was in need of a good washing. I needed a shower. But whose shower would I use? I still didn't have any place to stay tonight and by the looks of things, I wouldn't get one. 

Finally the back door opened and a man stepped out. I didn't have a clue who he was. He looked at us women. "You all here to see the band?" They affirmed that they were and I played along. My chance! Ha! Suddenly I was afraid the man would take one look at my rough exterior and send me away. But we were all allowed inside and the door swung shut behind us. 

Now this was a backstage party. 

There were coolers of beer in every direction. It was like a huge party complete with joints and boys and potato chips. A little loud for my taste but not any worse than the concert yesterday that left my ears ringing. A bit stuffier, though. 

Once again, no sign of the band anywhere. There was a restricted area where I guessed some showers were. Possibly in there? I certainly wasn't about to go snooping. Everyone sort of spread out in the room, standing or grabbing a chair. I sat down and opened my notebook, jotting down some quick details.