Pit

Stevie, Phil, Eddie, and I drove up to The Electric Factory to see Dropkick Murphys."You better go into the fucking pit," Stevie kept saying, "You better go into the fucking pit.""I'm going into the pit. I already said I'm going into the pit!"After whiskey at the bar,outdoor smoke, while Chuck Ragan screamed his lungs and played his guitar,a young soldier, call him David, bummed a cigarette off Stevie.This soldier reminded me of someone who during those days I considered a little brother,who was fighting in Afghanistan: shaved head, scrawny paste bones and skin,trying to impress us with the tough cuss words he recently learned in the Army.David was leaving for Afghanistan in a few months, he was alone in the city,he asked if he could stay with us,I wanted to keep him around, keep him safe, I wasn't sure from what.Bagpipes started playing, "Cadence to Arms," I think.We ran back inside and formed a line,grabbing each other's shirts,to pull in the one behind us as we forced our way to the forming pit.I took hold of David's.As a moving hole developed in the people, hands without bodies pulled David to the ground;many others fell with him.I dug the limbs out of the way, searching for the young soldier,thrashing in the darkness, my hands making their way to the bottom of the bodies pile,he was gone, vanished.Pushing through the fists and elbows of the pit and around the venue,I hoped to find David somewhere in the crowd.I never saw him.Where was he? Hospital? Driving alone back home, hurt?Maybe he was absolutely fine, I had no idea.After the concert, at a truck stop, the first time we were in light in hours,Phil pointed out a sizable stain on my shirt: someone else's blood.When I made it back to my dark, small, dorm,I threw off the shirt, took a shower,and laid awake in bed thinking of David and my little brother.