Standing Room Only
It was that period after “Sha-sha-shakin’…” and before “Where Did Your Heart Go Missing?” Did Rooney play those songs that night at the Roxy - that night where we waited in front of the stage hours before they were supposed to be there?
I think they did. If they had, I’m sure we sang along.
It was standing room only…sort of. There were tables and chairs in the VIP section, but we weren’t Mischa Barton (back when The O.C. was still on TV) and the closest we came to VIP that night was the rock star parking we managed to get by showing up early.
That night we saw Mischa Barton talk to a girl who was trying to take her picture. The girl looked a bit flustered as she was attempting to erase it.
Did she erase the photo? I’m not sure…but we talked about it for awhile: what we would have done, if we would have erased the photo, if we would have just sold it to some website.
“I don’t think I would have taken a picture in the first place,” you had said. Your voice sounded like a self-confession, that maybe you realized you were a better person than you had thought.
Meanwhile I, who generally thought myself as a good person, had to reply with a lie: “Yeah, me either.”
I didn’t know how into the band you really were. You seemed to know the songs, but I had also mentioned how much I loved the band that night at the party where we met. You could have just been a quick study.
You were a friend of a friend of Shelly’s who showed up at her birthday party. We were the only ones not drinking. Me because of my Asian alcohol allergy. You because you had lost the game of “Rock, Paper, Scissors” and got tagged as D.D.
We sat on a couch watching the college party fodder play out. The red cups. The cheap beer. Girls acting like they were drunk after two sips. My memories of these times are anachronistic. I want to play Far East Movement’s “Like a G6” to the scripted scenario of stereotypes (“Girls on the Dance Floor”?), but that song wouldn’t come out until years later.
As we sat on the couch making small talk, someone’s iPod was playing a mix of music. We couldn’t decide if the music was in any particular order. We talked about the science of the playlist, the art of it. You knew more about it than you let on.
“I admire people who can make playlists,” I admitted. “I’m terrible at it.”
“Too much pressure, right?”
“Exactly.”
Then I heard familiar lyrics: Stay away from my friends they’re smooth operators…
The previous song had been an 80’s power ballad I remembered, but I had forgotten the title then and I forget the title now. Rooney seemed like an unlikely follow-up. Maybe someone had just pushed “Random” on a list of songs or there was a thematic musical thread I didn’t quite get. Whatever the reason, it worked out in my favor.
“It’s Rooney!” I said too giddily when I recognized the song.
You looked more amused than weirded out at my reaction. “Um…I’ve heard of them?”
I refrained from adding, “Robert Schwartzman is my future husband.” That joking sentence was usually stated among my friends, but this time it was a phrase best left unheard by certain ears, especially if those ears were attached to a cute romantic prospect.
Fast forward a few weeks and it would turn out to be a good call. You would later call me.
We had awkwardly exchanged numbers that night - courtesy of your drunken roommate.
“Aren’t you going to get her number?” he had slurred as he leaned against you and another friend. You were turning beat red. He then turned to me and said, “You should get his number.”
“Um…” You had said as you fished your phone out of your pocket. At first you tried to type my number in it yourself, but the roommate was not doing too well standing up and your friend was glaring at you to get going.
You handed me the phone and I typed my number in. Handing it back to you, you replied, “I’ll text you.”
And for some reason, I assumed you wouldn’t. But an hour later you would, when I was already home, not quite ready to sleep.
Sorry for earlier. Here’s my number. Let’s hang out sometime!
I thought it’d probably just stay at that: A conversation at a party. The exchange of numbers. A text message.
I wouldn’t hear from you for a few weeks and one day you called me, “So I managed to score some tickets to this Rooney concert. You interested?”
You worked for campus radio, the DJ from 12pm-2pm on Mondays. On Mondays that semester I had heard clips of your show during lunch between Psychology 101 and Chemistry.
I didn’t know it was your show…even when I tried unsuccessfully to win Rooney tickets through it a few days before you called. But I didn’t tell you that story until much later - until I was at least 85% sure you wouldn’t laugh at me.
I just said, “Sure. Sounds like fun.”
And it was.
It still is.
-Charity Tran
Photo: Rooney - Robert Schwartzman by intellichick - Flickr
