Main Street Magazine Spring '23

In the brisk October evening, I emerged
wishing I had taken one more shot.
I walked down a street I barely
recognized and up to a white house
that produced a muffled mix of noise. I
felt eyes dance over me as the people
loitering outside gazed at my nun
costume which was accompanied with
a leather riding crop in the shape of a
cross. Rounding the porch corner and
pushing the screen door aside, I took a
deep breath, and exhaled, to inhale the
feeling of eight-month-old nostalgia.
through the
gates to the
underground
By Katelyn Clark, photos by Se Choi
The feeling of
excitement surged
through my body,
anticipating the dance I
knew too well.
Stepping into the kitchen surrounded
by smoke circles and loud chatter, I
contemplated ditching the friends I
was meeting there. My brooding was
interrupted by bouncing fairy wings, a
big smile, and a hug: Josie. Within her
first breath, I knew she was absolutely
obliterated, babbling about some
strange drag Catwoman they picked up
off the street on the drive over and her
love for my costume.
My eyes drifted past her face and
around the room as images from the
night I spent here eight-months prior
invaded my mind. The house had
passed hands since I had last seen
it, but it had the same spirit flowing
through. The show in February had
been such a blur, mostly due to my lack
of self-control when it comes to water
bottle vodka. The night had blended
into one soupy bowl of oatmeal, and
yet I left with an overwhelming sense
of grand discovery. Metal wasn’t dead.
I had seen it pulsating through a
cleared-out basement. I had thrashed
to its antagonizing guitar and had
befriended strangers in the midst of its
wrath. That night felt electric; each band
was perfect in my eyes. Even though I
spent half of the night with my cheek
pressed against a metal pipe, I felt like
I had boar witness to the birthing of the
Messiah. And if my drunken memory
served me right, I wanted more than
anything to feel it again.
62
I ended the one-sided conversation
with Josie abruptly by commenting on
how we had already missed the first
three bands. She was standing just
in front of the holy gates. Dirt, paint,
and dust covering each crevice of the
wood made you wonder if it had ever
been just a white door. I gripped our
group’s hands as I pulled them down
the stairway through the entrance to