40666: The Reward is More Cheese...

t's a beautiful Friday afternoon and I'm basking in the sun of the Art Institute courtyard waiting for Chris and Nikki to pick me up from school because the battery in the Cadillac chose today of all days to throw in the towel. A minor bump in the road, but we've got more tonight at the House of Blues. While I admittedly am not by normal standards what you would call a huge fan, I've heard a few songs and liked what I heard, but more importantly I know that he is a DJ notorious for insane live performances and a trademark giant mouse head that he wears at every show, which is more than enough to get me on board. On the way home we stop by a liquor store to get some refreshments for the show. Once home, we take a couple shots of some fancy pants quadruple-distilled vodka to loosen up, then pour the rest into our Super Big Gulps for the hour long bus ride to the show. At around 6:18 we decide it's time to head out since the bus arrives at 6:25. We get there with plenty of time to spare and prop ourselves up on the cracked cement border of an apartment complex just behind the sidewalk. The two of us are like giddy schoolgirls awaiting a Jonas Brothers concert, and the booze isn't helping. After what seemed like less than a minute, Chris turns to me and says, "Uh-oh..." "Huh?" I reply eloquently. He tells me that it's 6:30 and that somehow we missed the bus. We have two options: wait for the next bus that comes to that stop which would arrive at our destination dangerously close to the time the doors are scheduled to open, or we can suck it up and call a cab. We choose the quicker, more expensive option of course. The show must go on, right? We head back to our apartment to wait for the cab, and end up taking a few more shots. The cab arrives surprisingly quick and suddenly we're off. We have the cabby (they don't mind being called that do they?) stop at 7-11 so Chris can grab some cash from the ATM for the fare. While he's inside I attempt to make frivolous small talk. "So man, how's your night going?" I inquire between sips of my spiked Big Gulp. "Oh, just started," he replies friendlily and from his accent I'm guessing he's from somewhere in Africa. "Ah, I see. So what's your name?" "Chris." I already know this because on the back of the passenger seat is a laminated sheet of paper with what might as well be his life story on it, but it seems like the polite thing to do. "Ha, that's funny..." I laugh lamely, "that's his name too," I say gesturing towards 7-11. Silence. He doesn't see the humor in it and I don't blame him; Chris is such a common name and it really isn't funny. Chris hops back in the cab and the pressure is off, although I'm sure Chris (the driver) could care less whether or not we talk to him. We're not even a mile from our apartment and the meter already reads $5.05. That's a whole two dollars and five cents more than we would have paid for our entire bus trip. But like I said, the show must go on. A few sips of my drink and an intersection later, it now reads $5.25. We're headed down the tollway in an area that I've been through hundreds of times, but with the silent tranquility of the cab, I'm seeing things that I never noticed. We pass a humorous billboard that I don't remember seeing before. $6.45. A store that I remember going to with my parents when I was little. $6.65. By now, I'm transcending from buzzed to drunk and my mind begins to really wander. My train of thought is spasmodic, electric. I jump arbitrarily from thought to thought like a bird on a telephone wire, never staying in one place for very long. Someone has written "WASH ME" in brown dirt on the back windshield of the dark green Civic to my left. I think of what a wasted opportunity that was to be clever. Even if they had written something as simple as "DON'T WASH ME" it would've added a delicious touch of irony that everyone could appreciate. $8.05. I think of past concerts. $8.45. Financial woes. $9.05. I think of girls that got away. $9.85. You know, I've never truly been fishing? $15.25. I forgot my chapstick. $18.65. That girl looks like my sister. $25.45. I should start driving a cab for a living. $28.05. I wish this was the Cash Cab. $30.65. This is broken up occasionally by Chris and I discussing how goddamn excited we are. Next thing I know the meter reads $35.05 and we're arriving at the House of Blues and it's perfect timing because my bladder feels like that girl Violet from "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory" when she eats that piece of gum that contains an entire meal and then gets to the dessert and it's blueberry pie and then she starts turning purple and ballooning up and then her dad says, "Violet, you're turning violet!" Classic. Some people didn't like the remake with Johnny Depp but I thought it was pretty entertaining, and remakes are never as good as the originals so what do you expect. I'm not sure why they made the Oompa-Loompas Middle-Eastern, though. But, I digress. So we get in line, where we have to ditch our Super Big Gulps and we're both doing the bent knee dance, trying to keep from pissing our pants. Thankfully, it's not too long before the big steel doors open, and like lambs to slaughter we inch our way in. We rush to the bathrooms, and then make our way down the stairs and stake our claim on some prime real estate right in front of the stage. We immediately spark up conversation with two groups of kids that are around our age. The atmosphere is electric. The auditorium slowly starts filling up. Chris points out that on stage, a fog machine has been turned on. Soon after, the lights dim...