Saturday Night Live
Miguel R. Alcazar
They came to know about the concert thanks to an obscure Facebook group page that helped unknown bands and record labels to promote their gigs in the city. They went because they didn’t have any other plan for that night, and so they took the subway until the postindustrial neighborhood where the announced address was located. They didn’t know how to react when they reached the particular street number because nothing was there but a rusty and closed garage door; but, after a few minutes and two cigarettes have passed, a bunch of really cool people arrived and greeted them and raised the garage door and began handing out beers they grabbed from a deep freezer and so the concert could start.
The band played stupid songs about demons and imaginary cities which were both beautiful and nonsensical, and everyone was having a really good time when the first flame ignited. Everyone in the audience applauded, which motivated the ignition a second and a third flame. These flames looked impressive and magical and the select public didn’t know if looking at them or at the band, who kept playing while embellished by the atmospheric shadows the still-controlled fire cast over them.
After a few great songs, they felt the urge to smoke another pair of cigarettes. The band was playing the only ballad in its repertoire, so they caught the opportunity and head for the exit. In their way, they noticed some people were already on fire, but it was rather difficult to discern if their screams were the result of pain and agony or of the ecstasy the songs being played were well capable of provoking.
Outside, the air was cold but the building façade was clean and you could still listen to the great band playing inside while tasting the delicacy of the cigarette smoke.
“Great concert, right?”
“Great concert, yeah.”
“Are you going inside again?”
“What other thing could I do?”
More screams arose from behind the garage door.
“You are right, Man. You are absolutely right.”
“I know, right?”
They bent down at the same time, facing the aluminum door.
“You know, tomorrow we’ll be on the news.”
As they were about to raise the door, the song lyrics became more discernible and this felt nice and somewhat symbolic. When they actually began raising the door, their faces blushed because of the immense columns of fire that already engulfed the space inside.
“Not just on the news, Dude. Tomorrow we’ll be everywhere.”
About the Author: Miguel R. Alcazar was born in 1987 and has lived in Dublin, Iowa City and Barcelona. He is the author of a previous novel, Bulevar 20, published in 2014.