Praise The Orange Peel

April 13th, 2018

Lilly denied the recurrent urge to check her phone as Judah & the Lion continued an extended string-plucking interlude.

“Where’s Whit?” She asked her brother amid the temporary dulls of the modest crowd.

“He just went to take a leak, sis. Probably coming back any sec,” Jared said, one arm swaying in the air, the other wrapped loosely around his petite girlfriend’s neck.

From inside The Orange Peel, a time-worn brick building on a corner lot in south Asheville, Lilly struggled to grasp her sense of place. One of the only ones not drinking, not singing, and not even from this half of the country. Surrounding the industrial open floor, every other patron videoed the bright stage with a handheld screen, capturing the Friday night experience. Whit’s absence sucked her into the wooden flooring, tempting her to reach into her back jeans pocket for a momentary escape. He had warned her repeatedly to ignore her phone for the concert—no videos, no pictures. And with the lively alternative rock and folk band nearing their finale, the new girl in town stood idly, her trust and nomophobia playing tug-of-war with her chest.

“Hey, would you go check the bathroom? I’m worried Whit’s going to miss the end.”

“Lilly, he’s fine.” Jared shimmied his bro-flow hair behind him and withdrew from Clarissa to pat Lilly’s upper arm.

In response, Lilly folded her arms together, the wrinkles of her charcoal suede jacket bearing her doubt. Despite her unfamiliarity with the band, she dismissed regrets about signing off work early for the first time all year. A digital marketer and resident lark made a precarious combination as she readily logged in remotely before the Appalachian Mountain sunrise and logged off after a Simi Valley sunset.

At least Whit’s company had freed her from third-wheel status. Moreover, his enthusiasm for the band’s unique vocals had proven justified. Their switch between punk rock and intimate folk toggled effortlessly. From the opening twangs of the skinny bandmate’s mandolin to the Tom Petty “Free Fallin’” cover, Lilly planned to add a few new songs to her emotional playlist—titled R.I.P. Glencrest Circle—for the next thunderstorm, or forest fire. Whichever came first.

As the upbeat tune transitioned to its outro, Clarissa stepped aside and offered Lilly a one-armed squeeze. She rested her head against Lilly’s shoulder, grazing the California girl’s wavy blonde hair.

“Isn’t this venue great?” Clarissa asked, further stalling Lilly and her fret without Whit.

“Yeah, it’s smaller than I thought. Nice and cozy.” Lilly tilted her face down with a half smile.

“Hard to believe people were roller skating here like sixty years ago!”

An alternating cascade of red and blue floodlights beamed from the rear stage.

“Alright, Asheville!” A fervent cheer erupted in response to the band’s lead singer. “This last one’s for, uhh, authenticity. And I’m’a need y’all’s help, so sing along as loud as you can. What a fun show it’s been for us. You guys have been great—thank you!” Another collective whoop from the audience fizzled with applause before illuminated phone screens returned to the air like seed heads drifting in a grass field.

“Yo! Just in time!” The gruff voice invaded Lilly’s spent ears.

“Whit! Oh my gosh.” Lilly made room to welcome the semi-long-lost fourth back into their group’s bubble near the crowd’s fringes. “I thought you might’ve left or something. What the heck?”

“Nah, nah. I’m here. Wouldn’t miss my favorite song!” Wide-eyed, he ruffled his dark locks and straightened his bleached denim jacket. The two guys exchanged a fist bump while Clarissa resumed her spot in front of Jared, twiddling her waist-length hair braid.

In a room full of strangers minus three, Lilly cradled her dainty necklace as gently as if its butterfly was animate. The young woman, barely a year removed from college graduation. Already halfway up The Trade Desk’s corporate ladder. Displaced to her cross-country brother’s house, subject to an indefinite stay. And on a mid-April Friday night in a mostly foreign city, she stood on a solid plank floor beside an affable outdoorsman who insisted the concert would be more memorable off-camera.

White beams burst in all directions from the front stage.

“You know I'd take it all back, take it all back, take it all back…”

The lead singer playfully roamed between his crew, the bassist and percussionist hiding in the background shadows. Meanwhile, Lilly bobbed her head, tame compared to Whit and his headbang of the century. She snickered to herself, wondering how tipsy Mister Woolridge might behave instead. A tendency for fearless weirdness, even sober. But why so opposed to photos and videos?

“They're singing along with the banjo!”

Judah, himself, pointed to his left as the spotlight swung to the shaggy-bearded musician, thrumming away at his black bluegrass instrument. The solo tickled Lilly’s ears. During the riff, she scanned the fair mass around her, searching for a belonging of her own. Jared and Clarissa, in their near-matching outfits of unbuttoned flannels, white T-shirts, and cropped blue jeans, swayed nearby. The couple had been one of the few to reach out five months prior and extend more than a benevolent “hope you’re safe” or “everything will be okay.”

The chorus resumed, the lively audience roaring in sync with the crisp stage mics. A different league from Lilly’s show experiences, including Beyoncé and One Direction, the Nashville-born band rocking out at a long-ago roller-skating rink fit her current fate. But the atmosphere’s combined grit and energy kept pouring into a crater—one Lilly had neglected since her cross-country trek in January. Thirty-five hours across four depleting days, most of which were spent monitoring the rearview, willing life as she knew it to follow her like a loyal dog.

“And a wife with a big ol' diamond ring!”

The long-haired vocalist slithered back from the mic, gesturing to one of his left fingers. From afar, Lilly could have mistaken the hand motion for a one-finger salute, but the previous lyric reconciled the harmless signal. How many couples in the building sported decorative promises of their own? Though not one among them, her brother at least seemed on course with Clarissa. Maybe as soon as this year, Lilly would have to block a weekend off for their inevitable wedding and its copious festivities.

The synchronized light show and sporadic dance movements continued, the five folk guys commanding the stage. Less grace than Beyoncé. Less suavity than Harry Styles. But carefree. Jollier. All for ticket prices a fraction of the cost. Lilly shook her head, picturing apples and oranges, as Whit began springing beside her as if he had found an invisible pogo stick.

“I'm waking up!”

The rhythm jumped at the song’s bridge. With the crowd echoing, woahhh—woah-a-ohhh, a bright whiteout shrouded the unified setting. Every band member bounced on beat, inciting a miniature rave in the frontmost audience. Lilly’s fingers tingled as she tapped her front jeans pockets. The crescendo surged with cymbals crashing, the bass throbbing, and the stage lights flickering to and fro. As the anticipated refrain approached, the people sang in unison while the entire band held their hands up, basking in their fans’ a cappella rendition.

“And I’m gettin’ to do it with you.”

Judah rejoined the mic for the last line. A thunder of whistling, hollering, and hand clapping ensued. The overheads faded in, and Lilly glanced at Whit. With forceful applause, he faced the stage like a father watching his first-born win a grade school talent show. An infectious gratitude. Meanwhile, one by one, Judah & the Lion disappeared from the spotlights with a mix of waves and peace signs.

“You okay, sis? We can head out.” Jared, with a soft grin, flicked his chin toward the exit.

“Yeah, sounds good. Following you,” Lilly said, tucking her short hair behind her ears.

With Clarissa’s fingers interlocked with his, Jared joined the semi-glacial march leaving the building.

“Whit, are you coming?” Lilly turned back and tugged at the mesmerized man’s jacket.

“Ahh, damn. Freakin’ love those guys.” He sighed and placed his hand on Lilly’s shoulder, pointing her toward the foot flow.

Lilly lightened at his touch. The temptation to grab her phone for a picture with him swelled, but she might have overthought the situation. That last song—its interpersonal lyrics, the second-person narrative voice. Just a fleeting reality. If he wanted a memory together, he would have said so. Maybe Whit’s media-shyness overpowered his secret affections, if any existed.

Past the merchandise stand, the group transitioned to the rustic entryway. Dingy purple fairy lights and retro event posters hung above. Trailing Clarissa and her signature braid, Lilly wondered how infrequently the full-time barista cut her hair. A calendar year? She had already considered growing out her own to better blend in with the average local. Still adjusting, altogether.

They passed through the propped doorways, and the April mountain air replaced the stale booze scent from indoors. Lilly welcomed the chill on her exposed ankles as if dipping her lower legs into a clear midsummer pool. She turned to check on Whit, still beaming from the experience. Too much ambient chatter persisted for them to slow down and talk. But the Asheville faithful gradually thinned out, scampering across each intersection and alleyway as the four strolled north away from The Orange Peel.

“Okay, so on a scale of one to transcendent, what did you think?” Whit asked as he finally had space to jump beside Lilly and walk backwards to catch her eyes.

She chuckled. “Hmm. How about somewhere in the middle? What would you call that?”

“Aww, c’mon. Please tell me you had more than just a ‘good time.’” He mimicked air quotes while exaggerating a shoulder shrug.

“Oh, yeah. Definitely. But you’re asking about an extremely lofty status, you know?”

Whit spun face-forward as they passed under a buzzing streetlight.

“Right, right, right. Judah might have just as much hair, but he’s no Queen B, that’s for sure.”

“Well, that. And I was hoping to get at least one video, or just, like, a single photo. But I’ll have you know, I honored your bizarre request—that you still haven’t really explained to me, by the way,” Lilly said, tucking her hands into her jacket pockets.

“Ah! That’s amazing. Listen, I was gonna wait ‘til we got back to the parking lot, but I guess now’s a better time.”

“Huh? What’re you talking about?”

“Stop here,” he said, clutching her near elbow. 

Scrunching her eyebrows, Lilly paused as if she was outside the boss’s office after being called in for a “quick chat.”

“Hey, Jared! We’ll meet up with you at the car.”

“Copy—don’t be long, man. Gotta be up early tomorrow!” He called in return, one arm around his girlfriend.

Whit waved him ahead and turned toward Lilly. “Okay, close your eyes for me.”

He tugged at her forearms, releasing her hands from their shelter. Her hesitation faded as he positioned her palms up, an eager smile leaking from his clean-shaven face.

“Okaaay…now what?” she asked in her own darkness.

The rustle of leaves overhead mingled with the random clacks of distant footsteps. Tempted to peek, Lilly jostled her anticipation and immobility by holding her breath. Her lips pinched inwards, rediscovering the minted rose lipstick flavor she had all but forgotten. Something slick and thin rested on her raw fingers, accompanied by a faint crinkle. A photo?

“Open your eyes.”

An orange-tipped upright rocket with JUDAH AND THE LION printed across it anchored the promotional poster. A red circle, like a moon or a sun, in the upper right corner. Black and teal blobs in a cascading background full of teeny dotted stars. A few elephant, donkey, and giraffe silhouettes—that had no business being there—surrounded the white text of Friday, April 13, 2018 at the bottom of the bulletin.

“Whit, this is so cool.”

“Yeah? You dig it?”

“I do. But, like, I don’t understand.” Lilly raised her gaze from the eclectic paper. “What’s this got to do with your wrath against phones?”

Whit lowered his right elbow onto the nearby parking meter, relaxing his stance. “Alright, promise not to call me crazy for this.”

“Yeah, sure,” she offered.

“So, all those people tonight, holding up their cells, recording every song…How many of them actually go back and watch even just one video? If you had to guess?”

“Umm, I don’t know. Probably not many.”

“Not many? I’d go so far as to say none,” he said, forming his left hand into the shape of a zero.

“Well, maybe.”

“I’m telling you—all those pics and clips will get scattered online in the next few days and disappear day after day. And instead of real memories, these people have wasted their time on pixels and stinkin’ kilobytes, pretending like they’re heroes of the modern internet.” Whit scoffed.

Trading glimpses between him and the poster, Lilly crinkled her nose. An entire album of her experience at The Formation World Tour two years ago had slowly suppressed itself within her phone. A fabulous live performance, filtered through a mobile camera lens. And at the moment, she could not recall that set’s opening act.

She straightened her posture. “But they can still have enjoyed themselves, no?”

“Oh, of course. I’m sure most of them did. But there’s this, like, innate reluctance to fully cherish life when you use your phone instead of your eyes.”

A couple dawdled past the two young concertgoers, dodging each other’s eyeline in the sidewalk’s stillness.

“I don’t know. Maybe I’m a lunatic.”

“No, no. I get it—I think,” Lilly said. “The screen acts as some false sense of security, or something. Urr, that’s probably not the right phrase. But, anyway, that’s why you insisted I keep my phone away tonight? Not some Friday the thirteenth superstition?”

“Uh, yeah. Basically. Look, I know this place is still, uhh, growing on you. Just didn’t want your first Asheville concert to get lost in a folder icon somewhere. Is that so crazy?”

Lilly returned Whit’s soft expression, his secretive pre-concert request having come full circle. He cupped her elbow and ushered them away from their temporary post. Jared and Clarissa must have reached the car already, so they had some catching up to do.

“Well, how much do I owe you?” she asked as their strides synchronized.

“Woah. Nothing.”

“No. Stop. I’m paying you for it. How much was it?”

“Ha. That’s the best part, Lilly.” He grinned. “Zilch.”

“Huh? What d’you mean?”

“Let’s just say I borrowed it. Off the bathroom door.”

“Whit!” Lilly gasped. “Are you serious?”

“Oh, totally. Had to time it and wait out a few other guys, but I plucked it right off the door.” He swiped his hands down in front of him as if tidying a bed sheet. “It was almost the end of the show, anyway, and what was the venue going to do with it? Trash it, I bet. Sorry, I had to fold it up in the meantime to hide it.”

Passing under the next streetlight, Lilly tilted her head while twisting the gift. Two creases intersected at the poster’s center. She rubbed her fingers at the upper right corner. Tiny staple holes.

“Aww, well, thank you. I love it.” Impulsively, she slid under his near arm for a walking hug. As their dynamic embrace subsided, Whit cleared his throat.

“Your feet still bothering you, or nah?”

Lilly’s white sneakers passed over a section of fragmented brick cobbles.

“You know, I haven’t thought about them much. Not since the music started, I guess.”

With the absconded poster in hand, Lilly had a new ambition to fulfill by the time they dropped Whit off and reached Jared’s house. To brainstorm at least a few songs for a fresh playlist of hers: Praise The Orange Peel.