The crush of humanity pins me to one spot in the crowded bar. I can’t move, I can barely breathe. Maybe my tolerance for crowds is diminishing—maybe I’m just not up for crowded bars any more. Maybe it’s the people there—they’re not my typical type that I tend to encounter when I usually go out to crowded places. These people are more “real” as some of my friends would say. “Dudes” as one would quip.
The crush of humanity shoves me into one spot when we go elsewhere. Though it’s more my type of crowd, I’m still not feeling it. I’ve been off all day; maybe I woke up on the wrong side of the bed. I leave early.
The crush of humanity on the bus is depressing. I just want to sit down and nod off on my morning commute, but they’ve run a small local bus on the route instead of the large two-part bus. I stand with the other people and get pressed into the same position for the whole ride. My feet hurt by the time I reach the office.
The office is quiet, a slight buzz of activity. The TV is on, showing the finale of the show and we’re frantically making sure the website doesn’t have issues. It does, of course, and by the time we get to the VIP afterparty, which we were all really looking forward to, it’s dying down. The food being served is old and stale; we only have time for two drinks before the close the bar down. The crowd is light, though I’m told there was a crush of humanity earlier.
In my room, alone, I do a postmortem on the past few days. It seems as though I’ve had an emotionally turbulent few days, mostly on the low end. But I remember the crush of humanity with a different view this time. I remember that at least it reminds us that we’re not alone.