Everyone has something to do on a Friday night in Manhattan. It’s always been this way: 1996, 1896, or 2023, the streets are hot even if there’s snow on the ground. One of the only things that’s never changed about the city that paves over itself regularly with zero sentimentality is its activity—the city that never sleeps. Not even in a blizzard. Paul was from New Jersey, but he knew this. He factored in traffic and commuter trains and subway waits and did make it into Manhattan before the sun set at 4:45. But he killed too much time with Meredith on the train, in the movie theater, and in the Virgin Megastore; realizing how late he actually was, he ran from Meredith without saying goodbye in Union Square, a mistake he only knew he made in the cab on the way to The Academy.
First of all, how could he have found a cab? The blizzard had calmed down, but the streets were a mess. When Paul got picked up by Forbidden Planet, he didn’t bother looking up to see the angel that saved him, the man who’d take him to see The Smashing Pumpkins. He didn’t plan on taking a cab, and the only cash he had was for merch: exclusive t-shirts, posters, maybe even a flexi disc or a tour-only CD. But this was an emergency: The Academy was on 43rd between 7th and 8th, right by the Wax Museum. He had 20 minutes, there was no way he could’ve walked and found his way in time. He already knew he’d be at the end of the line, and even with a custom ticket that would guarantee entry, he realized how far back he would be, and how much of the show he’d only see from behind other peoples’ heads.
Other people who didn’t know the Pumpkins like he did.
People who didn’t know who Bugg Superstar was.
Or “June,” or the recurring phrase “My one and only…”
And how the first and final song on both discs of Mellon Collie are the exact same length.
These would be casual fans. The band promoted these club shows as gifts to their true fans, and set up a complicated and confusing custom ticketing system that prevented scalpers from re-selling tickets. The January-February 1996 tour, or the “Pajama Shows” as they’re known in the community, are regarded as the high point of the band, a tour where they opened for themselves (in their pajamas) playing mostly acoustic and softer songs, before playing a full rock set and multiple encores. All of these shows ran over three hours long. They remain some of the most powerful live rock performances in history.
And Paul would have to see it all from the back, probably by the bar, next to a bin where everyone threw their bottles. He wasn’t happy in that cab. I was sitting up front with the driver, who took Paul’s directions but never said a word. When they got to The Academy, Paul almost jumped out without paying, but he pulled out a wad of singles, fives, and a couple of 20s, and gave them all to the driver. Paul looked up as he handed over all of his cash, telling Peter Wolf to keep the change as he hopped right out of there and into the venue. I looked at him run in; Peter Wolf was beaming, finally happy he could help someone—even if Paul didn’t listen. I told him he was like a guardian angel. He looked at me and said, stone cold serious, “all wolves go to Heaven.” He smiled and we sped off to meet Meredith at the convention center.
But of course Meredith was already in a cab, right behind us; we missed her by a minute. Paul was looking for the entrance to The Academy—there was no line in sight, no sign of a concert anywhere nearby, and he was lost again, walking in circles in front of The Academy unsure where to enter. He looked up at 43rd and saw Meredith hop out of a cab and run towards him. As she ran, she slipped, but before she could fall, Paul ran and caught her in the snow. He held her there in his arms, on his knees in the snow, and they both looked at each other, dazed and confused and finally happy together. They stared into each other’s eyes, saying nothing, lost in a moment only broken by the doors of The Academy swinging open. “Is anybody even going to come tonight?” The bouncer went back in and continued his conversation with someone else.
Paul and Meredith got up and dusted themselves off. They looked at each other again, saying nothing, before Meredith broke the silence: “I just wanted to make sure you made it.” Paul smiled. “I forgot something.” Meredith leaned in and kissed him. They held each other’s faces as they kissed the snow, oblivious to the sounds of the city and the eerie calm of that weekend. It was a Friday night in Manhattan, and even in a blizzard, people have things to, places to be. Meredith hugged Paul and said, “I’ll see you later,” as she hopped right back into the cab she got out of and jetted off to her own appointment with Mr. Enzo B. Bucci.
Paul looked up at the sky, tried to find stars, couldn’t, and then walked into The Academy. He showed his ticket and his ID and his receipt to the doorman, and walked into… an empty venue. The stage was set, and The Pumpkins were set to play in less than 20 minutes. Paul looked around and cautiously made his way up front. This place was tiny, a fraction of Terminal 5, and he couldn’t believe how close he was able to get to the stage—right against the barrier. As he approached the front, someone behind the bar said something about people finally showing up, and they did, about 10 minutes after Paul sat down in front of the stage to see his favorite band, The Smashing Pumpkins, the biggest band in the world in January 1996. The Academy filled out, and Paul saw the whole show from the front, just as it happened, once upon a time in Manhattan.
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