The Crush by Scott Monk

me—’
    â€˜No, with this brunette. I heard she’s already got a fella.’
    â€˜I know.’
    â€˜You do? And you’re still interested in her? Mate, don’t do it. She’s off limits.’
    â€˜That’s okay. She’s just a friend.’
    â€˜A female friend. And gorgeous too. They’re the deadliest kind. You either fall in love with them or spend the rest of your life regretting that you didn’t.’
    â€˜I’m not going to fall in love with her, all right. Besides, we’ve only talked once.’
    â€˜That’s all it takes.’
    â€˜Says who, Mr Chick-expert-himself?’
    Matt pushed his buddy away and they both laughed.
    â€˜Forget about her,’ Chris said. ‘There will be hundreds of babes at the concert. I’ll try not to steal them all away from you.’

Forty thousand people suddenly hushed as the lights dimmed across the forecourt of the Sydney Opera House. Eyes focused on the gigantic makeshift stage rigged with amps, guitars, drum kits, control boards, microphones and massive television screens. Sweaty young guys and girls squashed together straining to hear the first note. Fans lining the nearby rock out-cropping pressed their faces between metal fencing, while those celebrating on boats and yachts bobbed in the harbour, which was rusting under the orange twilight. Delightfully nervous, one girl finally called out the name of her favourite singer and triggered off a litany of other names. People were desperate to see some of music’s biggest stars. They needn’t have worried. The delay was all part of the act.
    Boom! Silver fireworks rocketed into the air, the crowd erupted into chaos and fast fingers blasted out furious riffs as the first band leapt into view. Suddenly, the forecourt became one large maelstrom of singing and dancing. Kamikaze kids threw themselves into the mosh pit. Eager groupies clambered onto the stage to touch their heroes. Yellow-shirted security guards pushed them back. Bands screamed and shouted.
    The concert had everything: babes, bouncers, beach balls, moshers, tats, headbangers, westies, Goths, screamers, dreamers, teenyboppers, indie poppers, waxheads, weirdos, freaks, geeks, water hoses and sweet sixteen flirters with more than music on their minds. There were people with earrings, nose rings, navel rings, tongue rings and of course a yuppie with a mobile phone that always seemed to ring. Others had blue hair, green hair, streaked hair, spiked hair or no hair.
    Caught up in the excitement, Matt and Chris fought their way through the brutes, babes and body odour towards the stage. They hoisted themselves onto a barrier and faced tens of thousands of people writhing, shouting and screaming in front of them. They had to be mad.
    Wa-hoo! They jumped.
    Oomph! Hands caught Matt’s legs, arms and back as he bombed into the seething mosh pit. They twisted, rolled, poked and groped him as he rode over the crowd. Fingers ran along his clothes and skin like millions of ants, which were carrying him like a giant morsel of food. Their touch was ticklish. The thrill was feverish. He didn’t know where he was going. He didn’t care. This was so wicked.
    The tide of hands gradually weakened until it broke. Crunch! He crashed face-first on the ground.
    Knees and boots jabbed him as the crowd danced to a new song. Dazed, Matt struggled to resurface for air. He’d lost his bearings, not to mention Chris. Scouting the other ‘surfers’, he spotted his mate still afloat and yelled out, ‘All right!’ Chris answered by thumping his fists into the air.
    â€˜How cool was that!’ the Sundance Kid shouted when they regrouped. His shirt was ripped and he’d lost a shoe. ‘It’s in the mosh pit somewhere. But look who I found.’
    Rhino, Grover and Hazem squeezed through the crowd, soaked with sweat and water.
    â€˜Matty!’ Hazem shouted, grabbing his captain by