I Almost Died at Ani DiFranco's Show

Warning: May trigger memories of that one thing you did in 2009 that still wakes you up at 2:17 a.m.

It’s my first time seeing Ani DiFranco, and I’m instantly hypnotized. She’s a ferocious little chipmunk. Guitar strings rattle and pop as she scampers across the stage — totally in love with life.

I’m so lost in her spell that I barely notice my wife slip away to get a drink. A few minutes later Melina returns, standing where she was, in front and a little to the left.

I start scratching her back along with some light massaging. This goes on for a couple minutes until the song ends – when a large Black lady turns around. She’s an orbulant beauty.

Orbulant /OR-byuh-lent/: adjective. 1. Round, radiant. 2. Not in the dictionary. 3. Looks nothing like Melina.

“HELLO?!” snaps the stranger in front of me.

I literally levitate off the ground, then cover my face. I try to explain what happened, but die laughing instead — my spirit astral-projecting in self-defense.

Apparently, her husband had gone off to get a drink too, so she thought I was him the whole time.

Then her husband walks up. He looks like Mr. Clean, but with prison-yard tattoos coiling over every bulging muscle. Suddenly the tats start to shape-shift and expand. Nobody spiked my drink. The guy was just flexing.

As he towers over me, I pray that he’s merely big-bear-hug scary and not “Hulk smash!” scary.

Hulk: “Dude, did you just touch my wife?!”

My spirit re-enters the building. Clearly it was needed back on earth. Fight or flight mode kicks in. However, instead of running, I decide to tell a joke instead — see where it goes.

Me: “Yeah, I was scratching her back because I thought she was my wife. Look, my wife is walking up now. She can scratch your back if you want and we can call it even.”

He laughs, which is my face’s cue to turn from pale-white ghost back to pink-white ginger.

What a testament to Ani DiFranco’s talent — that she could entrance two strangers into sharing such an intimate moment, completely unaware of each other’s name, face, or race. Music will always be colorblind like that. And I’ll always be an idiot.

I then do an about-face and power walk to the farthest corner of the club, where I can properly short-circuit in private. I’m still in shock, wiping tears between waves of laughter.

Melina walks up, wearing a familiar look of confusion, but I can only say two words before bursting out into a high-pitched giggle. I sound like a mad scientist but more ridiculous, like Beaker. “I scratched …” is all I can get out.

Later on, we pass the couple and I give Mel a little scratch on the back. They laugh … again. But it’s different this time. I know what mockery looks like. Their eyebrows squinch a bit.

I lower my head, but refuse to surrender.

“Hey, y'all know where to find me if you get an itch.”