Around you, a patchwork of leather jackets, ripped jeans, and hairspray-clad heads stretched toward the venue doors. A girl with teased bangs ahead of you was fanning herself with a folded poster. Behind you, two guys argued about whether Appetite for Destruction would still be playing on the charts by Christmas.

The line inched forward. Not enough to feel like progress, just enough to keep hope alive. Someone's boombox crackled through a cassette, and a few people sang along, voices ragged and off-key, but sincere.

Then, ahead, a ripple of movement. A security guard in a tight black tee popped his head out of the side door, counted heads, and disappeared back inside. The girl with the bangs turned around, eyes wide.