Photograph by Jake Peterson

The Pixies. Look what you were missing, Jesse.

My last encounter with Jesse was nine years ago; it began with him standing, barefoot, outside my downtown Seattle apartment, calling my name from six stories below as he clutched a plastic hospital bag containing a few dirty belongings, completely spun out. Fortunately, I had my window open as I chomped on sugary cereal while watching It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia DVDs. After hearing his call, I shot down the stairwell and let him into my apartment to chill out while I went to grab some sandwiches. When I returned, big red fire trucks surrounded my building, their lights strobing the scene. “Somebody pulled the fire alarm on the sixth floor,” a resident of my evacuated building told me. Fuckin’ Jesse. I ran up the back stairwell and into my apartment to find my iHome speaker completely taken apart and my boots missing. Jesse was gone, both mind and body.

Fast forward to this past May, when I received a Facebook friend request from, you guessed it, Jesse. Only now, his page’s content showed a different man, one who was off drugs and had a new baby boy. I accepted his request; Jesse was responsible for introducing me to a lot of cool ass music back when we spent months underway together in the Navy. Oddly enough, he had also migrated south — to Murrieta — and he asked me if I wanted to go see the Pixies and Modest Mouse with him. Even though our last hang had been anything but spectacular, I agreed and bought the tickets, excited to see the new Jesse, plus a couple of iconic bands that would no doubt evoke time-warping memories. Then he canceled to stay home with his family. Fuckin’ Jesse. At least this time, I couldn’t harbor any anger toward him.

My reliable concert buddy Neekol claimed my extra ticket without hesitation, and when the big night came, we were dropped off just outside an empty Petco Park. The home team was out of town that weekend, but the Sycuan stage in Gallagher Square was ready for a storm. We found our way to the middle of the pack and settled in for the rest of the night. A light drizzle began to fall on us momentarily as king of the dad bands Modest Mouse rocked their elemental tunes. Fun experiment: try listening to “Float On” as the last song of your commute and not have the main riff play over and over in your head throughout the monotonous work day. Can’t be done. It’s in your head right now, isn’t it? It’s okay, just be careful not to lose your mind over it.

Before the Pixies hit the stage, a mostly tame (at least in that moment) crowd shuffled in and out while Neekol and I held our ground. “Do you think it’s risky sending my wife off like that to get beers?” one guy asked his buddy. “If she loves you, she’ll make it back,” he answered. A song or two into the Pixies set, she returned with golden drafts; so wonderful to see true love triumph. However: moments later, we heard some commotion behind us. When I looked back, two dudes were getting ready to throw down. Beer was splashing in the air. Neekol looked at me with wide doe eyes, a deer in the beer fights. “This guy’s rubbing up on my ass!” a drunk and angry concert-goer yelled out. The accused man’s wife told him to the shut the fuck up, turn around, and watch the show. Eventually things simmered down, and our drunk friend was left issuing under-his-breath mutterings that went ignored.

When the opening chords for “Where is my Mind” started, late into the Pixies set, the cell phones came flying out. The timeless tune still resonates with people young and old. A group of young corn-fed Midwest dudes — in-port sailors by the looks of them — started climbing on each other like squealing monkeys that had just found a banana tree. The rest of the crowd howled in tune with Kim Deal’s/Paz Lenchantin’s part of the song. You know which part I’m talking about.

Following a satisfying Pixies set, the lights shined on the crowd, indicating that the concert was over. Neekol and I began walking the Downtown San Diego streets through the Gaslamp, laughing at the block-long lines of people trying to get into the clubs. Not so much laughing at the people, but at the fact that we used to do the same thing, and could not imagine doing so now. Then we continued up to Little Italy, past the rowdy Waterfront Bar, and north until we started seeing signs for the airport. “We could walk to the airport and hop on a plane anywhere,” she joked. Could we really? Would I be out of mind to try, I wondered, or would I be out of my mind not to?