“I just need some air!” I shouted to Kristi as a band on stage finished their cover of a popular heavy metal song. Sweating and panting from my time in the small mosh put, I slithered and squirmed my way past still gyrating bodies sipping lagers and found myself in the brisk October desert night of the Launch Pad’s smoking section. 

Central Street, closed to cars this evening, was swarming with people adorned in feathers, sequins, and costumes of all kinds. The whisper of chill in the air promised mischief and magic. The smoking section itself was street-adjacent, with low ropes separating the lawn tables and chairs with lounging patrons watching the partygoers dancing on the overflowing sidewalks.

“Ah, look at that lion!” proclaimed a man in a beige tracksuit, pointing with the cigarette in his hand.

“No, no, she is a cheetah! A sexy cheetah!” roared another tracksuit-clad man sprawled in a lawn chair next to me.

“Gentlemen, THAT is clearly a leopard. Those are rosettes, definitely not spots. A very sexy leopard,” I corrected them with an air of eloquence that quickly dissipated as my excuse to stand in the smoking section fell from my hand to the ground in a clumsy attempt to catch it.

From my quick glance, it seemed to be a matching set of four or five men, as a chorus of raucous laughter erupted, wiping tears from their eyes and repeating “She’s a leopard!” between bursts of laughter while asking me my name, where I was from, and all that. They all had very thick accents, shiny gold chains, and Eastern European names, which made me wonder if the matching tracksuits were not a group Halloween costume.

“Now, where are you all from? Somewhere in Eastern Europe, maybe?” I asked curiously, trying politely not to hog all the conversation.

Suddenly, all the men’s postures all shifted, and I realized this might not have been a polite move. I was met with suspicion regarding my guess. They were from Serbia, and I quickly had to explain that I had spent some time working with Albanians, which I also quickly clarified was in a restaurant, and very much not as ominous as “working for Albanians” might sound, it had just made me familiar with the sound of eastern european accents. I also added in that my family was from Sweden for good measure, to jusitfy my familiarity with European accents and imply nuetrality hopefully.

This turned out to be an even worse move. “How did you end up working for them? Are you still in contact with Albanians? Let us see your phone; show us you don’t have any Albanians in your contacts,” the questions flew from all directions as I waved my hands, assuring them that I no longer worked in any restaurant, never mind with Albanians, quickly tucking my cellphone into my pocket. They seemed nice enough, but I didn’t like the idea of my cellphone in the hands of a group of strange men.

It took some time, but eventually, they all calmed down, and I cursed myself for not being more well-versed in the politics of Eastern Europe. The oldest-looking and perhaps the unofficial leader of the tracksuit men surveyed the people on the street as I watched him.

“I hate these people,” he grumbled with a sneer, taking a long drag of his cigarette, “Everyone is all so fake. All wearing masks.”

This time it was my turn to roar with laughter. “Well, you chose the wrong weekend to go out if you hate costumes, my guy! It’s Halloween! Of course they’re wearing masks!” I laughed as I clapped him on the shoulder and swigged my beer as the other men joined in with me in some good humored teasing.

At any given point, there were at least two Serbians smoking on the patio, and they occasionally rotated in and out of the bar after one or two quickly smoked cigarettes. After about two changes of guards, I began to think it was maybe time to start heading back in and rendezvous with Kristi.

I was making my way toward the edge of the current group of three Serbians when I caught the eye of one who had seemed particularly perturbed by my Albanian affiliation.

“Hey, are you sure you don’t talk to Albanians anymore?” he said, moving toward me with just the tiniest bit of intensity.

“Oh yeah, man, for sure, I work somewhere else now,” I said, trying my best to seem nonchalant and avoid any sudden movements as I made my way to the front doors of the venue.

“Seriously though, let me see your phone. Hey, where are you going? I need to ask you something!” he said, closing the space between us, just as the door popped open, revealing Kristi’s curious face in the frame.

“No, you don’t!” I said quickly back to him as I shut the door and grabbed Kristi’s arms before plunging us through the door and into the thick crowd around the bar.

“Quick, Kristi! We’re on the run from the Serbians!” I shouted over the music, pulling her toward the stage.

“What do you mean we’re on the run from the Serbians?!” she shouted back incredulously. “I left you alone for 10 minutes!”

“I know! I know! I—”

“THERE YOU TWO ARE!” My explanation was interrupted by Damien Flores, our friend and Albuquerque’s poet laureate. “You CAN’T miss this band! They’re the best!” 

He and our friend Kat, his fiance, ushered us towards the spaces they had saved for us, close to the front. 

And there, as if truly back from the dead, Richie Valens took the stage, and the entirety of Launch Pad forgot what they were doing, launching into a crazed applause.

The Serbians were quickly forgotten as Kristi, Damien, Kat and I twirled around the dance floor in a wild revel as every voice in the building joined the chorus of “La Bamba,” and the Launch Pad became a place of halloween magic that had brought the music back from the dead.

Hours later, we stumbled and laughed our way back to krist’s car  with ringing ears, sore feet, and wide grins plastered across our faces as I feverishly recounted my strange encounter with the men in tracksuits, and we gushed about the costumes of all the bands that had played that evening.

The Night of the Living Cover Bands was certainly a night to remember, and I recommend any wayward ghouls to make their way this Halloween over to the Launch Pad for an unforgettable evening.