A few weeks ago, I went out to an APR event, largely because it was live music, but more importantly, because Will Kimbrough was on the bill. And I knew going into this what I could expect: a crowd that would be a rather eclectic mélange, a clumpy stew of folks you like and folks you wonder why nobody has yet killed. There would be young folks, old folks, APR folks, music folks, hip folks, smelly folks, overdressed folks, dancing folks, bad-dancing folks, stodgy folks…and the woman who sat in front of me.

But far more delightful was the young woman sitting to my right, across the vacant seat between us. She was dark-haired, fresh-faced, and smiling, as we all would’ve if we were as cute as she was (and presumably still is) and were wearing that stunning little green sundress. As she glided past the people on my row, several of us reached out to feel the fabric of her dress, slowing her down only long enough to tell her how great she looked. Her response was to smile warmly, thank us, and then giggle out how little money she’d actually paid for her “little get-up.” She truly had that Reese-Witherspoon-why-can’t-the-world-be-filled-with-people-like-this quality.

Now that isn’t to say that everyone was taken by this young woman. You see, there was that woman, the one who was sitting in front of me. Her shoulders visibly shook when we complimented this young woman and while others turned to admire her when we spoke, she steeled herself and looked straight ahead. I chalked up this behavior to this woman’s attempts to deal with her own personal tragedies, the ones that were evident to everyone. Not only did she carry herself as someone whose few, close friends were admitted to her inner circle simply because they were polite enough to omit the “fucking” before calling her a bitch, but she had troubles far more readily apparent—anyone could see that she’d oh-so obviously been the recent victim of cosmetic surgery, a procedure that required the employment of that rare combination of a surgeon’s delicate scalpel and some industrial-sized suctioning device. The tragic results were that her cheekbones lay slightly below her thin skin, giving her a stark, startled and startling look. But I did think I knew her from somewhere—she looked strikingly familiar, indeed, but I wasn’t sure if it was because I knew her, I’ve lived in this town for too long, or if she simply resembled some flesh-starved cadaver from some trashy CourtTv show I’d seen.

All of that said, it was also obvious that the one thing about this woman that has likely kept her alive and away from the throat-crushing grips of reality was money and the society that loves it. Up to that evening, nobody had likely ever said to her that she looks like shit and that if her checkbook dried up, there wouldn’t be a soul alive who’d speak to her. That’s right—nobody had ever dared to be honest with her and it was desperately overdue.

Will Kimbrough opened the show and took to the stage all alone. If you’ve never seen Will or heard of him, he’s an absolutely phenomenal guitarist who electrifies any band with whom he plays, but when he hits the stage alone, well, he’s a delightful performer. He’ll wow you with his guitar and thoroughly entertain you with his songs….if you’re willing to…um…listen. But if you’re a thin-skinned, aging woman who is fighting time along with the rest of the undesirables, it’s seemingly acceptable to sigh loudly during his set and hiss to everyone around you, “I’m tired of this guy and ready for The Avett Brothers.” Oh yeah, and don’t forget to correct his grammar even if the corrections break the rhyme scheme and capsize the purpose of the song. And be sure to shout that out too.

As was to be expected, Will did, indeed, after performing for about an hour, leave the stage and, again, as was to be expected, The Avett Brothers came out. Of course when wildly talented hotties step out in front of a crowd of fans, as was to be expected, people stood, jumped, clapped, screamed, and whistled. And, as was to be expected, this was completely inappropriate behavior in the world run by the woman who sat in front of me.

However, when the music started up and folks sat down, the woman in front of me seemed to settle into enjoying the show, lightly rapping her fingers in rhythm on her bent knees. But The Avett Brothers, in spite of their traditional instruments, are a lively bunch and they inspire folks to, well, move…to get up…to dance…to do more than sit in your fucking chair and rap your fingers in rhythm to some of the liveliest music out there. And thus, folks responded as they usually do when live music is being played in their presence: they stood up. And danced. Much to the dismay of the woman who was sitting in front of me.

Now my problem, I suppose, is that my youth was spent on a softball field and not in charm school, so I can’t always predict what is considered to be acceptable behavior to such society folks. Thus I was more than a bit surprised when the woman who was sitting in front of me started hurling ice at the people in front of her, those rabble-rousers who were standing, dancing. But since she’d spent her youth in charm school and not on a softball field, her throws, at best, were errant and short, pinging off the shoulders and heads of people behind, to the left, and to the right of the folks who were her intended targets. And to get away from being pelted with ice, these folks reacted by…standing up and dancing.

And then, when a particularly lively song ended, a crowd favorite that had inspired almost everyone to dance and sing along, there was an eruption of applause. And shouts. And whistles. And shrieks. From the young woman next to me in the green dress.

The woman who was sitting in front of me wheeled around quickly, affecting her delicate Southern charm by slightly touching her breast bone with her fingertips with one hand as she tapped the knees of woman in the green dress with her other hand. “Excuse me, please, I’m so sorry, but stop that shrieking.”

And this is the point at which the young woman in the green dress became my hero, the point at which she mocked the Southern grace of the woman sitting in front of me by touching her own breast bone with her fingertips with one hand, and graciously reaching out with her other hand as she said, “Excuse me, please, I’m so sorry, but weren’t you just throwing ice at people? Didn’t I just see you sitting there throwing ice at people?”

Before that moment I’d thought her thin-skin had been stretched so as to be completely incapable of expression, but the woman who was sitting in front of me looked more shocked than ever. Her fingertips fell slowly from her chest and towards the back of her seat as she gathered herself and steadied for a more forceful attack. “Your shrieking, young lady, I’m asking you to stop it. Now. It is inappropriate and it is bothering me. I shouldn’t have to put up with you while I am trying to enjoy this music.”

The young woman in the green dress maintained her position, however, by leaving her mocking fingertips on her breastbone with her other hand graciously extended and repeated, “Excuse me, please, I’m so sorry, but weren’t you just throwing ice at people? Didn’t I just see you sitting there throwing ice at people?”

About then, The Avett Brothers launched into another song and the young woman in the green dress did exactly what only my hero would do: she shrieked. Again. In the face of the woman who was sitting in front of me.

My chuckles were muted by the music as I watched the woman who was sitting in front of me. She had turned around quickly, looked toward the stage without looking at the stage, and her rage was palpable. After a minute or so, she handed her drink to her friend sitting next to her, reached beneath her seat for her purse, and then when she retrieved her drink from her friend she said “Watch this!”

It was then that the woman stood up and turned, facing the people behind her, and started edging her way towards the end of the aisle. When she got in front of the young woman wearing the green dress, she stumbled over the feet of the seated folks and tripped. Or so she wanted us to think. You see, because she had spent so much time in charm school and so very little time in acting class, it was obvious that it was no accident when she stumbled…and threw her drink into the lap of the young woman wearing the green dress.

Again, I didn’t spend much time in charm school. Ok, I didn’t spend a day in charm school. Not even an hour. I didn’t even fucking know where it was. So that little display of social grace took me by surprise.

I put my hand over my mouth and said “Oh my, trash comes in all forms.” Ok, ok, I'll be honest here--I didn't do it in that order....likely because, um, I really didn’t spend a day in charm school and thus I was heretofore unaware that the proper sequence of such activities is that one is to put one's hand over one's mouth BEFORE one blurts out such things. But now I know. But I didn’t that night. And so I shouted out that the thin-skinned fucking bitch was a piece of trash and THEN I covered my mouth. And it was then that her friends stood up and left, of course, following a different route than did their quickly-departing buddy.

The friend of a friend who was seated next to me turned to her friend, who raced to the front office and returned with a big, thick, absorbent towel. The young woman in the green dress was grateful as she used it to sop up the soft drink that had splattered across her dress and then she did what only true heroes do: she stood up and danced her stunning little green dress dry.

So next weekend, I’ll brave the crowds when I venture out again, this time to see Wolfmother. I doubt the facelift crowd will be present, but if they are, you can bet your ass that I’ll be searching for another hero.