Searching for Spider-man

Six boys stuffed into the old Beamer like sardines, tearing down the road 20 miles over the limit. It was the final night of our weeklong trip to Montauk, and we had just received news that we were less than 10 minutes away from Spider-Man. Yes, the real Tom Holland was a stone’s throw away from a group of teenagers who idolized Spider-man for as long as we could remember. 

Riding the euphoric high of our impeccable trip, we raced to where our childhood hero allegedly was, ignoring any logistics or consequences. I sat in the front next to my best friend James, with crinkled Bruno Mars squawking from the Beamer’s busted speakers. Behind me was the rest of the gang; Cmac, Phil, Vincenzo, and Andy piled onto each other in the back seat. Off on another spontaneous adventure that became routine in the days prior. 

Screeching to a halt, James jerked the wheel to the right and whipped into a gravel parking lot.  

“What is this, a car show?” joked Vincenzo in disbelief, as we rolled through the lot packed with luxury vehicles. We were collectively in awe at the extravagance and expensiveness of what we were beholding. Millions of dollars’ worth of cars parked in front of a dive bar. At the front entrance stood a young woman grasping a clipboard with pretentiousness.

“Something tells me we aren’t getting in there,” said James, peering over the steering wheel.  

“We came all the way here, it’s worth a shot,” replied Phil, crawling out of the car.

The rest of us followed suit and huddled around to discuss our plan of entry.

“Let’s just walk right in and look for him,” said Phil with naïve confidence.

As a person who historically neglected to take risks, this ignorant certainty was refreshing. Pushing boundaries has the unique ability to develop oneself through experience. Typically, breaking rules conflicts with my morals, but I wasn’t hurting anyone, so why not?

Phil and I started for the side entrance, leaving our cowardly comrades behind. Briskly moving past the clipboard lady out front frantically informing us that it was a “private venue.” Slipping past people, trying to look inconspicuous in our jammies and sweatshirts amongst a sea of formally dressed individuals.  

“Oh my god we got in,” whispered Phil with the giddy anxiousness of a mischievous child. The bass shook my bones as I was engulfed in neon lights. Sensing the fact that we stood out like sore thumbs, we did not stick around for long. Overwhelmed with flashing lights and blaring music, we shifted our way out of the club. Once outside, we just stood aimlessly next to each other. String lights twinkled overhead the few people strewn across the outdoor dining area. No words were exchanged but it was clear we shared a buzz of exhilaration.

Mere seconds passed when a seemingly average dude with shaggy hair and a cigarette dangling from his mouth strolled past, maybe a foot away from the both of us.  

It was none other than Tom Holland.