The Pepsi People
A little sliver of summer, seen from a bench after the music ended.
The kid’s Pepsi Drip was empty.
That was the first thing I noticed.
He was trailing behind his parents after the concert, holding the cup like he was not quite ready to admit the night was over. There were still a few drops left in it, moving around at the bottom.
His mom was a few steps ahead with a regular 20 ounce Pepsi bottle, nearly finished.
His dad had one too.
Half finished.
And then there was the kid with the Pepsi Drip.
The fancy one.
The concert one.
The one that looked like it cost fifteen dollars for the privilege of being mostly ice and regret.
I was sitting alone on a bench, pretending to rest, but really just people-watching. The concert had just let out, and everyone was spilling out in that loose, sweaty, slightly confused way people do after live music.
Everyone looked happy, tired, overstimulated, and vaguely betrayed by the walk back to the car.
It had been hot and humid all night, but the festival was by the lake, so the air was finally starting to cool down.
Not enough to make anyone fresh.
Just enough to make sitting there feel like a good idea.
The mom had that public-place mom focus. Eyes forward, still somehow aware of everyone behind her.
The dad looked like he had reached the part of the night where finding the car had become a spiritual need.
And the kid looked done.
Not sad.
Just drink-finished, show-finished, too-much-night-finished.
Pepsi Drip.
Empty cup.
That was almost too perfect, but nobody seemed to notice except me.
Which made it better.
You notice things you would usually miss when you are sitting alone after a concert.
Someone barefoot with their shoes in one hand.
A man holding a tour shirt like he had made a serious financial decision and needed a minute.
And then this family.
Mom leading with her almost finished Pepsi.
Dad following with his half finished Pepsi.
Kid behind them with the fancy empty cup.
The whole thing lasted maybe ten seconds.
But there was something perfect about it.
A family leaving a concert together, each carrying their own little proof that they had been there.
The parents still had some left.
The kid had finished his and kept carrying the cup anyway.
And I don’t know.
I think I liked how simple it was.
They saw the show.
They drank their Pepsi.
The kid got the fancy one.
They walked back through the cooling air by the lake.
That was the night.
Sometimes life is not that complicated.
Sometimes it is just a family, a concert, a bench, a lake breeze, two regular Pepsi bottles, and one empty fifteen-dollar cup.
And honestly, that felt like enough.
// Scorpio Veil
If this brought something up for you and you want to work through it privately, I have sessions open.
There’s a free 20-minute inquiry call if you have questions, or a 60-minute Scorpio Veil Session if you’re ready.
