Sometimes people do something that makes you shake your head over their selfishness.
But, karma has a way of catching up to those types… usually in hilarious fashion.
Funny how it wasn’t the music that stuck with me. It was the man standing in front of me, holding a giant tablet above his head like a shield.
And the universe? Well, it handled him in a way I never could.
Front Row Frustration
I could feel the bass vibrating through the soles of my boots. The air was electric, buzzing with the chatter of hundreds of fans packed shoulder-to-shoulder, all of us clinging to our spots near the stage.
The artist we came for was about to take the stage, and I was exactly where I wanted to be—close enough to see the sweat on her brow, to feel the pulse of the music in my chest.
“This is perfect,” my friend, Lila, grinned beside me, adjusting the denim jacket tied around her waist. “Worth getting here three hours early.”
I laughed. “Yeah, my feet totally agree.”
We both knew we wouldn’t have it this good if we hadn’t staked out this spot. The crowd thickened by the second, filling every inch of the floor. I glanced around, soaking it all in—the excited faces, the soft glow of stage lights warming up.
Then, like a dark cloud creeping in on a sunny day, he arrived.
He was in his 40s, wearing cargo shorts and a polo that strained slightly at the buttons. He pushed forward, muttering a half-hearted “’Scuse me” as he wedged himself directly in front of me. Then, without so much as a glance back, he hoisted a massive tablet—easily the size of a small TV—high above his head.
My mouth opened slightly.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Lila muttered.
The screen lit up, casting a harsh glow on his face as he tapped around, lining up the perfect shot.
“Maybe he’ll put it down after the first song,” I whispered, though even I didn’t believe it.
“Or maybe we should accidentally spill our drinks on him,” Lila shot back, half-joking.
I tried to focus on the stage, but the tablet filled my vision. Bright, glaring, and completely in the way. I could barely see the mic stand, let alone the person who was about to stand behind it.
People around us exchanged irritated glances. One girl behind me sighed loudly. A guy to the left tried to shift for a better view but only managed to bump into someone else.
I clenched my fists. I wanted to say something. But the words caught in my throat, tangled in that awkward place between not wanting to make a scene and knowing someone should.
The lights dimmed.
And just like that, the show began—with a glowing tablet blocking my view.
Through the Looking Glass
The crowd erupted as the artist finally took the stage, her silhouette cutting through beams of golden light. Her band launched into the opening chords of one of her most popular songs, and the floor shook as thousands of voices joined hers.
Well, almost thousands.
He wasn’t singing.
No, he was holding his tablet steady, arms locked, framing every move the performer made through a screen. He zoomed in. He zoomed out. He tilted slightly to the left, then back to the right.
“Is this real life?” Lila hissed in my ear.
I stared, willing him to feel the weight of my glare. But he was in his own world, absorbed in his private movie-making session.
A couple behind us grumbled. Someone muttered something that sounded like “Put it down, man”, but he didn’t flinch.
Instead, he chuckled—chuckled—and said, “Relax, it’s for my followers. They couldn’t make it.”
I nearly laughed. Followers? Was he some kind of influencer? With a tablet?
I looked at Lila, whose eyes were narrowed into daggers. She leaned toward me. “Let’s move.”
But I didn’t move. Not yet.
Because deep down, I knew something. People like him? They don’t stop. You can nudge them, glare at them, even ask politely, and it won’t make a difference.
They only learn when something bigger than them decides to teach them.
And as the artist’s voice soared over the crowd, I had no idea that lesson was coming a lot sooner than any of us thought.
The Spotlight Turns
Halfway through her set, the artist paused, letting the final note of her latest song stretch into the air. The crowd roared, but she just stood there, gripping the mic stand with a sly smile tugging at the corner of her lips.
Then she spoke.
“You know,” she began, her voice smooth and teasing, “I always think I’ve seen it all at these shows. But every night, someone proves me wrong.”
Laughter rippled through the crowd. I felt a flicker of anticipation, like the singer was winding up for something.
She shaded her eyes and scanned the audience.
“I see a lot of phones out tonight. And hey, I get it. We all want memories. But sometimes I wonder… are you here with me, or are you just collecting evidence you were?”
Another wave of laughter.
And then it happened.
The stage lights shifted. A bright, narrow spotlight cut through the crowd and landed—squarely—on that guy with the tablet.
For a heartbeat, the world stopped.
Then the crowd erupted into laughter.
His giant tablet glowed like a neon sign, practically radiating smugness. The bright screen illuminated his frozen expression, his arms awkwardly locked in the air.
People started clapping. Someone let out a long, sharp whistle.
The guy’s face turned beet red.
The singer leaned into the mic, grinning. “Buddy, you filming a concert or directing a nature documentary?”
The crowd howled.
The man didn’t move at first. Then, slowly, stiffly, he lowered the tablet to his chest, his eyes darting side to side.
The spotlight snapped off.
The singer winked. “Okay, now that we’re all here, how about we make this next part unforgettable?”
The energy in the room shifted. The crowd buzzed, more alive than before, as the artist turned back to the band.
But that guy?
He shrank into himself, clutching his precious tablet like a security blanket.
And for the first time all night, he wasn’t the center of attention.
Karma’s Got 100% Battery
The music roared back to life, louder and more electric than ever. Ava was in her element, commanding the stage, pouring herself into every lyric.
I swayed with the crowd, finally able to enjoy the show without the glare of that tablet in my face.
But not him.
I glanced at the guy just in time to see him hesitantly raise his tablet again, angling it cautiously, like he thought he could still save face.
And then—click.
His screen went black.
The guy blinked. Tapped the screen. Nothing.
He jabbed the power button. Nothing.
He shook it, as if that might magically bring it back to life.
But it was done.
Dead battery.
The universe’s little exclamation point.
He stared at the dark screen, his mouth moving soundlessly, as if arguing with it.
But the music didn’t wait for him.
The artist belted out the final chorus, the crowd singing along in full force. The lights spun, the energy hit its peak, and for one perfect moment, everything was exactly as it should be.
Except for the man with the tablet.
He stood there, frozen, gripping a lifeless piece of glass and plastic while everyone else was completely here.
I almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
But I didn’t waste much thought on it.
When the final note faded and the lights dimmed, he didn’t wait. He shoved the dead tablet under his arm and pushed his way through the crowd, head down.
Lila let out a breathy laugh. “Guess karma doesn’t need a charging cable.”
I smiled but didn’t say anything.
Some lessons don’t need words.
As the crowd cheered and the lights came back up, I realized something.
Some moments are too big for screens.
They’re meant to be lived, not saved.