I was a Survivor contestant once, not really (Woodstock 94 journal)

August 10, 1994

 

We are at Paula Breen’s house to figure out the plan. Our friends, Dano and his sister, Sally and Todd Winston and Paula already have their Woodstock tickets that include transportation. Two hundred dollar tickets. On the other hand, Rich and I have no ticket or transportation. As far as we know we may end up thumbing to Saugerties, New York. If we can’t hop the fence then we’ll just flock together with the other thousands trying to crash the show. I’m pretty confident we will get in. I don’t even think it’s close to sold out yet.

            As Paula mixes three White Russians, we study the official Woodstock pamphlet with its rules: no alcoholic beverages, drugs, bottles, pans, lanterns, grills or open fires… it’s a long list and honestly sounds very Unwoodstockian. At designated areas one must change regular money into Woodstock money in order to buy things from vendors. Not good. I almost wouldn’t regret not hopping the fence and just digging the music and scene from outside the fences.

            Paula brushes by Dano in the kitchen. He is nearly done. He has drilled out holes in the coconut shells, drained them of its juice, refilled them with rum and resealed the holes with melted candle wax.

            “I might try watermelons next,” he says.

            “You will regret paying two bills for those tickets,” I said.

            Rich smiled. Cigarette smoke wafted around his stubbly face.

            In the end, come Friday we decide we’ll blow off work and take our chances driving to New York in my beat up, rusty, oil leaking, uninsured, outdated sticker piece of crap car and if it breaks down we’ll just abandon it and thumb the rest of the way.

 

            Well on Thursday, Rich called me on the phone. He says our friends Rick Emerson and Deb Benoit bought tickets and asked if we wanted to come along for the ride. Amazingly, the ticket price had been jacked up to 275.00 a piece.

 

            Friday. It’s three o’clock and the sun washes over the windshield. We are driving west on route 90. Today Major League Baseball went on strike. I don’t care; the Red Sox are in 4^th place, 17 games behind first place Yankees. News on the radio about the concert has crashers already going under the fences.

            “In broad daylight?” asks Rich.

            The DJ also says that their station has sent out scout parties with instructions to tangle with the fences so people can get free access. This news pumps me up.

            Her station wagon cruises along the New York State Thruway. I turn around where my bag is laid out in the back and rummage through my things— sleeping bag, clothes, sweaters and shorts, toilet paper, smokes, money and camera. I also have a pair of ski pants and a half gallon bottle of whiskey wrapped up inside the pants.

            “How are you getting your bottle in?” I asked.

            Rick looked at me and explained that they are going to pour the half gallon bottle of rum into two huge Ziploc bags, double layer them and tuck the bags into their pillow.

 

            The car began to over heat. We pull into a Burger King parking lot to let it cool. We buy some food and wait out the engine. A Volkswagen bus rattles into a space behind us. It is painted red, white and blue with pictures of Beavis and Butthead on the door. When the door pushes open, a cloud of smoke follows the kid out and the kid actually looks like Beavis with a crop of tall blond hair and skinny frame. Rich looks at me. “Fire… fire,” he says. I can’t help but laugh.

             Rich opens the hood and it looks like things have finally cooled down.

            “What a weekend. Sun, music, alcohol and girls. What a time to be single,” I said.

            I climb on top of the car and eat my sandwich, swinging my legs restlessly. Rich gently twists the radiator cap.

            Pop! HISSSSSSS. I watch in horror as an endless stream of hot red water shoots all over a white van parked in front of us. When it subsides Rich quickly refills the radiator while me and Rick take some napkins and old cloths and try wiping down the van but instead we only make it worse, coloring the van autumn red. We were just lucky no one was in the van. I can only imagine the van driver sitting there, relaxing and about to bite into his Whopper when suddenly his windshield is drowned in red water. We bailed out of there quickly, laughing our socks off though.

 

            We are close to the Hudson River. Once we hit the Taconic State Parkway, we mix huge drinks. And then when we reach Ulster County we stop into a convenient store to buy smokes and Pepsi only to discover the merchant was taking advantage of Woodstock and jacking up all prices and there was nothing we could do.

            Deb asked the clerk how far we were from the green dot parking zone.

The clerk looked up from her newspaper.

            “You’re about 15 miles from any parking. Then it’s another 30 to the concert,” said the clerk.

            “What do you mean?”

            “They have shuttle busses from all the parking zones that bring everyone the concert.”

            This can’t be true, I thought.

            She continued. “You can’t drive to the concert because all the roads within 30 miles are blocked off.”

            I look at Rich, my mouth agape. As Rich studies a local map, Rick cruises the junk food aisle.

            “That can’t be right. How did the fence jumpers get to the show?” I asked.

            “I don’t know. Maybe the radio lied,” said Rich.

            “Now what?”

            “We’ll thumb or walk or something,” he said.

            Meanwhile the sun is setting quickly.

 

            As we approach the towns along the parking zones, the small country roads suddenly become filled with other vehicles, searching for parking too and everyone else seems lost, traveling in circles. Cars in front of us hit their brakes. Drivers consult maps. Rotaries become jam packed and nothing seems to be clearly marked at all. Finally we spot signs that signal the grey dot parking zone and at this point we put down our maps and directions and just weave along the best we can until finally, we cross paths with the green dot zone.

          At the parking lot entrance, Deb shows her ticket package to security and he waves us through and we are directed into the far back of massive field. The ride is bumpy and I spill whiskey on my shorts.

            “We made it, man!”

            “This place looks like a huge Dead show,” I said.

            Huge crowd. Kegs of beer. Bong smokers. Radios blare from every other vehicle. Frisbees soar through field. Hacky sack circles. Scents of sausage and burgers cooking on grills and weed lofting all around. License plates from California, Chicago, Louisiana— from states near and far. Rich and I make rounds with neighboring parties, tell jokes, talk about music and swap whiskey drinks for beer. One rumor is that Soundgarden is playing here this weekend. I drink more whiskey; each cup stronger than the next. We pass three bare chested men sitting on fold up chairs holding a sign that says: Need a miracle. We need a plan. Thirty miles is a lengthy walk for two would-be drunks at night. We made it this far— who knows? Anything can happen.

            Night now and the four of us make our way toward the shuttle bus area. The amount of partying going on is unbelievable. Rich walks behind me, his heavy camping gear seems to slow him a little. Rick and Deb stay ahead and every once in awhile Deb twirls around to check on us. Rick, as is his personality remains relatively quiet and carries his and her bags. I see a tall chain link fence and behind it are a bunch of yellow school buses. The closer we get, the thicker the crowd and the wait.

            “What’s going on?”

            “Metal detectors?”

            “Did we come to the right Woodstock?” asked Deb.

            Sure enough, they had fences and metal detector check points set up and only one way in. We follow the slow moving crowd, unsure what to do. On the ground is a mass collection of beer cans, wine jugs, liquor and plastic soda bottles. Everyone is huddled together, drinking and smoking. Our booze is in Rich’s bag. As we near security, we see that there are actually fifteen to twenty lines as rows of security check through backpacks and pocketbooks. Rick and Deb reach the check point and Rick is ordered to drop his bags. I turn and look at Rich who’s head is hung low.

            “Wait here,” I said. “I’ll see if I can get through first without a ticket.”

            Deb is searched and then it’s my turn. I drop my tent, my bag. He scans my body. He pours through my bag, swishing around in it freely. I can see Rick and Deb waiting by the fence. To my right, an officer is dumping out liters of booze like water.

            “Okay. Move along,” he tells me.

            I join Rick and Deb. They were ordered to exchange their tickets for white Woodstock wristbands. An old man wearing a tie dye t-shirt sits on a stool with a box full of them.

            “Where’s Rich?” asked Rick.

            “Out there, somewhere.”

            We carry our bags into a corner sectioned off by orange cones near the buses. Buses fill up fast and the passengers roar with cheers at each departure. I don’t know what to do. As time passes I’m beginning to wonder if Rich thought, fuck it and decided to walk. Then I get an idea.

            “I bet I can sneak out of here, find Rich and get back in here with our bottles.”

            “Go for it,” said Rick.

             I smoke a cigarette and observe the scene. I ramble over to the cones, fairly sure no one has noticed me and I dash behind the buses and back into the parking lot. I wind my way around parked cars, probably cars that belong to the workers here and when I see people up ahead I crouch down and make my way to the last car. I can see the gate where we came in and the swelling crowds passing through baggage check.

            “RICH!”

            A few drunks answer in slurred unison. I call out again but, no Rich. I stumble out, half running toward the parking lot entrance where security either doesn’t notice me or doesn’t care and I pass them out into the street. Down the road a figure appears under the street lamp, arm extended. It has to be him and I run some more, shouting his name until he realizes it’s me. We backtrack the way I came, dodging security and flashlights.

           

           As we board the bus, the driver, a pretty woman, does not ask or check us for wristbands. Once on, stowed in the back of the bus we break out with a quiet round of high fives and smiles. We immediately begin making rum and Cokes for our fellow travelers, who lost all their alcohol at the gate. Bob from Rhode Island is amazed that we got here without tickets; he is even more amazed at how strong we make our drinks. I make drinks. I drink my own drink. The bus moves on bouncing down the road. Joints are passed around like hors d’oeuvres. Passing buses with open windows are waving and smoking and screaming joyously.

            It was at least a half hour ride to the concert and was so glad we didn’t have to walk or thumb. But we had made it. Mission accomplished. Bob from Rhode Island says he heard there was more security to pass but I didn’t care. I was here.

            We jump off the bus. There are no metal detectors or security stations, no police dogs (another rumor); the four of us move along with the multitudes and just walk right inside with no particular destination in mind. Here we are, Woodstock 94.

            Deb tells us she had plans to meet up with Paula Breen, Dano and Todd Winston at something called Fantastic Voyage. We side-stepped our way across a sea of tents looking for a place to set up our own. We pass one party after another and it’s just the craziest atmosphere I’ve ever been in. I hear the band Candlebox jamming in the distance but I can’t tell if it’s the North or South stage.

            Finally after what seemed a good ten minute walk, we came to a clear section of grass. I immediately, sort of drunkenly begin to set up my tent. Some kid strolls up to us and tells us security won’t allow camping there but I don’t care, in fact, I yell out to a few people watching to join us. A dozen or so people join Rich and I as we pound our stakes into the ground. Wouldn’t you know it but here comes security threatening us to move or there would be trouble. Rich and I won’t budge. It’s a perfect spot to set up a tent we say, out of harm’s way. Suddenly more security join the discussion and that ends our bid for camp.

            The four of us are back on foot, wandering aimlessly now. The dirt path has trees on both sides. Up ahead two young pretty girls are on the path trying to set up their tent right there on the path. They are on their knees struggling to push the poles through the tent sleeves. I stop and make small talk with them. They are there for the weekend. They live in Wisconsin. Rich pries me away from Sarah knowing my ability to get lost easy. We march on. Then we stop at a Porto-John so Deb can go the bathroom.

            “Rich, watch my stuff. I’ll be right back,” I said.

            “Where are you going?”

            “Just going to take a piss.”

            “No you’re not. You’re going back to those girls,” he said.

            “Just taking a piss. Be right back.”

 

            And the next thing I remember… I’m with a girl named Pauline. I don’t know where or how we met but we’re mud sliding on hill that is wet from all the running water from the spigots left open. Up and down we go. The mud is pasty and soft and it looks like brown Quickcrete on our bodies. We slide down on our backs, stomachs and at the bottom we roll over and flop in the puddles. We are covered from head to toe in mud. A crowd cheers us on, laughing. I yell out for them to join the fun but no one wants to get dirty. I take Pauline’s hand squeeze it and we plunge down the hill one last time. We kiss and embrace at the bottom.

            We meet her friends back at the top by the water supply. I’ve lost my shirt. All I’ve got on is my shorts and sneakers covered in mud. She sits beneath the spigot letting the water wash off the mud. I try and do the same but I hop back up.

            “It’s freezing,” I said.

            “Pussy,” she said.

            I don’t care; I’d rather be dirty.

            “Hey, um, I lost my friends. I have no idea where my tent and backpack is. Can I stay in your tent tonight?” I asked.

            “Not like that.”

            I crawl back under the water, shivering my ass off.

            Her friends guide us to their tents. Along the way, a stranger gives me a warm flannel shirt. As we hike through the darkness, I hear Violent Femmes playing Add it up, crashing through the night. The path suddenly becomes uneven— rocks, fallen trees and split earth.

            Too drunk to remember more and that is that.

 

           

Saturday. I wake with a truck parked on my tongue. I shift to the left but my elbow slams into a boulder; then to the right where another rock causes me to open my eyes. I am in a tent. Who’s tent? In every corner but mine are backpacks, bags and suitcases atop each other. I lift my head and look myself over. My sneakers look like loaves of dark bread. My legs and chest are a layer of crusted mud and dirt. My hair feels like semi-cooked spaghetti. Then I remembered Pauline. She was from Roslindale Massachusetts she said. It must be her tent.

            I close my eyes, cold and hungry. Outside is quiet and it feels like I’m alone on the planet. I sit up and uncover a towel from the bags and lay it across my chest. I lay there, as if paralyzed; unsure of my next move. Then the sound of a radio, comes on full blast, the opening guitar notes of Vaseline and it changes my whole attitude. For the next 4 minutes as I listen, I am comfortable and familiar with this strange reality. It feels as if these thin fabric walls are home. My mind is at ease and everything is all right. For all I know, Rich is right outside the tent having a drink with Rick. And then the song fades away and I’m left with the rustle of branches underfoot and chatty foreign voices. I hear Pauline’s throaty voice and I am quickly drawn right back into the Woodstock Zone.

           

            When I wake again, the cold has been replaced by humidity. I stand up, unzip the tent and sprawl outside. Pauline sits on a fold up chair nursing a nasty ankle bruise. She is slumped backwards, her foot resting on a cooler. She is a pretty girl who looks like Daisy Fuentes from MTV. All around us, other people are rising from tents, stretching and yawning. Behind one of the tents four men in ragged jeans are huddled over a barrel fire, drinking beer.

            “Good morning,” she said.

            “Hey… what time is it?”

            “Eight or nine. I don’t know.”

            “Pretty crazy night, huh?”

            “Yeah… I fucked up my ankle on the hill.”

            “Thanks for letting me crash. I don’t know how I’m going to find my friends.”

            I jump back into the tent and remove my shorts and wrap the towel around my waist. Outside I pick up my sneakers.

            “I’m going to go wash up,” I said.

            “Sure come on back,” she said.

            I grab a warm beer from her stash and head toward the Eco-village. Sticks and rocks hurt my feet as I try and avoid the sharp ones. As I look around in wonder I can’t help but think that there are more tents than trees. No intimacy at all.

            I start to do the calculations beneath the haze in my brain. I had to be in the general area where I had lost Rich and the gang right? They couldn’t have traveled too much further without me in tow right?

            I wait in line to use the faucet. People brush their teeth and hair. I got nothing, zip. Nearby dense lines are forming at the food stands. When it’s my turn, the water just rolls off my sneakers and shorts and I scrape the mud clots off with my hand. I ask a blond haired kid beside me if I could borrow his toothpaste and squeeze a huge glob on to my finger. I gargle and swallow. I fill my cupped hands with water then drink. Damn, I need my bags.

            The concert sets off again at 11:00. I know the bands me, Rich and Dano wanted to see are playing at the north stage so I resolve to head there later and look for them. I pick up my soused shorts and wander off amid a sea of humanity— a dirty stinky pack of shifting crowds and in my own aimless track, I focus on every face I pass, every hairstyle, nose ring or Nine Inch Nails t-shirt hoping to get lucky and find a needle in a haystack. Even though the concerts don’t start for another two hours the stage areas are packed well beyond the seating area and the crowds spill out on the perimeters making it impossible to pass through from stage to stage. When I come to the bridge at Surreal Field, it clogs to a stop half way across and I can feel it shake and tremble at my feet. I literally can’t move. Down below, big wild haired men are dancing in a stream while the smaller men dance and balance on fallen logs.

            After I pass over the bridge, into the north stage area I’m overcome with bouts of paranoia. The faces in the crowd have transformed into my face as if I were inside a house of mirrors. It’s insane really. Everyone has my long hair, blue eyes and gaunt tired expression. It’s barely noticeable at first but as they pass me by in greater numbers suddenly I’m surrounded by me— a nation of lost idiots. It’s so nerve racking that I force my gaze to the ground. I don’t know what to do with my hands. I have no pockets. All I have is a towel on my midsection and a pair of wet muddy sneakers. When I sneak a peak upwards each face takes on more detail, the pimple on my cheek, and the curls of my hair. I decide to just watch the ground because I know it is real. So I follow the trail of crushed cups, footprints and Pepsi bottles until it leads me into the half way point of one of the stage areas; there’s just too many people and I understand finally that I am not going to find my friends but for sheer random luck. I rest and try to gather my thoughts.

            Calm now, I decide to head back to Pauline’s tent. Things are just weird. I pass a gangly naked woman in bug-like shades dancing by herself; a rake of a man, naked too with writing from his nipples to his crotch which I don’t try and read. Trash is starting to gather almost everywhere I walk— pizza boxes, Pepsi cups and the Porto Johns look like they are spilling over into the soil.

I decide to try and bypass the bridge. I follow a chain-link fence that has been knocked down and cut through some woods. Back on the path more traveled I come to a message board. People have left scribbled messages for friends or family on cardboard or notebook paper detailing where and what time they are to meet up with each other. A lost and found of people I guess. But the board is so overcrowded with messages, they have started to pin messages to trees. 

           

I’m sitting on the gazebo stage beside the Jimi Hendrix Museum, trying to dry my sneakers and shorts. Sitting beside me is a man chatting up two girls. I wait for a lull in their conversation and bum a smoke. I feel beaten, lost. As I light up he asks me where I’m from and I tell him how I lost my friends and my bag and everything and that all I have to my name are these shorts and sneakers. He doesn’t seem too interested in my story. One of the girls, a pretty girl with a pink bandana on her head seems genuinely sad for me. We chat some too but mostly I stare off into space, hoping I see Rich or Rick or Deb— anyone from home. As the man gets up to leave the girls tell him goodbye. They get ready to leave and collect their drinks. As they leave, the girl in the pink bandana stops turns to me and asks my name.

“Jim.”

“I’m Kate. Listen if you can’t find your friends come back here later. We kind of hang out here.”

“All right. Thanks.”

“We’re just going to get something to eat.”

 

Back at Pauline’s tent, she is hanging out with her neighbors. I step into her tent remove the towel and slip into my shorts, dry and comfortable now but still dirty. I don’t know what happened to the flannel shirt. Outside I grab a beer. The anticipation for the concert has been building all morning and now it’s at a fever pitch and everyone is getting jacked and trying to figure out which stage they are going to. I like the guys Pauline has befriended, Chad and Trap and we get along great. Chad has a crew cut, wiry build and lives in New Jersey and Trap is a happy-go-lucky jokester from Florida. They are pilots who met in the air force. They are with some friends too, the married couple Joan and John. Pauline’s friend, Christine who is so cute and pretty that I think I have a crush on her however, for some reason, she doesn’t want anything to do with me and keeps her distance.

We can hear the introductions to the show starting and cheers fill the campground. The beer is flowing pretty good now. Trap tosses me a fresh deck of smokes. People are getting amped up. Then the music starts and it’s Country Joe belting out the Fuck song from the original Woodstock and people are going crazy. The music sounds so crisp that they could be jamming twenty feet away. Joe Cocker next. We pound beers beneath shady trees while others sit on coolers and sing along. Next we hear Blind Melon doing a slow bluesy rendition of No Rain and it’s all good vibrations now. I snag Pauline’s bandana and wrap it around my head. She in turn pulls out a floppy party hat and despite her ankle dances and grooves to the music. Trap is talking in a mocking upper class English accent as me and Chad pretend to sword fight with branches.

 

I’m drunk again. Nothing matters now. Just bring on the good times. Pauline breaks out a gallon bottle of wine. We are dueling drinkers, like boxers trading punches. As I follow Trap’s directions to the first log on the right to piss, I notice that it seems everyone around me is pissing— girls are crouched over reaching for leaves and guys well they just whip it out and waver back and forth drunkenly. When I returned Trap was waiting for me.

“Joan was watching you the whole time,” he said.

“She’s been watching everybody,” said Chad.

“I thought she was married,” I said.

“But she is,” said Trap laughing.

An aimless girl wanders up our hill; she’s dressed in bells, beads and colored silk. I call out to her and she heads toward me. She confides in me that she is lost and when Trap hears this he says, “don’t worry. This is an outfit for the homeless of Woodstock.” We all laugh. The girl, Stevie says, “well, all right.” She pulls out a fat joint and sparks up. Pauline hobbles over for a hit.

“This will go good with the mushroom I just ate,” she said.

Two more girls wander over to us, a stout girl with pimples and a dark haired girl with a big smile. They too are lost and have no place to go. Everyone is just plain happy and having a great time. It looks like Trap has taken to the dark haired girl with big smile as he will not avert his gaze from her face and blocks out everyone else. They are talking up a storm. I happen to be standing next to Joan and strike up a conversation. She is very pretty but married. However I think she is flirting with me, staring at me that extra second, punching me playfully on the arm and she doesn’t leave my side. She whispers in my ear but it’s so loud I can’t even hear that. Her husband John monitors her often and finally comes over and stands beside her.

 

I’m stumbling through the woods, the bushes and stream, passed parties everywhere. I reach a small clearing where a girl stands beside a tree. As I get closer to her, she looks up at me and for some reason lifts up her shirt and her white breasts tumble out. I’m too drunk to understand any of it and when I reach her she flashes me again like some spirit in the wind. She has a small but pretty face. I reach out and put my hand upon her breast. Drunk and cocky now I bend over and begin kissing and sucking her nipple. She’s smiling. Suddenly I hear a crowd of people applauding and I turn around. There’s about a dozen guys laughing and high fiving and offering me encouragement.

“Do you want to come to my tent?” she asks.

I assume she’s as drunk as me. Then I notice for the first time that it is raining and has been raining for quite some time. The paths now are dangerously slippery and me and the girl cling to each other so we don’t fall. I don’t even know her name. She follows along as we move through the puddles and mud and heavy rain.

“I should really find my husband,” she says.

“Your what?”

“We had a big fight.”

“It’s too late for that. Just follow me.”

At our campsite, she follows me into the tent and the next thing I know, I am out like a light.

 

 

         

                                  

(Two weeks before Woodstock 94... Dano, Rich, Johnny and me.)

 

 

             I woke later that night, soggy, gloomy and alone. The rain has continued to fall and it just pelts the tent top. The music from the stage has not faltered either as Aerosmith rocks the crowd with vintage Mama Kin. I wonder what happened to the girl and if she found her husband. I guess I’m not the only one wandering around lost. I think of Joan. I’d hate to be her husband having to keep both eyes on her flirtatious ways.

When the rain takes a break, I crawl out of the tent, shirtless and sober. Everyone else is either asleep or at the stage. A teenager, Bobby who had been hanging around earlier emerges from the puddly darkness. I think he’s gay but I don’t care, he’s a cool kid. He sees me shaking and even gives me a t-shirt.

“Hey you got a smoke?” I asked.

“Sure.”

“Thanks man.”

“Sure.”

I take a walk to survey things. The paths are a nightmare really. It’s a struggle just to keep my balance. Revelers are dropping like flies all around me and then once they’re down it’s an event just to get up as they thrash and roll. I turn back to my tent, regretting leaving it. When I step forward, my foot sinks five inches into the mud, trapping my sneaker like glue. My free foot follows and I nearly lose both sneakers trying to pull myself free.

At the camp, still freezing, I take a peek into Pauline’s tent. No one’s there and they have blankets. They must be at the concert or partying somewhere still. I crawl in, curl into a ball among soft warm blankets. Heaven. After about 20 minutes or so as I’m drifting off I hear: “Jim, get the fuck out!”

“Huh?”

“Get the fuck out now!” said Pauline.

Apparently Pauline and Christine were in the tent the whole time sleeping.

“Come on. There’s room for three,” I said.

“I have my tent and you have yours.”

“Just ten minutes. It’s so warm in here.”

“Get out,” said Christine. “I want to sleep.”

I leave silently. Inside my tent I decide to pillage their bags for any article of clothing. After a successful raid of a pair of jeans, two towels and a girl’s sweater, I just lie out and stare at the tent top. City bitches, I thought. I am pissed at them.

Suddenly I hear Steven Tyler talking to the crowd, something about us, our generation I guess as being the lights at the end of the tunnel. Ha! I’m a mess Steven, starving and naked and lost. Some light. I sure wish my friends were here. It just dawns on me how great Aerosmith sounds tonight; every song and note— the old material like Kings and Queens sounded raw, fresh while the new stuff from Get a Grip, which I’m not a fan, has a bluesy solid rock and roll edge. They sound like a young hungry band trying to make a name for themselves. Then, fireworks lit up the cloudy sky— big explosions like mortars and beautiful mushrooming lights falling magically over the trees, BOOM BOOM and as the applauding survivors leave the field, the concert is over and the rain begins anew.

 

Sunday. As I stir, the rain continues, pounding my tent. The clothes I had ransacked kept me warm but my exposed feet are freezing. I wonder if anyone from the original Woodstock 69 is here. I had seen the footage. The rain. The Mud sliding. The nudity. The resemblance between the two concerts is uncanny for two extreme opposing generations and political climates. 

Suddenly it hits me. How am I going to get home? I could ask Pauline for a ride to Roslindale then catch a train back to Randolph. I’m disgusted by her, especially after last night— her pushy urban tough chick routine. When we were drunk I never noticed it. Then again I could thumb home starving and broke in just my wet shorts and sneakers. I haven’t eaten a meal since Friday at Burger King. Yesterday I had a handful of stale Doritos.

I hear Pauline and Christine mumbling inside their tent. I crawl outside. Chad, Trap and Joan are standing beneath a big blue tarp they have tied off to the trees and their tent. I join them.

“Man,” said Trap. “I sure could eat something greasy right now. Perhaps some sausage and eggs.”

“Oh, yes!” said Chad.

“And how are you feeling?” Joan asked.

“I don’t know yet.”

It was true. I didn’t know how to feel toward the impending afternoon. I had a lot to think about. As I looked around us, the crowd has thinned out, trash cans ran over or were knocked to the ground and much more trash was just spread out over the field.

“Hey. Look!” said Trap. Left alone beside broken camping gear is a bag of popcorn.

“If you get it,” I said. “I’ll be the guinea pig.”

Trap bolts across the way, scoops it up and hands it to me; it seems, all in one swoop. The bag is drenched but the popcorn is unharmed.

“Oh yeah. Salty and buttery.”

Chad discovers a pack of crushed crackers in his pocket.

“Trade?”

The girls pop out of their tent dressed in sweatpants and jackets. Christine combs her cooler for food. She gives me a Granola Bar, not out of pity but because no one else wants it. I tear it open and eat. Pauline sits down and rests her ankle on a saturated log, the skin is greenish blue. She says it got worse when they were moshing during Metallica. Then the stout girl with pimples and the dark haired girl with a big smile duck out from Trap’s tent. They are pale, scraggly but light up when they see him. Trap joins them. They hug, talk briefly and soon they too part along with the others leaving in droves. I watch them weave their slow way up the hill.

“See ya in another 25 years!” shouts Trap.

 

After a couple of hours of staring at the mud and rocks, recollecting last night’s events and having done nothing but smoke, avoid the rain and pick at the popcorn, I decide to take my chances elsewhere. I just have to get away from Pauline. I’ve definitely worn out my welcome here. I’m determined to find Rich, Rick or Deb, if they haven’t left already. At least there’s still a whole day left of music including one of my new favorite bands, Red Hot Chili Peppers. I push my feet into my wet sneakers and tie them. I tell the group that I’m just going for a walk. Christine gives me the last trash bag and I thank her. I pull it over me and it fits loosely like a rain jacket should. I gape into the damp grayness.

“See you guys later.”

Most of Woodstock Nation is lined up en masse and adrift in the shuttle bus parking zones. The big party has broken up. There are some new recruits, here and there, freshly arrived from dry buses or cars to catch the last day and having perhaps missed most of the hard rain, to say to their friends, yeah I was there. But save for them, the first waves are still falling over, dirty, miserable and cold. Though my intent is to push forward to find my friends, I realize that I’m going nowhere slowly and there’s no rush to any of it. There’s so much room to roam now as the swampy confines of Winston Farm are mostly barren. A man carrying a fresh pizza slips passed me, loses his footing and spirals downward. I would have killed for that pizza!

I wander across Surreal Field trying to stay focused and not lose my mind. Who knows what the hell happened to my bags— my clothes, camera, money; my guess is Rich never grabbed it and that it’s abandoned somewhere, fossilized in the mud.

At noon, I retire to the psychedelic bus by the gazebo. I lean against a railing, staring at nothing. The rain falls lightly now but steady.

“Jimmy.”

I turn my head toward the familiar voice. Through the mist appears Dave Babineau aka Slabs. Go figure, Slabs of all people.

“Slabs! Am I glad to see you!”

“Nice weather, huh?”

“I got here Friday and lost Rich everybody, my bags, money. I’m freezing. “

“That sucks. How did you get here?”

“Deb drove us. What are you doing?”

“I’m trading in my Woodstock money, waiting for Rob. We’re out of here. This sucks.”

“Listen. Don’t leave. Just give me fifteen minutes. Maybe you’re a sign. I just want to scope the area for Rich. I NEED clothes.”

“They aren’t there. I was just there.”

“Just wait. I’ll be right back.”

“Okay but Rob wants to split bad.”

“Fifteen minutes.”

I splash my way across the footbridge and at the bottom a half dozen tents are flooded out and collapsed. I race through areas that were once vast communities of revelers but now just mudflats and trash. I decide I better not risk losing Slabs so I pivot right back, over the footbridge to the bus where he was and… he’s not there. What the fuck! I was only gone ten minutes.

I have one last option and that is to thumb home naked and in the rain, penniless and starving. Probably not a good idea but if that’s what I have to do then that’s what I will do. It won’t be the first time. As I ponder the idea of heading to the shuttle buses to track down Slabs, I see another familiar face. Trudging up the embankment is Andy Cizmar, aka, Ciz and close behind, my brother Dave. Ciz wears a trash bag, heavy duty army boots and his prized Saudi Arabian army hat. Dave follows sloppily behind in trash bag, loose sweat pants caked with mud and he’s hammered.

“S’up, Jimbo?” asked Ciz.

“Hey I didn’t know you guys were coming.”

“Yeah well we did. Got here yesterday.”

“How?”

“Drove your brother’s car. Man, some local sold us a map of the back roads here and we had a huge caravan of drunks following us. This is nuts. We walked right in,” he said.

“Well, I’m alone now. I’m going home with you two.”

“We got to find Johnny first,” said Ciz.

Dave sways back and forth as he reaches us. He’s all smiles and he hands me a beer.

“Where is he?” I asked.

“Well, we had our tent set up near the north stage. Your brother took off to piss, got lost then I had to go too. I got lost. Then I ran into your brother. Johnny’s still at the tent and we can’t find the damn thing. I still have a case of Bud waiting there.”

“This place is a black hole,” I said.

The three of us head to the north stage. Dave lumbers along, slow as a sick dinosaur, shouting and rambling on to himself. I offer to drive as I’m sober. I side step a collapsed tent drowned in huge puddle. A man begins to lift it out but it slips from his hands beneath the water weight.

“Sucks to be you,” said Ciz, laughing.

Trash has just completely overflowed everywhere. A Porto-john has fallen over on its side and I can’t tell what’s shit, piss or mud. We slosh along. The north stage field with its sea of tents still stands although some are clean and freshly arrived. On the stage a yoga instructor leads the crowd in breathing exercises. Ciz waves his hands in the air, laughing and clucking like a chicken. Dave opens another beer. As we comb the field, every tent seems to match Ciz’ description of it.

“I swear. It’s here. Right here,” he says.

A naked woman with huge breasts hugs a nearby man. Unbelievable. Dave bums a smoke off a stranger; part of his problem is that he hasn’t slept yet. I can’t believe he’s still on his feet. Wavy Gravy announces over the speakers that anyone lost from family or friends should go the Red Cross beside the stage.

On our way to the Red Cross, we bump into two guys who work with Dave and Ciz— Max and Ed. Max is so loaded he can barely stand and his eyes are lit up like pinball strobes. Ciz takes a moment to spark up his pipe, takes a hit and passes it around. I refuse the offer. Three kids approach us and offer Ciz a slug of rum for a hit and he nods yes. Max gulps down a shot of vodka and brags loudly how he got in for free. That’s old news I think. Who hasn’t? I down two shots of rum in succession and now I’m in the mood to drink.

We head closer to the stage. Some parts of the mud have hardened like a top layer of pudding; other sections it’s more of the same, feet sink down four to six inches deep and it’s literally like walking through snow. People are so covered in mud here that it’s hard to tell if they are clothed or naked and as they dance, splash and pirouette to the jams of Arrested Development, the rain stops and ushers in a round of cold whipping wind. Photographers and videographers are everywhere, clean and dry and with big camera lenses. I’m sure the press is having a field day. Dave teeters again but remains on his feet somehow.

We cut across to the other side of the stage towards the MTV platform. We pass a tent with a sign posted above the tent flap: I am here to pleasure any woman. That’s a tall order, I think, but catchy. On the Red Cross wall, there are messages and comments and names written out in pen and mud. It’s just too much to filter through and we move on. At the MTV platform, a movie camera swings in low on us and Ciz belts out, “Tabitha Soren is a fucking cunt!” He’s on fire today. I hear a thud. I turn around and Dave is sitting in the mud, brown as big ass piece of fudge and muttering to himself. A gust of wind rips up a tent from its spikes and it flies by a news crew interviewing a group of down and out partiers.

At the Red Cross medical tent there is no Johnny or for that matter Rich— just a monster collection of sick, hurt and shabby strangers. Ciz sips on a fresh can of Bud as an older woman approaches us. She has a Red Cross badge on her shirt.

“Excuse you me,” she says. “Could I ask you a question?”  She looks right at Ciz.

“Yass.”

“Suppose I’m your mother,” she begins.

“If you were my mother I’d probably lie to you but you’re not so shoot,” he says.

“Have you had any breakfast other than that brewski?”

“Nope.”

“You just can’t live like that. It’s unhealthy. You’ll get sick. Do you want some food?”

She holds out five slices of packaged cheese. Then a bag of chocolate chip cookies.

“No thanks.”

“He won’t take them but I will,” I said.

I thank her and we move on back up the slippery hill. At the top, Ciz teeters backwards, on one leg, arms flailing for balance, holding on to his beer. In what seems like slow motion he too falls on his ass. He seems confused.

“Man, I got mud in my beer.”

 

At 1:00 the Allman Brothers take the stage who crank out the song midnight rider. Mud dancers just won’t quit. As it looks like the rain has stopped the chill in the air remains. I just want to leave. I’ve had enough rain and cold to last the remainder of the summer. I’ve had my fill. The only two bands I’d like to see now is Bob Dylan and the Red Hot Chili Peppers but I won’t last that long. Besides, if we played our cards right and we got home without delay, I could watch it on TV back home. We decide that Johnny probably packed up the tent and headed for the car to wait for them.

We fight our way through the lines at the bus drop off/pick up lot— bumping, grinding and walking over downed chain link fences; through drenched congested trails until we come upon the street where buses are idling bumper to bumper. The line of buses seems to stretch on for miles. People sit on soggy backpacks and lean on telephone poles; hundreds accumulate along the sidewalk or in driveways where residents have opened up their lawn for 25 dollar parking and thrifty souls grill burgers and dogs for a price along with chips and Twinkies. Other locals offer shuttle service for five bucks a head.

We move passed it all. Dave staggers and bums smokes and mumbles something about potato chips. My feet hurt. The car is much further away than Ciz first thought. I’m beat. Some kid springs up behind me, a pale ghostly face.

“Hey man! Do you know how to get to the Catskills?” he asks.

I think for a moment, then suddenly annoyed by his intrusion on my misery.

“I don’t know anything— where I am, how far I got to go or when I’ll get home but one thing I do know. One way or another I will get there,” I said.

He pursues me for a little bit as if I somehow offered him hope with my words but eventually he trails off. My feet are getting cut by rocks, my sneakers having been wrecked and lost long ago. Just then ahead of us three guys from Randolph appear seemingly out of nowhere. Smitty, Bags and Hanley are heading back toward the show and are wasted.

“Look at this fucking shit,” said Smitty. His voice is hoarse from screaming. His chest and back is covered with nasty looking white splinters. “I was down in the fucking mosh pit for Nine-Inch-Nails, going sick! Someone dumped a fucking shitload of oil on me and then this fucking shit. It stuck to me like glue. Look at this shit. They look like little fucking seashells.” He pulls out a piece and it leaves a tiny red bubble, like a pimple. “Who’s got a fucking beer?” he asks.

We say goodbye and resume. More cars are just coming into the area to park. Excited concert goers are pumped up for a free Porno for Pyros show. They give me two thumbs up and hoot and holler. Just as I am ready to quit everything and go mad, I hear a familiar voice.

“Jimbo!”

It’s Johnny waiting by the car.