Woodstock Day Two
Woodstock
Day Two
A boisterous broadcast from a new announcer roused me from a deep slumber. I had no idea of the time, but when I cracked my eyes open, I saw daylight. And more misty rain.
“Why don’t we just clean up our areas,” the dude bellowed. “We’re going to pass along garbage bags for you to put your trash in, and then we’ll pick them up.”
Shut up! Can’t you tell people are asleep?
I lay there on my side, desperately trying to fall back asleep, but it was no use.
When I tried swallowing, it felt like someone had pushed a vacuum hose down my throat and sucked out the saliva.
My head banged like a kick drum, and I needed to tinkle.
The only reason I had the energy to open my eyelids was Leon.
Sometime in the wee morning hours, he had rolled away, but his leg still touched mine.
The mere feel of it made my heart dance.
With one hand pressed into my aching forehead, I pushed myself up with the other. The bowl resembled a war zone. Mud. Collapsed tents. Smoldering campfires. More mud. People scattered everywhere. Some looked dead. The stage looked like it was floating on top of a giant mud soup and might sail away.
The soggy air clung to my skin, the grossest weather possible for an epic music festival. On the bright side, the temperature was on the rise. I had finally stopped shivering.
Nothing was as gross as the garbage. I couldn’t get over all the waste the Woodstock Nation had managed to accumulate in one day. Empty garbage bags had been placed in a long line on both sides of the bowl, and people were already filling them.
Since Leon had slept through the announcement, I lay back down on my wet blanket to watch him sleep.
Even that was magical. I counted the freckles on his arm and studied the new growth of stubble poking through his chin dimple.
The rise and fall of his chest sprang new life into mine.
Just looking at him aroused that ecstasy I’d felt when he was glued behind me.
He must have sensed my eyes upon him, because his popped open wide.
I quickly shut mine, pretending to be asleep.
Through gaps in my eyelashes, I watched him turn toward me, then prop up on his elbow, cradling his head in his hand.
“Wake up, little Susie,” he sang. The cutest thing about that—besides his bad voice, which by then I found simply enchanting—was that he felt comfortable enough around me to sing without apologizing. That, I loved.
I peeked out one eye, then spoke between slits in my fingers. The thought of having morning breath was horrifying. “I’m awake,” I said, feeling a strong urge to visit the woods. As soon as I got there, I’d sneak off to brush my teeth.
A Bob Dylan song I’d never heard blasted from the PA. Seconds later, I smelled marijuana.
Leon inhaled the aroma with an exaggerated sniff, then gave me a wink. “Hey, Livy,” he called. “Can you get high from smelling pot?”
No answer.
His lips curled into a grin as he sat up, raking his fingers through his hair.
Loving this unspoken alliance between us, I shot him a knowing smile and sat up along with him.
He glanced around at the wreckage before picking up his wet sleeping bag. “I’m gonna hang this over the fence. Want me to take yours?”
“It’s still misty.”
“I’m counting on it going away,” he said with a wink. “It’s rained enough.”
While he meandered down to the stage, my eyes never left him.
He hung both of our blankets over the wooden fence, where others had done the same.
One of the massive cranes had been moved close to the stage, not far from where he was standing.
I kept my eyes glued on its long neck while the driver pushed the bulging canopy to the rear of the stage, dumping hundreds of gallons of water onto the ground below. The deafening noise made him jump.
By the time he returned to our piece of territory, his white Converse tennis shoes looked like giant chestnuts. He kicked Johnny’s butt, leaving behind a long brown streak. It made me laugh. “Let’s go find grub, man,” he said. “I’m starving.”
Handsome Johnny sat up, rubbing his face with both hands. He looked down at Livy, who, by some miracle, was still snoozing. “Should we wake her?” he asked me.
Before I could respond, Livy grumbled, “Who has an aspirin?” No one answered, so she rolled onto her back. “Somebody please shoot me.”
What amazed me most about Livy’s beauty was that she looked just as pretty when she opened her eyes in the morning as she had the night before, no matter what she’d done or how late she’d stayed up.
Johnny leaned into her ear. “I’ll find you one, love. Hey, Slim, do you or Dave have an aspirin?” he shouted. “Livy’s got a helluva headache.”
Poor ole Slim popped right up. “No, man, but I’ll find her one.” The back of his greasy bedhead was all we could see as he sprinted toward the medical tent, not all that far away.
“I’ll take one too, please,” I hollered.
Slim waved without turning around.
“Who wants to come with me to page my boyfriend?” Livy asked, in her ultrascratchy morning voice. If I had to hear her say my boyfriend one more time, I’d scream bloody murder.
I sure didn’t volunteer. No one did. Not even Johnny. So she asked again. “Will somebody please come with me?” This time she sat up and looked straight at me.
“Before I can do anything, I have to visit the woods,” I told her. “My head hurts, and I’m really, really hungry. I need to find food first.”
“Okaaay,” Livy said, drawing out the word, then followed it with an exasperated sigh. Frustration oozed from her eyeballs.
It astonished me that Livy wasn’t ready to give up on Nick. I sure would have. She should have listened to me yesterday when I questioned his trustworthiness. Still, she wrote out another note on one of Johnny’s rolling papers and tucked it inside her purse. For later.
After Slim returned with a handful of aspirin and everyone took turns in the woods, our little group gathered to formulate a plan for finding food. It was decided we’d have to split up. To be fair, we’d all take turns so no one would lose their seats. Slim and Dave set out first.
All morning long, the announcers had been keeping the audience abreast of life outside Yasgur’s dairy farm.
They informed us that the media had declared Woodstock a disaster area.
A disaster area? Even with the rain, the cold, and the mud, I’d still call it a wonder area.
Chip Monck announced that the New York State Thruway had been reopened, and state troopers were finally allowing cars back into the site.
He said a hundred thousand more people were expected to roll in throughout the day.
Instantly I turned to Livy. “Nick’s on the way. He’ll be here soon.”
“I still wanna page him,” she said. “Please, please come with me.”
I closed my eyes with a heavy sigh. “It’s not that I don’t want to go with you. I just don’t want to lose Leon. I really like him, Livy.”
“I can see why. He’s beautiful.”
“Not just that. He’s really nice and really funny. All I can think about is making out with him.”
She chuckled, patted my knee. “I’ll ask Johnny to go with me.”
9:00 a.m.
An hour after Livy and Johnny left in search of food, they returned empty handed.
She claimed the Food for Love concessions area was an even bigger madhouse than it had been the night before, and she refused to stand in line.
Hamburger or no hamburger, hot dog or no hot dog, she didn’t care—the lines were far too long.
She was positive somebody somewhere would take pity on her and share their food like people had done yesterday.
I overheard Johnny telling Leon most of their time away had been spent at the info booth, and the long wait for Livy’s boyfriend had been brutal. Thank God it wasn’t me.
Now it was our turn. Despite Livy’s warning about the long lines, I was not deterred. My stomach growled, and my mouth watered at the thought of a juicy hamburger.
By the time Leon and I made it to the top of the bowl, we were up to our knees in mud.
The scene looked just as Livy had described. Thousands of people in slow-moving lines. To make matters worse, you had to stand in one line to buy your food tickets and another to receive your food.
A full two hours later, we walked away with a canned drink for each of us and a cold hot dog for Leon.
The hamburger I’d set my heart on was sold out by the time we made it to the front of the line, so I’d ordered a hot dog.
When I’d spied a dude serving them right out of a cellophane package, my hunger vanished.
Not to mention, they had upped the price from twenty-five cents to a dollar overnight.
No way I’d waste my money on something that unappetizing.
Another disappointment: My Coke wasn’t a Coke. Or even a Pepsi. It was something called a Best Cola.
Once we’d been served, we stopped at a stand with a variety of condiments so Leon could dress his hot dog. Watching him zigzag the ketchup onto his bun made me queasy. Cold dog, cold bun, cold ketchup. Gross.
As we turned to leave, I neglected to look behind me, consequently slamming head-on into a solid mass. My face literally planted inside a dense jungle of chest hair.
Gagging from the scent of severe BO, I jerked back so violently my Best Cola splashed all over this hairy guy who looked like a woolly mammoth.
“Excuse me!” I said. “I am so sorry. I didn’t see you.”
Instead of speaking, he simply shrugged, then looked down at the cola seeping through his chest fur.
Utterly fascinated by the sight of him, I just stood there, taking him in. First off, he wore this towering pink top hat at an angle on his head. A little odd, but it was Woodstock—what did I expect?