Woodstock Day Two
Woodstock
Day Two
Quill had finished their set by the time we found our seats. And our friends were right where we’d left them. As for Nick, he was still AWOL.
A guitar player wearing sunglasses and a bandanna tied around his forehead was onstage, singing solo. He wore an army green military jumpsuit with stripes on the sleeves, looking like a soldier fresh out of Vietnam. Not many people paid attention to him.
Meanwhile, a constant stream of army helicopters flew in and out of the backstage area. It was unsettling, like Woodstock was a military zone. It made me think about Dad. Unfortunately.
“What’s shakin’, y’all?” I asked, noticing there was very little room to sit.
The Woodstock Nation had doubled in size since yesterday.
New people had edged into our piece of territory while we were gone.
Squeezing in anyway, we settled down on the waterlogged ground. I’d rather have sat in Leon’s lap.
Livy had braided her hair into pigtails. While she and Johnny swayed to the music, I noticed wooden blocks in their laps. “What are those?” I asked, pointing at them.
“Quill threw tons from the stage.” She tried knocking her blocks together like cymbals but missed. “It was killer, man.” She pointed at my head. “Where did you get that?”
I reached up to finger my flower wreath. “Leon made it for me.”
“Lucky.” She smiled, but there was sadness behind it. “If my boyfriend had bothered to show up, I would have gotten a crown too.”
After his no-show, I’d decided to never bring up Nick’s name again. “Johnny will make you one,” I said. “Just ask him.” I certainly wasn’t going to volunteer Leon.
“Give me an F!” the singer shouted from the stage. The audience, who had been unresponsive until then, echoed back with a loud “F.”
“Give me a U!” the singer shouted.
Everyone yelled, “U.”
“Give me a C!”
The echo happened again.
“Give me a K!”
“K.”
“What’s that spell?”
“Fuck.”
He asked the question three more times, and by then every person seated at Woodstock shouted “Fuck!” like a meadow full of mynah birds.
Without missing a beat, the singer slid into a song about Vietnam.
Glancing around, I was surprised to see everyone singing the chorus along with him.
The guys, the girls, all of Woodstock knew the words. All except me.
“And it’s five, six, seven, open up the pearly gates. Whoopee! We’re all gonna die.”
Livy knew every word. So did Johnny and Leon.
“I don’t know how you expect to stop the war if you can’t sing any better than that,” the singer shouted. “There’s about three hundred thousand of you fuckers out there. I want you to start singing.”
“Be the first one on your block to have your boy come home in a box.” The Woodstockers sang the whole song along with him.
Everyone thought it was upbeat and fun—the highlight of the festival.
Everyone except me. As the lyrics washed over me, all I could think about was Ron’s body coming home in a box.
And that was not fun. If I hadn’t been such an idiot, he would be here, sitting next to me.
Enjoying the festival. Not risking his life in a 110-degree jungle.
“What is this song?” I asked the group as soon as it was over, having to yell over the thunderous applause.
“‘Fixin’-to-Die Rag.’ Best protest song ever written,” said Johnny. “I saw Country Joe perform it last summer in Manhattan. Helluva show.”
“Do you like it?” I asked Leon. His brother was in Vietnam. I couldn’t imagine he’d think much of it.
With two comforting fingers under my chin, he lifted my head to meet his eyes. “It’s all in fun, Suzie. Try not to take it seriously.”
Just when I thought it was over, Chip Monck called Country Joe McDonald back to the stage for an encore, and he sang the whole song all over again.
The only way I could suffer through it was to muse over the last few hours.
While Country Joe and everyone around me sang, I re-created the day, moment by moment: bumping into Naked Woolly Dude, chasing Leon for the hot dog, my singing debut, finding out he didn’t have a girlfriend, our kiss that almost happened.
By the time I had rehashed every minute detail, the “Fixin’-to-Die Rag” encore had come to an end.
Country Joe disappeared for good, giving the audience a short break. I tapped Livy’s knee. “Guess where Leon and I were all morning?”
Her gaze wandered over to Leon. “Going all the way?” she asked, shimmying her shoulders. She leaned in close to my face. “Tell me he used a condom.”
“No! He didn’t. I mean, no, we didn’t go all the way. Jeez, Livy. We just met.”
“So? You’re at the biggest music festival ever. It’s the perfect place to lose your virginity.”
“Do you want to know where we were or not?”
“Of course I do,” she said, after a long sigh. “Sorry. I’m even madder at Nick today than I was yesterday. Where were you?”
“Singing! To a real audience.”
She sat up straight, wearing an authentic smile. “Seriously? Where?”
“At the Hog Farm stage. They have an open mic.”
“That’s so cool, SuSu. What’d you sing?”
“Two Beatles songs.”
She gasped, threw her arms around me. “Which ones?”
“‘I’ve Just Seen a Face’ and ‘I’ll Follow the Sun.’”
“Oh my gosh. Did you play guitar? Or did someone accompany you?”
“I played. Some guy named Ian loaned me his.”
“Right on! Did you . . . do okay?” she asked hesitantly. Livy knew me well enough to know I’d be terrified.
“I know this sounds cliché, but it really was like riding a bike. Every word and every note came flooding back.”
“Maybe you’ll take my advice from now on. You’ve got to sing at open mic nights when you get to college. I’m serious.”
“I told you. There are no open mic nights at Union.” I hesitated a moment, then added, “If Leon hadn’t been there, I wouldn’t have done it.”
“Yes, you would have.”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “I wouldn’t have. At first, I said no way. But he was so sweet and encouraging; all the Hog Farmers were. They treated me like family.”
“That’s the beauty of commune life.”
I couldn’t stop smiling. “Can you believe it, Liv? I sang Beatles songs in public. Me! They even stood—”
“What I can’t believe is Nick McCarthy.” Livy’s smile, which only moments prior had shown genuine happiness for me, faded as fast as footprints on the shoreline. She glanced down at her muddy sandals and held her head in her hands. “I am so mad!”
I longed to tell my best friend more about my performance and how the Hog Farmers had given me a standing ovation.
I was dying to tell her that Leon didn’t have a girlfriend and that I was almost positive he would have kissed me if not for some drunk idiot.
But Livy had moved on. You can’t force someone into wanting to know the good things in your life. They either do or they don’t.
“I still say he got caught in traffic,” I said. “Who knows; maybe he got pulled over and was arrested? Did he have drugs with him?”
She hesitated, swiping away dirt on her knees. “I don’t know. Probably. Wait, shh.” She put her hand on my knee to let me know we needed to listen closely to what Chip was saying.
“Once again if we may.” Chip had laughter in his voice. “All lost persons—those wishing to be lost, those wishing to be found—again, the information booth is somewhat swamped, please go to the field behind it.”
Livy peered at me with angry eyes. “Either he was arrested, or he met someone else when he got here and doesn’t wish to be found.”
“Oh no, Livy.”
“Oh yes, Suzannah. Any girl would kill to be with him. He’s beautiful.”
“I’m sure he is, but—”
“He’s probably somewhere in this crowd.” She twisted around, sweeping her hand through the air. “With the prettiest girl here.”
I gaped at her with a sneer. “I highly doubt that. Not many girls are prettier than you.”
“I bet he’s been camping with her since Wednesday. Ignoring my pages.”
I grabbed her by the arm, determined to knock some sense into her.
“Livy. Listen to me. You’re letting your mind run away with you.
Just because Nick isn’t here yet doesn’t mean he’s camping with another girl.
Or that you can’t have fun without him. The last thing you want to do is let his absence ruin your good time. ”
She didn’t comment, but I knew she was listening, so I seized the opportunity to give her more.
“I get that you’re crazy about him. But you’re not acting like yourself.
I’ve never known anyone as fun and resilient as you.
Not to mention headstrong. You can still have a good time without Nick.
You said it yourself: The best bands in the world are here.
Pick yourself up and cut loose, Livy Foster.
You’ll regret it the rest of your life if you don’t. ”
Livy looked skyward, like she was seriously considering my advice. It took a minute, but a smile appeared. “You know what?” she said. “You’re right. Two can play his game. We’ve met good-looking guys too.” She looked over at Leon. Then Johnny.
I swallowed a flash of jealousy. If she had to pick between our two new friends, I had a sixth sense she’d rather choose Leon.
Over my dead body.
2:00 p.m.
The rain decided to stay away in the afternoon. Bits of blue peeked through the clouds like tiny forget-me-nots, giving everyone hope fairer times lay ahead. The air felt sticky and humid, though. And the smell of urine and cow poop hung heavy in the air. At times I wanted to gag.
“Marilyn Cohen, Greg wants you to meet him at the information booth,” a shirtless Chip Monck announced.
“’Cause he wants to marry you.” People whooped and hollered.
“There goes Marilyn. Sydney McGhee, come immediately to backstage right. Your wife is having a baby.” Folks were still whistling and cheering when he gave his next announcement.
“Helen Savage, please call your father at the Motel Glory.”