Woodstock Day Three
Woodstock
Day Three
Noon
An hour later I awoke sore.
For the first time in my life, I had an achy chin and imagined it a bright ruby red. I’d seen red chins on my friends coming home from making out all night but had never been able to boast one of my own. The ache made me deliriously happy.
Leon’s heavy breathing was more reassurance I was not dreaming.
With his arms around my body, my cheek burrowed inside his neck, I was very much awake.
And very much alive. Every time the air left his nostrils, a draft warmed my ear.
I never wanted the memory of us lying together under a warm, partly sunny Woodstock sky to fade.
For that matter, I never wanted to move again.
I ogled the hair on his forearm, exactly the color of the hair on his head.
Noticing the dirt underneath his fingernails—and mine—conjured up an unwanted image of Dad.
He would have never stood for dirt underneath my fingernails.
It made me even prouder of myself for taking charge of my own life. And for having dirty fingernails.
Seconds later, panic eclipsed my happiness.
How many hours did we have left? Would we part after Jimi Hendrix closed the show tonight?
Or would we spend another night together and say goodbye in the morning?
Imagining our farewell punched a hole in my lung.
I could hardly breathe. How could I do it?
Leon was the coolest, most beautiful person I’d ever known.
And we lived a thousand miles apart.
A screeching noise from the main-stage microphone made Leon stir.
It was a wonder we could hear it this far away.
His arm slipped from my waist. His whiskers crackled as he rubbed his chin.
As quickly as he had moved his arm away, he wrapped it back on top of mine, adding a gentle squeeze.
“Wake up, little Susie,” he sang, so beautifully out of tune.
It made my insides beam. And burn, all over again.
Wiggling in deeper, I let him know I was awake. “No one’s ever called me Suzie before you.”
“Are you cool with it?”
“When you say it, I am.”
“Would you rather I call you Suzannah?” He kissed the tip of my ear.
“I’d rather you call me Suzie.”
“Wonder what time it is, Suzie.”
I could have looked at my watch, but it would mean he’d have to move his arm. “No idea.”
“What do you say we find one of those outdoor showers? I feel gnarly.” He sat up, pulling me along with him.
“I’d say I love that idea.”
Leon’s gaze roved across my chest. Only then did I remember I was shirtless.
At first, I resisted the urge to cover myself, but modesty roared back.
So I pulled up my knees to hide behind them and reached for my bra, lying in a heap on the ground.
As soon as it was in my hand, I remembered my new halter top, balled up inside my purse. I slipped it over my neck.
“Will you tie this for me?” I asked, turning my back toward him.
Instead of tying it, he reached under my arms to touch my breasts. One of his delicious man-giggles followed as he kissed my neck. His hands felt lovely and warm, so I leaned back against him, relishing in his touch. How am I supposed to leave this?
Once he’d tied the bow, he turned me around by my shoulders. “Looks rad on you. How do you feel?”
“I feel . . . like a brand-new me.” Truth was, I felt like the butterfly that had landed on my shoulder when we first arrived. Totally carefree. And beautiful.
1:00 p.m.
We never found one of those outdoor showers. It must have been a rumor. But we did find water—or wooder, as Leon pronounced it—in a nearby pasture. Faucets had been installed from underground pipes. Thousands of folks stood in line.
The two of us waited forty-five minutes to rinse our faces and hands, brush our teeth, and quench our thirst. Fortunately, we had saved our paper cups from the granola. We passed them on to the person behind once we’d downed a few cupfuls.
We stood at the top of the bowl, peering down in awe on the city of Woodstock.
There must have been one hundred acres’ worth of bodies.
New piles of muddy sleeping bags dotted the perimeter.
The stench of dirty humans, vomit, and garbage, mixed with the scent of marijuana and campfires, hung heavy in the air.
The smell of urine met my nostrils, but it no longer grossed me out.
Just as Grace Slick had predicted, a new day had dawned.
Although still humid, the weather was nice and warm, and the sun on my skin felt sublime. A few clouds hung low in the sky, but they didn’t seem to carry a threat of rain. I decided not to think about us parting ways until I had to. I’d simply enjoy the time we had left.
An unknown musician from England named Joe Cocker was slated to kick off the Sunday music. We meandered down the two-lane pathway in search of yet another choice place to sit, then settled halfway down, at the edge of a row.
Livy crossed my mind. Although she was headed on to Cambridge after the festival, she was supposed to help me figure out how I would get home. Where was home? I didn’t want to think about that yet. Leon was all I wanted to think about.
Like normal, John Morris’s voice floating throughout the pasture city caused everyone to listen up. “We have a gentleman with us,” he began. “The gentleman upon whose farm we are. Mr. Max Yasgur.”
Applause and whistles followed as Chip escorted our festival host to the microphone. Almost everyone, including Leon and me, gave him a standing ovation.
Max wore hefty black glasses and a crisp white dress shirt.
“Is this on?” He tapped the mic twice, looking to Chip for affirmation.
“I’m a farmer. I don’t know—” The roar from half a million people caused him to pause.
“I don’t know how to speak to twenty people at one time, let alone a crowd like this, but I think you people have proven something to the world.
Not only to the town of Bethel or Sullivan County or New York state.
You’ve proven something to the world! This is the largest group of people ever assembled in one place.
We had no idea that there would be this size group, and because of that you’ve had quite a few inconveniences, as far as water and food and so forth.
Your producers have done a mammoth job to see that you’re taken care of. They deserve a vote of thanks.”
Another explosion of applause. The largest so far.
“But above that, the important thing that you’ve proven to the world is that a half a million kids—and I call you kids because I have children older than you are—a half a million young people can get together and have three days of fun and music and have nothing but fun and music, and I—God bless you for it! ”
It was a super cool moment. Someone my parents’ age affirming the ideology behind Woodstock.
No one had forced Max Yasgur to lease his land.
He didn’t have to hold the festival on his property, no matter how much the producers paid him.
He must have favored the youthful, rebellious spirit spreading rapidly through the country.
After Max left, Chip made a few more announcements.
“Okay, let’s run through these before we invite Mr. Joe Cocker to the stage.
Michael and Will Brown, your mother would very much appreciate you calling home.
Elise Crockett, please meet your boyfriend, Robert, at the foot of the stage.
He’s a little slow but has finally arrived.
Leon Wright, you have an important message at the information booth. ”
“Ugh,” I moaned. “My leave of absence from Livy is over.”
Leon laughed. “Don’t you wanna tell her goodbye?”
“Not really.”
“Then let’s ignore it. Johnny will page me later.”
I wasn’t ready to share what little time Leon and I had left with Livy and Johnny, not to mention Professor Henry, but I was afraid to ignore the page. “We should make sure he’s okay,” I said. “After the acid and all.”
He pressed his lips together, trying not to grin. He knew Livy was the one I was worried about.
Hand in hand, we strolled toward the information booth.
I couldn’t remember a day in my life when I’d been as happy.
Nor could I have fathomed the kind of freedom Woodstock had offered.
As we approached the Message Tree, I felt weightless.
None of my family problems encumbered my mind.
Not Dad, not Mama, not even Ron’s enlistment in Vietnam.
Music had come back to my life, and I had danced the night away without anyone telling me not to.
At last, the world seemed like a beautiful, peaceful place.
Hundreds of notes and paper plates were pinned to the Message Tree.
Many more than the last time I’d been there with Livy.
We scanned the writing on each, reading about people in search of people, rides home, hunts for good LSD, lost car keys, even a notice about a poor lost dog. But we found nothing for Leon.
We spied a girl with curly brown hair manning the inside of the booth and stood in line.
We waited five minutes while she finished her conversation with a girl who rambled on and on about nothing.
Once she left, Leon stepped up to the window.
“Hey, man, I’m Leon Wright. I heard Chip Monck say I have a message here. ”
The girl searched around the inside of the booth before shuffling papers and Best Cola cans.
She picked up a bag of pot, looked underneath, and put it back down.
She even peeked inside a pair of muddy cowboy boots on the counter.
“No messages for Leon Wright that I can see,” she said, in a Boston accent.
“Have you guys checked the Message Tree?”
“Yeah, man. We’ll check again, though. Thanks.” He tapped the counter with both hands.
Before walking away, the girl handed me a Life of Yogi pamphlet, then took a sip of her Best Cola. “Good luck.”