Woodstock Day Three
Woodstock
Day Three
The psychedelic school buses were still there when I arrived. So were the tents and tepees. The stage was right where it had been yesterday. It seemed none of the Hog Farmers had left. Feeling abundantly relieved, I stepped up to the free kitchen and stood in line.
Only a minute passed before I heard a guy’s voice calling, “Suzie!”
I whipped around, hoping it was Leon—sure it was Leon—only to find a dude I’d never laid eyes on flashing me the peace sign. I smiled and signed him back. Within seconds his arm lay across my shoulders. It felt nice and warm. And he was sort of cute.
“I heard you sing yesterday,” he said. “Outta sight, milady.”
I smiled, felt goose bumps rising from the compliment. “Thanks. What’s your name?”
“Brady.” He tilted his head, studying my face. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” I answered in a low voice.
“Nothing doesn’t give a person red eyes.” He touched my nose. “Or a red beak.”
I glanced at the ground, embarrassed. I must look awful from all the crying.
He lifted my chin and tilted it toward his. Tenderly. The way Leon had done. “Wanna talk about it?”
I shook my head.
“Wanna go somewhere dry?”
I gave him an enthusiastic nod.
Once we’d both been served a plate of warm veggies atop more brown rice, my new friend, Brady, pointed toward tepee city. “Follow me to my wigwam, milady.”
On the way over, we passed the Hog Farm stage, doused in puddles. A hippie dude swept the water away with a wide broom while dogs frolicked in the spray underneath.
“When will the music start?” I asked Brady as we passed little children playing tag in the buff. I could hardly wait for the chance to sing again.
“Not sure we’ll have more music on our stage. But don’t hold me to that.”
I was disappointed but shrugged it off. And kept following Brady.
His “wigwam,” one of the largest in the Hog Farm campground, had a round hole for a door, which had been tied open with rope.
“After you,” he said, gesturing toward the opening.
Holding tightly to my plate, I stepped through the hole, then settled down on top of a Native American blanket that had been stretched out as a rug.
The smell of patchouli was the first thing I noticed, with the scent of marijuana lurking underneath. The amber glow from two Mexican prayer candles gave me the impression I had stepped inside a hippie lair.
Brady followed me through the hole, then sat down next to me, cross-legged. While he chowed down, I looked around at the colorful decor.
“How did this wigwam not blow down in the storm?” I asked, noticing everything around me, particularly the absence of mud.
He rushed to swallow. “I’ve done this a time or two. This is my home.”
“It’s so cool,” I said and meant it. It looked straight out of the magazine photos I’d seen of Haight-Ashbury.
Flags with peace signs sewed into the fabric had been hung on the canvas walls; long strips of tie-dyed cloth dangled from the tiptop, like icicles.
More Indian blankets were rolled up and stored off to the side, while brightly colored tapestry pillows encircled the circumference.
A small wooden table held a brass shoe with a glowing triangle of incense tucked inside.
Next to the shoe, a large bong had taken up residence, along with a transistor radio, Janis Joplin’s “Work Me, Lord” playing softly from the speaker.
While the thumps from the bass guitar rumbled through my chest, I swayed to the beat, my mood lifting with each note of Janis’s raspy voice. I touched Brady’s knee. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Yeah, hon. Shoot.”
“Why are y’all called the Hog Farm?”
After a loud chuckle, he leaned into my face, far too close for my liking. I could smell his veggie breath. “We used to live on a hog farm. We cared for . . .” He tilted his head, squinting one eye. “Fifty hogs. Or so.”
“Wow. Where was that?”
“Tujunga.” After I furrowed my brow, he added, “In the Hollywood Hills.”
“Hollywood sounds dreamy. Where do y’all live now?”
“Pretty much in the buses. We move around from show to show. When we aren’t traveling, we live in Llano, New Mexico.” Brady stretched out his legs, nudging my foot with his sandal. “Everybody in the commune pitched in together. We bought thirteen acres.”
“Cool. How many people live in your commune?”
“Three hundred, give or take. Thinking of joining us?”
I drew in a short breath. This took me by surprise. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Why maybe?”
I gave his question serious thought. When I had come back to the Hog Farm, I hadn’t considered joining their commune. I had come back for a place to fit in. Temporarily. Until Woodstock was over. I had come back to be around nice people. To sing, eat, do my part, earn my keep. While at Woodstock.
“I’ve never thought about joining a commune,” I said at last.
He leaned into me again. “You’d never look back.”
After a long sigh, I tucked my hair behind my ears. “I have a lot of big decisions to make right now. My life needs a readjustment.”
Again, Brady stretched his arm around my shoulders. I didn’t really want his arm around my shoulders. I wanted Leon’s. “That’s another reason to come with us,” he said. “We don’t make big decisions. The biggest one I’ve made lately was where to set up my wigwam here on the farm.”
“That sounds pretty good, actually,” I said with a hearty laugh.
“It’s the only way to live, milady.” I was just about to ask how they supported themselves when Brady said, “How long have you been a singer?”
“I’m not really a singer. I just wish I was.”
“Maybe not professionally. But who’s to say you can’t be?”
With downturned eyes, I answered. “I hope I can. One day.”
“I bet Hugh could get you a gig at the Whisky. Elmer Valentine’s a friend of his.”
What’s the Whisky, and who is Elmer Valentine? Livy would know. I smiled like I knew but wasn’t sure Brady believed me. He reached over to his table and handed me a shiny red box of matches with raised gold lettering: Whisky a Go Go, 8901 Sunset Blvd. OL2-4202.
I turned the box over, then handed it back. “Looks like a cool place.”
“The Whisky’s launched some pretty famous careers.”
I straightened. “Really? Like who?”
“The Byrds, the Springfield, the Doors. Frank Zappa and the Mothers got a record deal after playing there one night.” He smiled, scooted in a little closer. “Why couldn’t you? We’ll all say she got her start on the Hog Farm stage.”
Goose bumps rose on my flesh. I grinned at him but didn’t know how to respond. I didn’t want him sitting so close.
“Where do you live now?” he asked.
“Memphis. But I’m going back to college soon.” I inched away.
He took both of our plates—I’d barely touched mine—and set them off to the side. “Memphis, Tennessee. Beautiful views of the Mississippi.”
“You’ve been there?”
“Once. Drove through on my way from coast to coast.” He reached for his bong. “I just filled this with fresh water before the storm.”
The water may have been fresh, but the bong was well loved. Brown residue stained the glass. It looked gross.
I watched him stuff chunks of marijuana inside a funnel on the bong’s neck and sprinkle them with smaller grinds.
He covered the top with his mouth and lit the funnel.
Smoke filled the water chamber. His lips disappeared into the mouthpiece as the water bubbled.
He removed the bowl of pot before sucking in the smoke, then blew it toward the door hole.
After two hits, he handed both the bong and the lighter to me.
Confident I knew what to do, I took it from him. I did it exactly the way he had done, but when I inhaled, I hacked and coughed like I had tuberculosis. I made an even bigger fool of myself than I had that first night in the bowl. With Leon.
“Uh-oh,” said Brady. “Let me help you.” He took the bong back to demonstrate. “Don’t inhale right away. Just draw in a little smoke, and let it fill the chamber. Watch me.” I heard the water bubbling as soon as he placed his lips inside the glass.
Once he’d blown the smoke out the wigwam hole, he handed me the bong. He put his hand over the top so the smoke wouldn’t escape. This time, I took a hit without choking. I tried handing it back, but he stopped me. “Take a couple more.”
I took a couple more.
Within sixty seconds, a meteor shower exploded inside my head. Wow. Wow. Wow! I glanced around the wigwam. The pillows were dancing. So I stood up and danced along with them, with Mick Jagger singing “Under My Thumb” in the background.
When the song was over, I plopped down on his Indian blanket.
“I’ve decided,” I announced loudly, settling down on my back.
“I’m definitely joining your commune.” I pulled up my knees and crossed one leg over the other.
With my head cradled in my hands, I stared up at the top of the tepee, fantasizing about singing at the Whisky.
Brady stepped over to the wigwam door and untied the rope so the flap would cover the hole. He stepped back and lay down next to me, turning his head my way. “Good choice, milady. You’ll never look back.”
I wished he’d stop calling me milady. “How much money will I need to join?” I asked, thinking about the forty-two dollars in my wallet.
“None. We pool our money. Everyone earns their keep.”
“Far out, man,” I said, in a daze. “Works for me.”
What else would I need to join the commune?
First and foremost, I’d need clothes, many more than I had at the festival.
It was dusk now. As soon as it got light, I’d go back to the butterfly meadow.
I’d find my jacket, Livy’s pink top, and my new bra.
Although I’d never wear a bra once I became a Hog Farmer, I still wanted to keep it. It matched my panties.
Would I change my clothing style completely?
Wear flowy skirts and halter tops every day?
A photo slideshow of all the adorable things I’d bought from Goldsmith’s played in my head.
I’d never see a single one of them again if I joined the Hog Farm.
Who cares? I thought. I’ll never miss a stinking one of them.
“It’s exactly what I’m supposed to do,” I said out loud, feeling relaxed and euphoric. I didn’t care about Leon. I sure didn’t care about Dad, or Livy or Shelly or that I had no home. I didn’t care about much of anything. Except singing at the Whisky a Go Go on Sunset Boulevard.
“One. Two. Three. Four . . .” With my finger held high, I counted Brady’s tie-dyed ribbon icicles.
I stood up and batted them through the air like they were dancing.
Then I lay back down and stared up at the point of the wigwam, imagining Santa Claus squeezing through on Christmas morning.
Belly laughter erupted. My shoulders shook.
Nothing I could do would make them stop shaking. But it felt heavenly to laugh.
Brady turned over on his side, propping up on his elbow. “Wanna do windowpane?”
Do I wanna do windowpane? My brain whirled with visions of windowpanes dancing in the air. I glanced slowly around the wigwam, studying every inch of the walls. Not a windowpane in sight. Not even a peephole. “Where do you find a windowpane around here?”
He moved over to a bag propped up against one of the perimeter pillows, then slipped his hand inside.
After crawling back, he sat down next to me, holding out his palm.
A tiny paper square, no bigger than a dime, lay in the center.
“Got it on the West Coast. It’s rad. And safe,” he said with a chuckle.
What could be rad or unsafe about a tiny little piece of paper? The windowpane correlation was obvious, but that was about it. I plucked it from his palm to give it a closer look. “What’s so rad about this?”
“Takes you on a trip to wonderland, man.” Brady raised his eyebrows sky-high.
I sat up, curled my legs underneath me. If I hadn’t been on a serious bong high, I would have dropped it like a hot potato.
Instead, I gave it a hard look. Leon was gone.
It could be a way to forget him. I was on my own now, headed for commune life.
I’d do it eventually, wouldn’t I? I’d done everything else since I’d arrived.
Might as well drop acid. I’d be a bona fide Hog Farmer if I did. Why not take a trip to wonderland?
I sure didn’t want to admit to Brady that I’d never done acid before, so I smiled at him, like it was a good idea.
Brady took it back and tore it in half. “Stick out your tongue and say ahh.”
As soon as I stuck out my tongue, a still small voice whispered, This is not the real you, Suzannah. You don’t have to prove yourself to anybody. You are wonderful the way you are.
That voice sounded authentic. Somehow, I knew it spoke the truth.
Brady’s fingers were hovering above my tongue when I jerked it back inside my mouth.
I didn’t want to take a trip to an artificial wonderland.
I didn’t want to be a Hog Farmer either.
Truth was, I didn’t want to be anyone but me.
Not Livy, not Shelly, nor any other drop-dead-gorgeous, complicated girl. Just me. The real me.
I shook my head. “No thanks.”
“Come on.”
“Really. I’m good.”
He cocked his head to the side and gave me a shrug. “Suit yourself.”
In one motion, I grabbed my purse and rose up on wobbly knees. A heaviness gripped my eyeballs.
“Wait. Don’t go.” Brady rose with me. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. Please stay. Stay as long as you want, milady.”
Fatigue clamped on to my body like a vise. “What I want is to take a very short nap.” I dropped my purse and lay down on the blanket, curling up in a ball. As much as I wanted to leave, a catnap sounded better.
That’s the last thing I remembered before falling into a deep slumber.