By: Gonzo
I wasn’t crazy about the idea from the beginning. There was just something unappealing about being in insane summer heat with at least 250,000 people, three bottles of Captain Morgan’s Parrot Bay rum, little drugs to do, and no women to bang. It was shaping up to be a fun weekend.
That cloudy Thursday morning could’ve started better. The night before I was at my friend Jim’s house, and I was raging drunk. I had also met the others who would be going to Woodstock with us. All seemed well. Getting to sleep was a problem, though. There was nowhere for me to crash, so I just curled up in Jim’s closet, and tried to sleep on a really uncomfortable floor.
When morning rolled around, I was still drunk, and now I was puking up all the Jack Daniel’s I drank. We were headed off to the Rockaway Mall to meet yet more people who were going with us.
At the mall, we all piled out of Jim’s car while we waited for the others to show. I was still feeling really sick, so I was just trying to get myself better. Nothing I did helped. Jim was playing a game of catch with someone, but I don’t remember whom it was. Ye gods, that morning dragged. The game ended, and Jim went back to the car. He saw me sitting on the curb, and was playing like he was going to hit me with the car door. I was in no mood to be bothered, so I kicked the door. Jim’s sister, Laura, and some her chick friends were going with us, and they were there. I think he knew they were watching, and that’s when he went into his macho asshole strutting mode. He got out of the car spreading his arms like some gangsta, and he was looking for a fight. Now, he knew I always carried some kind of weapon with me, and I had my red handled butterfly knife in my pocket, but he was still looking for a fight.
“What’s your problem?” he kept asking me.
I told him that I was sick, and I was in the mood to be bothered with. That wasn’t good enough for him. He was still looking to go. He kept asking me if I wanted to go, and I told him the first shot was his. Friend or not, don’t hassle me when I’m really sick. If it would’ve come to it, I would’ve slit his throat right there in that parking lot, and watched him choke on his own blood. Yeah, I knew bringing a blade with me to Woodstock probably wasn’t the best idea in the world, but God only knows what kind of mental patients I was liable to encounter there, so I was going to be prepared. I started to think about all the weird adventures we had been through, and I didn’t want things to end this way, so I backed down, and let it go. He was wrong for overreacting, and I was wrong for not realizing that he probably knew I was sick, and by his playing with me, he was just trying to make me feel better, or at the very least, smile. We made up, and went about our day. To this day, though, I still feel a kind of contrition. Jim says that all is cool between us, and it is, but I still feel like something between us is lost, and there’s no way of getting it back.
The ride up was a tortuous one. There were four of us in the car: Jim, Jason, his brother Mike, and me. In between the times that I was being frozen out from a rolled down window, and suffering with a rotted dust bowl stomach full of acid, my ears were repeatedly blasted by Blink 182, and I was drifting in and out of consciousness. I must have been out for some time. When we got in the car to leave from the mall we were in Morris County, and when I came to, disoriented, we were in Bergen County. We were now on Rt.17 in Ramsey, and we were going for bagels. I wasn’t much for eating, though, but I needed something to soak up the alcohol and acid that was slowly killing my stomach.
We got out of the car in some parking lot a few doors down from the train station. There was something oddly calming about watching the N.J. Transit train quietly going to where ever it was it was going to. My whole body felt like it needed emptying. Question: With the exception of Starbuck’s, why are there no publicly available toilets in the area? Going behind the dumpster was an option, sure, but there were too many people around. I made it into Starbuck’s, bought a nasty tasting doughnut, and hit the can while I was there. How do you spell relief?
I can’t really say much for the ride up, except that I slept for most of it. Jim was still blasting Blink 182, but I was simply too tired to care. I was feeling a bit better, but I’m not sure if that’s because Jim and I had mended fences, or the doughnut was doing its work. Maybe it was a combo of both. From what I did see of our little huddle up the N.Y. Thruway, it definitely was God’s country. There were two types of scenery: Model train set green scenery, and depressed, blue collar towns. We pulled off at some rest area, I bought a ginger ale, and my stomach started to feel a lot better. Then, an incident with Jim arose, an incident of the female kind.
He was quite taken with one of Laura’s friends, Kara, if memory serves. I remember how he kept saying he was going to hook up with some chick at Woodstock. I wanted to hook up with some chick, too, but knowing Woodstock was going to be Disease Central, I knew better. Anyway, when we were at another rest stop, Laura came over to our car. She asked Jim which one of her friends he like best because she just wanted to “…verify…” something. How cute! Jim had an admirer. Mind you, he was away from the car when Laura came over. I remembered roaming around the by the dark bricked food court that was inside of it. There was a fortune telling machine there, and Jim dropped $0.50 into it. His fortune was something about him meeting a woman with dark hair, but Kara didn’t have dark hair. Hmmm.
Back to the moment. Jim came back to the car, and Mike, Jason, and I told him about Laura’s visit, and how the three of decided that he wasn’t going to get to hook with whom he wanted. Imagine that: A .50 fortune being wrong. That would change later, though, but it was fun seeing him squirm, though. A little bit later, the real fun began.
After we were lost for a while, we got to see some nice views of severely depressed, broken down little towns. It seemed like there were a lot of liquor stores, but, if I had to live there, I’d be ripped to the tits everyday, too. We persevered, and we eventually made to old Griffiths Air Force Base, now known as Griffiths Park. Ye gods! I knew there were going to be a lot of people there, but this was a bit much. Early reports had attendance at 250,000 people. My wristband’s number was 307,913.
We pulled in, and it felt like we were in a Batan death march of cars, and the heat was now up to a blast furnace. When we eventually found a place to park, we stopped for a bit to watch helicopters bringing in people, and taking off again. We didn’t see who was in there, but it was still fun to watch. Getting up to the gate was an unbearably long walk, and I seriously thought I was going to have a heat stroke right there. My heart was beating so quickly, I thought my sternum was going to crack. I even had one of the Woodstock “Peace Patrol” (Yes, they really were called that, and most of them were big, angry looking black guys.) security guys tell me that medical assistance was available if I needed it. Was I that bad? I knew I wasn’t feeling well, but could everyone see?
“You can only go if you promise to come back safe and sound.” I remembered my father saying to me before I went to Jim’s house. A quick image of him getting a phone call saying is baby boy didn’t even make it to the gate, and his brown eyes that always seemed to be near tears, actually spilling tears flashed in my head.
Bullshit! If I’ll be missed or not upon my death is anyone’s guess, but my death will be done on my schedule, and I didn’t have time on my schedule at that moment. Somehow, I made it. Maybe it was because Jim helped me by carrying the heaviest bag, or maybe Horatio Alger goosed me. I don’t know, but I did lie down and rest for a bit on the grass. I guess death wasn’t ready for me after all.
On our way in, we had to have our bags searched for contraband, what ever we may have with us. Did these people actually think that we would be bringing drugs to Woodstock ‘99? Pity the thought! I was worried about having my knife found, but I lucked out. Maybe my being so nice and polite to the guy helped. It ‘s always good policy to be nice to any big, angry black guy. The last thing I needed after a near heat stroke was pissed off honky hater rooting around in my bag, and making off with my blade. Somehow, I had a feeling that this guy wouldn’t have called the cops if he did fine the blade. Maybe because the cops were looking for him? Anyway, the guy asked me if I just had clothes in one of my bags, and I said I did, and he let it go at that. Thank God these people aren’t working at airports. Security. Yeah. Okay. Well, my bottles of rum were safe. No one fucks with my Parrot Bay. Others, however, were not so lucky. They had to dump their whole bags out. Harsh, I know.
For a brief moment, I had every guy in our merry little band cheer me on. When we had all cleared the gates, some chick approached me, and started talking to me. This chick was there working for Woodstock, acting as some kind of information giver. She was my type, too. Brunette, slim body, pretty face…yeah. However, from our few minute talk, she seemed to be getting more and more friendlier, and her talking to me was taking a seriously suggestive turn. I never saw after that time, but at least I was noticed.
After fighting with my tent for an hour, I took a quick walk around the place to see what was happening. When I got back to my tent, I fell in to a deep sleep, ready for what ever tomorrow would bring.
I woke up at 8:00 a.m., my head feeling thick and it was splitting. I was suffering from a lethal combo of no sex, wicked heat, and I slept on hard ground. There was one saving grace, though: I had cool water when I woke up. There was a shallow gully that ran under part of my tent. One side of the tent was my living area, and the other was for storage. Both areas were separated by where the gully ran under the tent. I would put my gallons of water in the gully in my tent at night, and I had cool water in the morning.
I didn’t do much when I woke up. I was just trying to get my bearings, listening to the moving world around me. Oddly enough, I was in a good mood, a bit excited even, though I didn’t show it. That day was the kick off day for Woodstock ’99. This was supposed to be a party for my generation. There were great bands playing, and there was the possibility for me to meet some new, and hopefully cool people. My headache eventually wore off, and I just hid out in my tent until Sheryl Crow played, whenever that would be. The trouble was that there were no schedules around, and no one really knew what was happening. I figured I was in for some exercise trying to find a schedule, or when Crow was playing, whichever one came first.
Later in the day, I was walking past the West Stage, and my attention was grabbed. A group that was new to me, Oleander, was playing. I had never heard of them until I was there watching them, and they were playing some good tunes, too. Memo to self: Buy an Oleander CD. I had even stayed there for a while listening to them, stepping over a fornicating couple at one point, but I had to continue walking on. I was on a quest. Before I went to sleep the night before, I drank a gallon of water, and I was now close to dialysis treatments. The water stations were right next to the port-a-johns, and I thought that was great because all of that sun baked shit would be washed away, at some point.
I had finally made it to the toilets and water stations, and I noticed that people were coming out of the toilets had looks on their faces that said they had just seen some science project that had gone wrong. I got into one of the johns, looked down at the mock toilet, and I can honestly say that at that moment I was never so happier to be born with the XY chromosome pair. There was a pile of piss showered shit that was literally a few feet thick that was covered by thing strips of toilet paper. No corn, though. All I could think about was how few pussies were going to be eaten after coming out of where I was. The weird thing is how there was no smell, other than that of sun warmed plastic. My bladder emptied, finally, after I had taken great care to find somewhere to send my stream where it wouldn’t splash. I stepped out, got my refill of water, and headed off, trying to shake that spooky toilet scene out of my shaved head.
I wandered around for a bit, and I was moved to emotion: Joy, I think. It’s been so rare that I’ve actually felt joy in my life I’m not really sure what joy feels like. There was just something special about being there at that moment, whatever it meant. There I was alone in a strange place, on an old air base where a shadow or two still lurked in some corners, being surrounded by pop culture that had gone off in all directions, yet all those directions managed to cross paths at some point, and feeling that cool breeze on me. I know this Woodstock wasn’t being held for the same reasons the original was. It was a terrible time. It was the Age of President Clinton, and it was now time for a break for a few days. There is a part of me that still clings to the hope that there is still some thread bare shred from 1969 that can still be held, and valued, and I was trying to find that vibe. Maybe it was just because there was no bullshit, yet. It was fun to just roam, see various vendors, see beautiful women, see people actually being nice to each other, and the best part of all that was that the heat wasn’t bothering me.
I continued walking toward the East Stage, and I noticed something weird was going on. (Something weird going on at Woodstock ’99? Who’d have thought?) It seems like everyone was yelling for some reason, and there was no reason for it. No bands were playing. No one famous was walking with everyone. The heat just baked everyone already. It was weird to watch, these knots of jock asshole types with their baseball hats turned backwards, yelling for no reason. When I got to the stage, I was disappointed to see that no talent Jamiroquai on stage. Slightly pissed, I went back to my tent.
I got caught up on some reading. Yes, I brought a book with me, but it was a Star Wars book, so fuck you if you think I should’ve been doing drugs, and banging some chick. Bibliophiles don’t rest. After my reading was finished, I made the long walk back to the East Stage, and I was there in time to see Sheryl Crow. Very impressive. I’ve been a fan of hers since ’94. There’s a blue collar, earthly appeal to her music that really strikes a nerve with me, and her performance then was no exception. True, I was so far back from the stage that if it weren’t for the monitors showing her to be wearing a white t-shirt, that she wouldn’t pull up for us, I might add, I wouldn’t have been able to see her, but her music rang triumphant that late afternoon.
I came back later to see The Offspring play. I’ve liked them for a while. They seem, to me at least, to have a playful element to their music, but they’re still legit. Part of the way through their set, they stopped playing. A voice came from nowhere, and said that the Backstreet Boys would be coming out to play. They did, too, or at least mannequins dressed like them did. Some Boys’ song came on, and everyone rose. I didn’t see what was happening until I stood up. Offspring’s front man, Dexter Holland, came running out with a baseball bat, and proceeded to beat all the mannequins. The whole crowd, me included, roared in support. Yet another good show.
After the show, I bought a t-shirt from some guy I had assumed had stolen them. They were going for only 20.00. In the stands, shirts were going for more than double that price. Sleep, due to restless mind, came slow that night. I tossed and turned for a while, but finally thought myself to sleep with nothing but the sounds of the world around me.
I woke up before 8:00 a.m., and headed over to go stand in line, the common feeder line, for the now beyond funky rent-a-johns. On the way over, I walked past Jim’s tent, and saw he was sleeping next to one of Laura’s friend’s, Paula.
“Must be nice.” I muttered, and walked off.
I came back, and was sitting I my tent for a while when Jim popped his head in, and asked me if I wanted to go for a walk with him. He was on a quest for razors, and was trying to find the convenience store that was somewhere on site. As we headed off, he was telling me how he was in the process of moving in on Paula. While we were talking like that, it felt like the way things did before we had our falling out before the whole trip began. For a moment I remembered that woman who was taking time out to talk to me when I first got there. The more I thought about that slim bodied piece of ass, I thought she was an activities co-coordinator of some kind. Maybe my meeting her was some kind of omen. Yeah. Picture that shit. Jim and I continued walking around, and we never did find the convenience store. We did see a lot of Canadians, though, and we saw the Peace Patrol for what they really were: Thugs. There they were, partying with everything they had confiscated. Nice. Corrupt rent-a-cops keeping an eye on the other rogues and “criminals.”
After we came back, I was sitting in my tent for a while when Kara, the same one Jim was in lust with, told me how she was going to sit with me in my tent for a while. I, being the non-confrontational type that I am, did not protest. While we were enjoying pleasant conversation, I was hoping that things would start to look up for me. When Kara left, Bonnie, yet another one of Laura’s friends came to keep me company in my tent. Wow! Two different women in my tent in one day! Look out Bill Clinton. Kara came back later as Bonnie headed off to do her thing, and she, Kara, told me how I had the coolest tent. I’m still not sure if she was hinting at something. To make things better, Laura, the generous soul that she is, tossed two boxes Raisin Bran Crunch, snack size, into my tent. I ate them dry, wishing every morning could be like that.
Everyone, except for me, left to see Kid Rock a little after 1:00 p.m. I can’t stand Kid Rock, so I just sat in tent all afternoon. I wasn’t planning on heading over to go see Dave Matthews at about 4:00. That afternoon, for those few hours alone like I was had to be the longest, loneliest, most boring afternoon I have ever had the displeasure to live through. Outside of some hippie chick trying to sell me a pipe, I had no human contact.
I finally made my way over to see Matthews, and what a show it was. Damn. True, when he speaks he sounds like the local drunk and Carl from Slingblade, but it still kicked ass. There is a romantic streak in Matthews’ music that I really get into, though most of the people I know who are into him are hippies. The only gripe about it I had was that he didn’t do Crash Into Me. That song gets me a bit nostalgic for a certain nursing student I knew when I was in college. It would’ve been nice to hear that song live, just so I could see her again, even if I had to close my eyes to do it.
After Matthews’ set, Mini Me came out and worked the crowd while we were waiting for Alanis Morissette to play. She did a great set, but the only thing that detracted from it were the Mud People throwing mud, or what I assumed to be mud, at us for no reason. We just stood there yelling “Assholes!” with a tone that sounded like we were Scottish soccer fans. A few of us, me included, were ready to grab some kind of weaponry, and charge them. Why not? We could’ve taken them easily. We out numbered them by at least 1,000 to one. I even threw a bottle at one guy who a little to close me. I missed, but he left me alone.
Alanis finished. I went back to my tent, and chatted with Mauri, the foul mouthed drunk who was the last one in the group of Laura’s friends. It was a nice chat, but I couldn’t help but wonder if she fucked as much as she said “fuck.” She wasn’t a beauty, but what a body! Milk really does do a body good. Jim was convinced that I could’ve hooked up with her, and I half thought so myself. Even the timing was right for it. It was just her, and me and everyone else was gone. We had plenty of time, but I wasn’t really all that much into her. Besides, I had to rest: I was seeing Metallica that night.
I got there early, early enough to see Rage Against The Machine play. It was a good show, and their energy was infectious. It was cool hearing thousands of people singing Killing In The Name Of. They just came out, played, burned the American flag, and left the stage. Not a lot of people were happy with the flag burning bit, and not once was that Free Mumia shit mentioned, thank God. At the time, Kevin Mitnick was in jail, and I was hoping someone there would’ve said something about his plight. Nothing. I did notice a change in the crowd, though. I wouldn’t say it was evil, but it definitely malicious. I supposed that was to be expected. After all, Rage Against The Machine didn’t do love songs. I just hoped things wouldn’t get into bad craziness.
I just stood there, waiting, and shivering because of how chilly it had strangely gotten, and because of the bad sunburn on my legs. It was worth it though. I was getting to see Metallica. I was listening to them when their bassist, Cliff Burton, was still alive. It was different then. Lars hadn’t yet started up with his bullshit whining about Napster. I miss those days.
Someone eventually came out on stage, and told us that the National Weather Service had reported a severe thunderstorm was heading our way. A huge cheer rang out for that one. The guy on stage, Mr. Helper, went on to give us some safety tips for dealing with the storm. Imagine that. There we were, thousands of grown adults, many with some kind of education, and this guy was taking the time out to tell what to do if lightning struck. What are we? Fucking stupid?
After a long delay, Metallica came on. I was moved to emotion again. There they were, Metallica, and they were playing in front of me. I remembered how in high school, I would look up at the Garage Days Re-Revisited I had hanging on my wall, and want to be in their position, or even just party with them, if Iron Maiden wasn’t available, of course. Iron Maiden ALWAYS comes first in my musical tastes. I never got the chance, but their music was always there, being some kind of comfort for me as the alienation I was feeling in high school was growing increasingly worse and worse.
I looked up, and saw storm clouds start to obscure the moon, and that was my cue to head back to my tent because I had left the flap of my tent up. I felt bad in a way because I felt like I was leaving my friends in their moment of triumph. They, being my friends, I knew they’d understand.
A wicked wind had kicked up, and it started to rain, but not as much as I had hoped for. In fact, the rain had stopped before I have even gotten back to my tent. I could’ve walked back to see Metallica finish their set, but fuck it. I was too tired, and at least I got to see them, even if just for a short time. With the exception of someone lighting off M-80s, it didn’t take me long to get to sleep.
Pain. It was in my chest and legs as I woke up. It wasn’t a heart attack, but it was sunburn, bad sunburn at that. That’s what happens when you’re Irish, and get too much sun. That also had to be the quickest I had ever gotten dressed in my life. My bladder was screaming, and I had to keep it quiet. The line for the bathroom wasn’t that long, but it was by now the worst it could be for me to have been in. There was a little white box to my lower left that was supposed to be the urinal, but there was deep pile of something that resembled ground beef. Relieved, I went back to my tent, and waited for Brian Setzer to come on. I would never get to see him.
Mauri called home to check in with her parents, and they wanted her to come home. Fine with us. We had had it with the whole bad scene: High prices, heat, dirt, etc, that malicious vibe was still there. We had a quick powwow, and decided to head home. We started breaking down camp. I just wish I could’ve seen what was coming next.
Our tents were finally broken down, and all bags were packed. Jim and my fellow car mates took their stuff to the car, and they were going to help me when they got back. Cool. My hands were dirty as hell, so I headed off to wash them. Bad idea.
After the Bosco water turned back to clear, I washed my hands off, and had the intention of catching up to Jim. Notice the word intention?
I suited up, and walked down the hill, trying to keep them in my sight. However, there was a large swell of people at the bottom of the hill, and they blended into it. No problem, I though. I’ll just go to where the car is, and we’ll head home. We talked about stopping at a diner on the way home: A glass of milk for Jim, and an omelette (French spelling, I know.) for me. We were joking about how all we wanted was real food. Things were soon to get complicated.
The heat was really beating down on me as I trudged through the gates to the outside, but I wasn’t feeling as bad as I did when I first arrived. Sure, I had to stop every so often and buy a bottle of piss warm, overpriced water, or ice water in bottles so big that supermarkets selling bottles that big, for the price I paid, would lose money. My mind was feeling good, but that would soon change.
I walked along real slow in the slight shadow of the Woodstock Walk, which was poorly drawn artwork on wooden walls that surrounded the event. At times, I would stop and rest, firmly planting my back against the wall, trying to rest up enough so I could get my second wind. It was kind of fun to people watch for a bit, keeping a mental note of all the good looking women I saw. My second wind came back with a dull strength, but it was enough for me to go on. So, feeling cooled off and ready to walk, I went right past the people who were kicking and tearing down the walls of the Woodstock Walk.
“Panic. It crept up my spine like first rising vibes of an acid frenzy.”
I could hear Johnny Depp saying that as I looked at what was supposed to be passing for a parking lot with horror. I remembered in that lame excuse for a Woodstock program that there were going to be 80,000 parking spaces there that weekend. Then the real horror set in: Jim’s car was gone. I felt like a mule with spiked horseshoes kicked me in the nuts. I thought Jim and I had mended fences, but I was wrong. That rotten fucker bailed on me, a retaliatory act for what happened before we left. I should’ve disemboweled him when I had the chance.
“This isn’t good.” I said.
Okay, I thought. Stranded in Rome, N.Y., not a lot of cash on me, but enough, and I felt like panicking. I knew better, though. Instead, I tried to rationalize the whole thing by telling myself that I overlooked the car. After an hour of searching, I still didn’t find the car.
Stand still. Stay put. That was my next move. If, by some odd chance, Jim was looking for me, it wouldn’t help for me to be roaming around.
“Ice cold iced tea! $1.00 a glass!” I heard a voice yelling.
I looked over, and saw three teens squatting by a cooler. Even better was the SUV behind them giving off a lot of shadow, and it had Jersey plates on it. Cool. I remember think how I would go over, get some iced tea, rest in the shade, listen to Setzer, and bribe the SUV’s driver for a lift home.
“Thirsty?” one of the teens asked me.
I put my gear down, and broke out a dollar. The tea wasn’t ice cold, but it was refreshing, and that shade felt great.
“You look tired.” one of the teens said to me.
I told him how I was ditched, and I couldn’t get a ride home. We talked for a bit, and I came to find out that teens were from Ontario. They were really cool to talk to, and they even bashed Canadian P.M. Chretien for a while. I was looking off toward the hills when they offered me another glass “…on the house.” My spirits were lifted, and I was touched by the show of humanity. It was good to see that someone else besides me had a shred of the original Woodstock in them. Thanks, guys.
After they left, I made the long walk to where the shuttle buses were. I had to get the one going to “Kingpin” so I could get the other shuttle that went to the Rome train station where I would get an Amtrak train to Penn Station in Manhattan, where I would then get an N.J. Transit train back home. I was in for a long afternoon.
I got on the shuttle, and didn’t hit a single one of the other passengers. When we pulled out, I was looking back at Woodstock, and I was feeling a bit empty. I don’t know if it’s because I was questioning whether I really belonged in the collective mosaic of Woodstock, or the realization that I was now wired into a survival trip was now setting in.
The heat was still on the high side. Then again, it could’ve been because I was stress and adrenaline incarnate. The ride to Kingpin was a bit freaky. I had familiar surroundings for the past four days, and I was now somewhere in God’s country. How long, O Lord? How long?
Kingpin, I found out, was a bowling alley. I know: Duh! What do you want from me? I’m from New Jersey, and I’m used to towns having weird names. Anyway, dumpy is the best way to describe the place. The parking lot was a mess, and the building needed a good coat of paint, but I was talking to two Swedish girls I had met on the shuttle. One was blonde, and the other was a brunette. Score! The latter was wearing black shorts, and a black sports bra. My my my.
“Thirsty?” I asked them.
I was thirsty. Big time. Some guy has set up a table in front of Kingpin where he was selling flavored water. I went for the strawberry, but I would’ve settled for Orbitz at that point. The girls didn’t want anything.
I came back, sat down, took a sip from the cheapest water I had seen in days, and a conversation broke out between me, and the girls. They were headed back to Jersey, too! They lived not too far from me. The brunette was an au pair, and the blonde was an English major. A light sprinkle started, but none of us moved. I looked up at the clouds that were breaking up, and hoped that things were on an upswing.
I guess it was somewhere between 4, and 4:30 p.m. when the shuttle for the train station showed up. I made it on, again, without hitting anyone. It was a bother to saddle up again, but I knew that if I didn’t, I wouldn’t be going home. As I sat down, I was told that the Rome train station was like a smaller Penn Station, and next door to the Rome train station there was a great restaurant. I was looking forward to getting something in me other than Star Wars fruit snacks.
“This is it?” I asked as I stepped from the shuttle, and onto the street.
I was not expecting this. The street was desolate, but it did look like Penn Station, a rabbit’s pen. Across the street was an abandoned bar, and next to that was some business that had closed down for the weekend, or for how ever long Woodstock was in town for, which ever came first. Hunger bit into me some more, and I wandered into the restaurant next door.
That wasn’t a good idea on my part. There was a line of hunger stricken people waiting to get inside. I had sunburn on my legs, 2nd degree to be exact, and while the pain was there, the blisters were in the mail. That was for sure. Standing was difficult, so I would just walk around, or rock from side to side. The place was packed, mush to the pretty brunette bartender’s dismay. It was too long of a line for me, so I left. I went up the street, turned the corner, walked under the underpass, over bridge that went over a river where a small yacht drifted lazily by, and into town I went.
I was in the mood for McDonald’s for some reason, but I would’ve settled for Meow Mix at that point. I was also wondering how Jim was doing, and Killing In The Name Of was playing in my head for some reason. I was quieting down, getting peaceful.
It was a nice, peaceful walk into town, and the pain in my legs had gone away. In the distance, brilliant orange cracks of lightning were carving their way through the sky. I even had some company. Two teens from the station, fellow Woodstockers no doubt, were following me. They weren’t much in the way of conversation, and they looked haggard for some reason. Maybe they were remembering how bad the toilets were. Maybe it was because of how bad I looked.
I finally made it into town, and I thought I had wandered into a Lovecraft novel. There was nothing supernatural happening, on the surface at least, but there was an eerie, deserted feel to the place. I walked past many abandoned buildings, but that blue collar abandonment was a new vibe for me.
So, there I was in a strange corner in a strange town in a strange summer afternoon wondering where I was going to find food, and wondering why everything was closed. In retrospect, it was fun.
Hmmm. Left, right, or straight ahead. Tough call. I was in no condition to be wandering, but I needed food. When I was walking in, I thought I saw a deli, but it was nowhere to be seen now. Okay. Now what?
Left. I don’t know why, but that’s where I went. It seemed like nothing else was open. Across the street was some big, greasy biker clogging a doorway to a restaurant. I wondered why he wasn’t wearing a beer stained t-shirt, beating his wife, and I walked on. Lori’s, a store that was closed down with a sign in a window that said “Closed due to Woodstock” was coming up on my left, and not too far down from there was a BP with a mini mart. Of all the places to find Shangri La.
I hurried my pace a bit, opened the door of the mini mart, and a blast of air conditioning cooled my legs. How do you spell relief? T-R-A-N-E!
The first place I headed for was the soda case. It wasn’t for the sake of more cool air, but my stomach was a bit upset. Time for more ginger ale. I needed food, too, but I knew better than to get something heavy. I decided on a bag of Combos.
“You wouldn’t happen to have a bathroom here, would you?” I asked the blonde who was ringing me up.
“Just the port-a-john outside.” she said.
“Compared to what I’ve been seeing at Woodstock, this will be like going in the queen’s palace.” I answered back.
Okay. There was no royalty in the john, but it was so clean. It was just a clean, blue closet for me to empty my bladder in. After all, when your bladder is screaming louder than Mariah Cary caught in a bear trap, you can’t help but listen.
“What the hell are those things?” I mumbled as I opened the door to the john.
Growing up where I did in New Jersey, I saw a lot of wildlife, but there were things in there that I questioned. Did Nature actually create these things? Ye gods! There were a lot of spiders in there, too. The big fucker in the corner that I thought was a wolf spider looked like it had just carried of a small child. I was worried about it biting me, but it just sat there, watching me. Pervert. I had to shift my weight a lot because of how bad the pain in my legs had gotten, but I felt a hell of a lot better.
The walk back was a strange one. What got me most was how quiet everything was. I felt like I was in some post war/post apocalyptical story. Eerie. Maybe it was just days of thousands of people screaming people were getting out of my system, and into my collective. Maybe it was something that only Kerouac and Thompson could only appreciate. Maybe I was on a bizarre victory march of some kind because I had made it through a warm, lonely, dreamlike summer afternoon in a city of empty buildings, a city that was never the same after the air base closed down.
By the time I made it back to the humid train station, I was wishing I had bought that case of beer I was looking at back at the BP. I had a bit of a wait ahead of me, and buzz would’ve been nice. Instead, I found myself in the middle of the street taking pictures of a passing freight train with an old 110 camera that could barely justify its existence. The rest of my time was spent talking to various Woodstock refuges, like that good looking mother/daughter duo from California.
Then inside the station, there was a guy who had the face of a used car salesman, but was acting like the asshole at a wedding who goes to every table to make sure everything was all right. He saw how we looked. We had the look like corporate greed fucked us without KY, and he made it a point to talk to everyone of us. Still, it was nice to get treatment like that. He was an Amtrak employee, and even he was not immune from the dickheads that dwell among us.
Due to a phone call I made, and my being peripatetic, I didn’t see what had happened, but he and some cops were threatening to arrest some guy. I never found out what happened, but at least I got a quick show.
The train was due in at 6:26 p.m., and when it was announced that the train was there, I felt so much better. I was almost home. For the whole time I was in that station, we were all as active as TLC bank transactions, but when the train got there we perked up like a triple espresso had just kicked in. I felt strange standing there with my baggage, feeling like a soldier going off to battle, like how my father might have felt when he was heading off the now barely mentioned Korean War.
My first impression of what the train was like didn’t meet my expectations. I was expecting to see blue velvet seats, cigar smoke, and bologna sandwiches with a drop of mustard on them. Instead, everything was well lit, grey, and nice and clean.
“Mind if I sit here?” I asked a guy by the window seat to the right in the first aisle.
“Everyone’s got to sit somewhere.” he replied.
I took that a yes, and put what I could in the overhead rack. It felt strange to sit down after being uncomfortable for so long, but I got used to it real quick. There was a handicap area in front of us that was now being used as out baggage overflow.
The train pulled out, and my travelmate and I started talking. His name escapes me now, but he was a mechanic from Long Island. He was outraged, as I was, that water was going for $4.00 a bottle, but I just about freaked when he told me that a chicken wrap sandwich was going for $10.00. I was that much more glad to be out of there.
After a while, he fell asleep, as did most everyone else, but not me. I didn’t want to get rolled in my sleep. I looked up the aisle from me, and saw there was a little room with a sign that said “Trackphone” over it. Ooh. Playtime.
I walked in, and found that the room was no bigger than a closet, but this was a closet with a lock on it. At least I had something to do. I played with the phone for a while, trying codes, but nothing worked. Hey. At least I tried.
I went back to my seat, and no one had touched my bags, not that I checked. No one took my seat, either. My travelmate was still asleep, so I stretched out. Relaxing, my mind began to purge itself of any baggage I had. I was low on cash, tired hungry, dirty, and my friend bailed on me, but I was too tired to care. Outside was God’s country, and the good soaking rain we had was now turning into one of the most beautiful sunsets I have ever seen.
I watched the rest of the day nod off into night, and it was pretty quiet ride, sort of. The cars in front and back of us were party cars. The people in those cars were standing on the seats, jumping around, lying on the floor, talking, laughing, and just having a good time. My car, however, was like a group sleep session.
“Hungry?” my travelmate asked me.
I said I was, and he got up to go find the dining car. He went to the car in back of ours, and I was lifted at the prospect of food being near, but he came back and told me not to bother because the food was a bit pricey. I didn’t care. I was planning on going to find the dining car later myself, but I let it go because of how my legs were. Besides, I had my ginger ale and Combos. He went on to tell me that they were “…having a party…” behind us. I looked back, and he was right. It was just like the car in front of us. I laughed when I saw how two girls had hijacked the coffee cart, and were using it as a card table.
Our car perked up later. There was a bathroom in our car, and every so often people would come in to use it. The bathroom was right across from the phone closet, and people were popping their heads in to see what was there. Then the fun started. The aisle started to fill up with drunken partiers. They were chasing each other, yelling, body checking each other, and I even saw one guy try to make off with a fire extinguisher. Others were playing with anything they could get their hands on. I’ve always been a people watcher, and this was worth watching.
Part of the train staff, a friendly black man, walked past me, and I got his attention. At the time, when I would visit Manhattan, I would get 11:44 p.m. home from Penn Station, and I needed to know what time we’d be back.
“Midnight.” he said.
Oh no. I was filled images of being stuck in Penn Station until God knows what hour in the morning with all kinds of puking, drunk, homeless prostitutes, and business types roaming the place, and me being in the middle of it all. I supposed walking home was out of the question.
Albany Station. Because of some engine trouble we had, we had to switch trains at the Albany Station. That was fine with me. I wanted to stretch my legs, even if I was in so much pain. Getting down those steps was a bit much, though, but that cool, dew filled night air was worth it. I could see the lights of the city, and it was strangely calming.
“Do you smoke?” my travelmate asked me.
“On occasion.” I answered.
“Cool.” he responded. “Here. Keep it cool, though. Okay.”
He extended a cupped hand to me. There was a red glow in it, and the sweet smell of smoke was coming from it.
“Yeah, man. I’m hip.” I answered trying to stay sharkskin smooth, but I was really going batshit on the inside. The Spirit of Woodstock introduced itself to me, and I didn’t even have to take the paper hit. Better living through chemistry, right? My life was about to get better.
I made sure that all was cool, and turned my back to the slowly growing knot of people, and I took a hit. Well, I’m not really sure if took a hit is the right term. I think I made love to that sweet leaf. That’s what made it all worthwhile. The pain in my legs was REALLY gone, and the rest of the trip too about a minute.
Penn Station was a welcome sight, even if it was so dead. It seemed like I was the only one there, and that was okay. The last thing I needed was some homeless jack off hitting me up for money. Things were looking up.
I thought for sure that I would’ve been there until the morning commuters showed up, but I lucked out. A look at my watch showed it was midnight, and the next train home was leaving at 12:44 a.m. Fate was on my side. I bought an orange Slice, sat down on some cool floor, and waited.
I felt strange getting N.J. Transit’s Midtown Direct. I felt like a refugee from some boat launch that had gone horribly wrong. Maybe I was.
I staggered onto the train dirty and tired, and rested my head on the tinted window. I heard women’s voices, looked up, and saw the Swedish girls from Kingpin.
“Well, hello again.” I said to them.
Two smiles answered.
The three of us talked for a while, and a thought came to me: This could be my chance to hook up. I knew I had to act quickly. I wrote down my phone number on a piece of paper, and gave it to the brunette. I’m still waiting for her to call.
When I got off at my stop, the first thing I did was call my father to come and give me a ride home. I knew I would be there a while, so I grabbed a comfy spot on a bench, and waited. While I was waiting, some guy there started a conversation with me. He told me how on the weekends he would do some hustling with his car that he gestured toward, which was now acting as a taxi. I told him how I was coming back from Woodstock, and we just hung out talking about what happened. I wonder how he’s doing today.
When I got home, I couldn’t sleep right away. I went into the living room, stretched out, drank a glass of Bosco, and ate a danish.
The next morning, I heard about all the rioting that went on at Woodstock. I turned on Mtv, and saw what happened. One scene showed a truck with a payphone on it was melted to the spot from the fires that went on. Our tents were literally within a stones throw of the truck. In fact, I had to walk past it to go to the bathroom.
I sat back on the couch, and the crying started, but it wasn’t me crying. It was Wavy Gravy, Grace Slick, and all of the other Spirits of the 60s. The original flavor of Woodstock was now horribly bitter, and so was I. Where was the love and consciousness raising I was told about? Woodstock was a party for my generation, but if that’s how my generation really acts, I’ll stay a wallflower. If that party had been crashed, maybe things would’ve been better. I went to sleep that night with the sounds of cash registers ringing in my head.
I asked a friend of mine who was in high school during the original Woodstock what he though of it, and he said this: “I thought it was pretty cool, but I just thought it was strange that people were complaining about Rage Against The Machine’s burning of the (American) flag. Back in the 60s, people would’ve been cheering.” A valid point there.
Jim, the same Jim I went there with, said this: “It was a good idea at first, but things got out of control; the heat, the dirt, the high prices. Things should’ve been different.”
P.S. about Jim. He never went home at all. He, and just about everyone else I went there with, spent eight hours trying to find me. We never did get things back to normal.