Nebula Nights: Love Among The Stars

by Melisse Aires

  For some reason, I’m overwhelmed with the urge to embrace him. But I resist.

  “Funny thing, though,” he goes on, “he became more than a voice to me afterwards. He was this amazing person with so much fucking talent, but still a regular guy with hopes and fears. His entire existence gave me a connection to my dad that … I can’t explain.” A long sigh. “Since then, I’ve found motivation from tons of old artists, but Jimi’s the best. Something about him makes total sense to me.”

  I’m speechless for a minute, because he shared this with me, and because of the irony that now makes my throat constrict. Tristan was just a voice to me at one time too—a voice I didn’t much care for, but a voice all the same. Plastic, disposable. But each and every hour that passes, he’s becoming more.

  “You’ll always have that connection to your dad because of him,” I say finally.

  He meets my eyes for a longer time than usual. “Yeah. Guess my dad had the same sublime taste.” A bright smile stretches across his face now.

  Then, as if he suddenly remembers where we are, he checks our surroundings and grabs the arm of a nearby guy with a grizzly beard and long wavy hair. “Who’s playing right now?”

  “Jefferson Airplane, brother. Killing it.” The guy mock-plays an air guitar with a strained grin.

  I chuckle to myself.

  I have to say, historical though it may be, I’m finding this whole scene hilarious—all these dirty hippies so wrapped up in the tunes of the day, loving each other like nothing else in the world exists … and I guess for these few hours and days, it is the only thing. Guess I’m baffled by how easy it is for them to toss aside responsibility, obligation, surrender everything.

  I could never totally let go like that.

  Oblivious to their proximity, two girls with long loose hair and hip-hugger corduroys close in on me, their arms grazing mine. Their eyes are closed, their hands threatening the air with invisible drumsticks. Necks and mid-drifts glisten with sweat beneath cut off tee shirts.

  I step back, watching for a minute. They’re riding a wave I can’t see. A sound wave. More dancers move in to their circle, hop on the same wave. They’re probably all strangers, but sharing this music, this instant, with unspoken understanding. Preserved in song. So impossibly fitting, I can almost taste the moment: sticky and raw, juicy and flavorful. Ripe apples dipped in caramel.

  Something stirs deep inside me—an irrepressible urge to join in.

  A voice comes over the speaker in rattling wails. My attention jerks forward. Wish I could see over this basin of bobbing heads.

  Tristan tugs me forward. “Stay close, Butterman. You know how easy it is to get lost in this?”

  I hadn’t realized he wasn’t right beside me. So much is going on, I let myself get distracted. I’m supposed to be in command here. I have to admit, I didn’t expect Tristan to be so proactive either, which in all honesty, is kind of turning me on right now.

  I cling a bit closer to him, hesitant to take his arm and hold onto it. I want to. But I just can’t. Must stay focused.

  We move on, prodding our way through more bodies, inching our way through the littered mud toward the stage, the music growing louder the closer we get. I get whiffs of everything from campfires to dirty diapers, mixed with plenty of sweaty body odor and reefer. No one seems to care, though. They all just keep smiling and singing and dancing like it’s their life’s purpose, and it occurs to me, they have no idea how historical these few days will become.

  The thought of sharing such an iconic event in time compels me to reach out and grab Tristan’s arm, but he’s not beside me anymore. I do a 360, scan the area and people. My heart drops. He’s nowhere. Bodies start closing in on me, clammy limbs grazing my bare skin. I don’t even know how to get back to the time-craft. I’m sure I can find it, and I’ve got my watch on, but …

  My shoulder’s juddered backward. Tristan’s there, with a petite girl who’s wearing a wide flowered headband over honey-blond hair. “Hey, this is Nancy,” he says.

  Come on, no one has hair that perfect. Loose, spiral curls that look like she just stepped out of a salon? No way. Not in this muggy mess. I laugh through my introduction.

  “Hi, Bianca.” Her pretty face beams when she talks. “Far out name.”

  “Thanks.” I glance at Tristan, who’s Mr. Laid-back now, cocky half-smile on his face. He leans down and whispers something in Nancy’s ear. I can’t make out what he says since some anti-war ditty is commanding the sound waves right now, but he’s acting like he’s known her forever.

  Someone bumps into me from behind. I stumble forward, land on my knees. My hands splatter into the grimy mud.

  “You all right?” A guy asks, helping me to my feet.

  My knees and hands are doused in dirt. I start to wipe my hair from my face, when mud splashes onto my lips, in my eyes. Great. Genius move.

  Tristan laughs. I’m about to fling mud at him, when I notice Nancy chuckling too, her wholesome face without a speck of contempt. I pause, look around. No one here is angry, or bitter or frustrated. They’re all having the time of their lives, doing their own thing.

  With concerted effort, I let my shoulders relax. Something like a cross between a sigh and a snort escapes my lips. Holy hell, I can just imagine the grief I’d get back home for interrupting the time string with a mud fight during Woodstock.

  Tristan slaps me on the shoulder in a buddy-buddy kinda way. “Right on, Butterman. Easy like Sunday morning. Come on, Nancy said she can get us in to see Jimi before he performs. Let’s go.”

  I check my watch, about to announce the time, when Tristan wraps his arm around Nancy’s shoulders. She threads her fingers through his and they turn to lead the way, her other arm draped at his waist behind his back.

  My easiness disintegrates, leaving me with a burning itch in my chest and sour taste in my mouth. Did I black out at some point or something? How the hell did Tristan find this girl in the middle of this cluster? After only meeting her once at the lake? I’m dumbfounded, trailing behind them, past more sweaty hippies. I have this unyielding desire to grab him, ask how he thinks it’s fair to lead some chick on just so he can meet his rock god?

  But I resist, in awe of the magic Tristan Helms casts over people—even here where he’s unknown. What was I thinking earlier? I mean, back at the lake, on the ground, I actually felt like I could … well, forget it. This is a professional arrangement, nothing more. And if I lose sight of that, I’m destined for humiliation.

  * * *

  By the time we reach the stage, we have about forty minutes left of our original two-hour excursion, which will get us back to Essence with a full hour remaining before departure. The area behind the stage is blocked off by ropes, and makeshift security guards in yellow tee shirts parole the grounds with smiles and bobbing heads, as laid-back as any other hippie here. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen a brawl or angry outburst yet. Flash forward a hundred years to my millennium and this place would be crawling with armed droid-cops.

  Then, as if on cue, a heavy whiff of reefer reminds me why everyone’s getting along. They’re all sedated. Joints and pipes are everywhere, along with foul cigarettes, both of them permeating the air. And who knows what else is going around.

  Nancy’s still tucked inside Tristan’s arm, her own draped at his waist. Makes me feel separated, cut off, and I don’t know how to take it. Too awkward. Part of me wants that connection to Tristan again—the one I was starting to feel before she came along. And as much as I’d love to sever that tie completely, the memory of it haunts me. Maybe he is only using her, but how far is he willing to go? Maybe he’s not the same guy I was starting to believe he was. The thought makes me cringe.

  We hang at the rope adjacent the stage and Nancy steps away, leaving Tristan’s fingers with a delayed sweep of her hand. She’s looking for someone.

  “Time check,” I call out. “You know we’ve got about thirty-five minutes for this, right?”

 
He half nods, scratching his chin with anticipation.

  “I’ve been thinking, I’m gonna go ahead and turn myself in.” It’s a lie. The idea only popped into my head this moment. But saying it out loud lets me heave a sigh of relief. A smart player knows when to accept defeat.

  Tristan moves in closer, eyes wide. “What? No, you can’t. Not now.”

  I’m sure he’s more concerned about leaving Woodstock early than what happens to me. “Nothing else makes sense. My parents’ll know what to do, and I hate that I’ve disappointed them.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Butterman. You’re eighteen, not forty. You did what you thought was best.” He frowns, the creases around his mouth deepening. “But I won’t let you take the heat alone. I’ll speak on your behalf, however you need. Whatever fine they hit you with, I’ll pay. It was my fault too. But don’t give up.”

  I carve out a little divot in the earth with the toe of my boot. “I thought I could fix what went wrong, but I can’t avoid the consequences. I should’ve known better—it was crazy for me to bring you here.”

  “Yeah, but I’m paying, remember? It’s an excursion like you said. Tell them it was a last minute request and you didn’t trust the special agent showing up in the middle of a trip.” He takes a deep breath, inhaling the drenching aroma with his eyes closed.

  Maybe he’s right. It is my first solo time trip. I could play up the ignorance angle, convince my parents’ attorney I didn’t know any better and that the customer is always right. Even though the certification exam goes over DOT evasion in full detail.

  Watching a lazy smile form on Tristan’s lips, it occurs to me how inappropriate this situation is. He’s surrounded by drugs. This is really bad for him. What if he relapses? Or worse? We really need to get out of here.

  “Tristan, you shouldn’t be around all this—”

  “No, it’s cool.” He winks. “Don’t be a Butter—”

  “Don’t say it.” I snap. “I’m serious. What about your rehab?”

  “I’m not using,” he’s quick to retort. “People around me are, and that can’t be helped.”

  He’s right, but it’s not a great scenario. Even so, I’m not the drug police either. Hovering over his every move wouldn’t do any good, probably make him more likely to use. He’s a big boy.

  So I bite my tongue, let him make his own choices.

  Nancy returns, slides in beside Tristan and slips a hand in the edge of his front pocket.

  “LeeAnn’ll be here any minute.” Her voice is so mellow, it’s sing-songy to a point of exaggeration. She pulls Tristan in close and rests her chin against his shoulder.

  I avert my eyes.

  The boogie music on stage stops, and with it, the crowd slows to a lazy calm. A couple of guys in yellow tee shirts push past us with polite murmurs of “Excuse me.”

  To our right, on stage, a group of tie-dye-clad people move in. From this corner, we can see everything happening behind stage, as well as the front. The front of the audience is partially blocked from our view by the sound equipment. Enormous speakers mounted on makeshift towers protrude from the stage, and must be the main sound source supplying the show. Back in my millennium, when people want to see a live concert, we use a holographic live album app. Cheaper, safer, and accessible from anywhere. I admit, though, there’s something so authentically thrilling about a truly live concert.

  “Janis Joplin. Right on!” Nancy says, wiggling away from Tristan for a better look.

  Up on center stage, the woman who must be Janis in a tie-dyed pantsuit, long dirty-blond hair hanging down her back, takes the mike. The emcee calls out her name and the crowd roars with applause. No idea who this chick is, but from the sounds of the cheers, I must be the only one. Once the music invades the speakers, she croons into the mike. Gentle, easy lyrics. Leaves me with a feeling of denied gratification, after the way the crowd’s show of support suggested a magical performance.

  Tristan grabs my arm and I turn.

  Nancy’s got her arm linked into the arm of some chick with a pink hat on, and they’re leading us backstage, behind the roped area to a circle of white trailers.

  “I’m so stoked, Butterman,” Tristan says to me. “This is it. Unfuckingbelievable.”

  I feel a humph rise from my throat. “Actually, I do find it believable you’d lead that poor girl on to get what you want.”

  Just stoking the fire to see where he takes it.

  He hears me, but makes no acknowledgement, simply glances around at the white trailers. “Great set up. U-Turn did an outdoor concert once in Rockefeller. So different, though. Surrounded by buildings.” He breathes in the reefer-laced air. “Nothing like this. Out in the open. Nature everywhere. How it should be.”

  Hate to burst his bubble, but he needs a reality check in a big way, and I’m in the perfect mood to give it to him. “Has it occurred to you that we’re flirting with disaster right now? I will not miss our time window for you, or anyone.”

  He meets my eyes now, squinting as if sizing me up. He’s still bare-chested and I try not to be distracted with it. Of all the golden man muscles here, I keep reverting back to his and it’s annoying.

  “You just can’t do it, can you?” he asks, averting his eyes to the ground, his fingers twirling a half-trampled daisy.

  Not sure what to say, I fold my arms over my dirty shirtdress. The music allows no silence, nor any time for a clear thought.

  He glances up at me, his eyes glittering with amusement. “Two full hours, Butterman. That’s it. You couldn’t relax for even one.”

  “What difference does it make? And your time is almost up.” Why am I getting so hotheaded over this? Feels like my brain is about to erupt.

  “Tomorrow these fields will be empty. Biggest music-fest in the history of the world will be over, then we’ll go back to the lives we’re stuck with. Meanwhile, you’re missing it ‘cause you’re so wrapped up in rules and regulation and rehab.”

  The pulse at my temple throbs. I’d give anything to be able to live in the moment like him with no worries. I wanted to—I tried. I’m just not cut out that way. I’m a time traveler, and time travelers can’t get sidetracked with pleasure when there’s a job to do.

  Defensively, I raise my voice. “Forget that. Wouldn’t wanna drag the fun loving Tristan Helms down, now would I? No way, brother.”

  A change in the music makes my ears perk up. Quickened tempo, raspy bellows. Pouring from the speakers in cascading rhythms. On impulse, I clamber up the side piling for a better view, scratching my knee in the process, but shit, I’m so pissed I don’t care right now …

  Holy hell, the stage is right there. So close I could almost leap to it. There’s Janis Joplin in tie-dyed glory, making love to the old school standup mike. No more Ms. Nice Girl like before—she’s commanding the stage, her voice gravelly and luxurious. Potent and soulful, rising and falling, sliding and smooth. Sandpaper and molasses. What’s coming from her lips is no longer a song—it’s a calling, to slip down whatever rabbit hole she’s from, lose control alongside her, because we’ll be doing it together as friends.

  And right now I want more than anything to go with her.

  I’m mesmerized, paralyzed. I’ve seen hundreds, if not thousands of holographic live music performances, but this—this is something different. She’s belting lyrics like her life depended on this one song, her hands gripping the mike, eyes squeezed shut as she wails, the song emerging from somewhere deep inside her—a power larger than life. Where does it come from? How can such a small body contain that kind of visceral energy? Her spirit bursts from the speakers like a caged lioness set free on its unsuspecting prey. Pure rockin’ prowess.

  In my musical stupor, I want to scream out, “Kiss my ass, DOT! You can’t steal this moment from me! You thought you could, but you didn’t! I’m here.”

  Holy hell. Why am I here in 1969?

  Janis’ song ends and I’m left dried and scorched in her wake. Unfuckingbelivable. T
his is what Tristan’s been trying to tell me? Jimi Hendrix will evoke something in me, too? For Tristan, it will. Maybe we all have that someone who awakens new life within us—an artist, or performer, who stirs our barren well with fresh, fluid creativity, unwittingly connecting us to something bigger. Frozen Solstice did that for me.

  But now I see, they’ve merely opened the door.

  The sun beams on my arms and face. Sweltering, but therapeutic at the same time. Sweat covers my body to a point I can smell myself, and for the first time ever, it doesn’t bother me. All these people around me, they’re sweating and stinky too.

  From my perch on the piling, I peer out amidst the ocean of faces, like a pirate on the high seas, my hand shielding the midday sun from my eyes. Potent herb wafts through the air, delicious and inviting. This entire moment in time seems so right. Everywhere around me people are free and alive in peaceful friendship, united through music. I’m stuck in an old photograph, but not one yellowed with age—one that’s vivid and bright, ripe and raw.

  I don’t want it to end.

  Ever.

  Chapter

  15

  My arms weaken from my perch on the wood piling, and I glance below. Tristan’s beneath me, staring, his bare feet caked with mud, his bead-strewn chest and once-white snow pants tainted with dried dirt. Flecks of sunlight shimmer gold in his blond shag from the afternoon light.

  Through an explosion of adrenaline, I’m overcome with the urge to fling my arms around him. Quickly, I climb down, my eyes fastened on his. “Did you hear that?”

  He regards me, a smile playing at his lips, dark brows arched behind his tousled bangs. “Everyone in Sullivan County heard that.”