“Dove?” I stood up to greet her, and she held out her arms and gave me a big, squishy, affectionate hug. For a moment I felt so safe and accepted that I swallowed hard and squeezed my eyes shut. Maybe the nightmare was over for now.
“Are you ready?” she asked. “Do you need to grab another coffee before we go? I’m getting something for me and Chris. He’s driving around the block. Parking totally sucks. Can I carry anything for you?”
“I’m good.” I packed my journal and gathered up my stuff. I picked up the salvaged cup to throw away, then gathered the trash from the other table too, because...just because. “This is all I’ve got with me.”
I joined her in line as she studied the menu board. “I really need to learn to pick what I want before I get in line,” she mused, her eyes fixed on the choices like she was memorizing them on pain of death. “What are you getting?”
“Oh, nothing,” I said as lightly as I could. “I don’t need anything.”
She pulled her gaze away and searched my face. I was sure she had my number, but all she said was, “Well, I’m going to grab a few things for the road, I think. It’s only a couple of hours, so we might be able to make the trip without any other stops.” At the counter, she ordered a chai latte, then a Cuban coffee (with great difficulty making the choices, I might add), and pulled a few bottles of water and organic soda out of the refrigerated display, finally piling a few cookies, a pastry, and a few bags of chips on the counter too. “I think that does it!” She turned that big smile on me again. “Such junk food, right? But it’s not bad for you if you have it on a road trip.” She winked and turned back to pay.
The total for all of it was more than twice as much as I had to my name, and she paid it without flinching. I know it wasn’t that much money in the scheme of things. Normal people spend that kind of cash all the time without batting a lash, and I remembered when I used to do that too. I thought, not for the first time, that I might want to get my shit together enough that I didn’t always feel so shocked by what it costs just to be allowed to survive. Dove stuck a five in the tip jar, and it made me wince when I realized how longingly I stared at it.
I took the bag with the cold drinks and snacks so that she could carry the hot drinks. She walked with the brisk graceful confidence of someone who spends a lot of time walking in cities. “Thank you so much for the ride,” I said as we got to the exit and she held the door open for me with her butt.
“No worries. We were coming that way anyhow, so it hurts us not at all to help out a fellow burner.” She led me to the curb, where a beat-up dark green Forester was pulling up. It had so many stickers that they overflowed not only the bumper, but the whole back of the car and spilled onto the side. I got the front door for her, then climbed into the back. Only half the back seat was empty--the rest of the car was crammed to the ceiling with gear, and there was more stuff strapped to the roof--but there was a little space in the well to stuff my pack.
“Hey, welcome,” said the driver, reaching back to clasp my hand. “Hand hug for now, real thing when I’m not in a no-standing zone.” He grinned at me. He was, I guessed, a few years older than Dove. He had a mop of chin-length, Muppet-like dreds that were cherry brown threaded with silver, and his eyes had crinkle lines around them, the only clues to his age to be found in his otherwise-baby face. He had cheerful eyes and a shy smile that was as sweet as Dove’s. He was wearing a baggy bowling shirt printed with stars and galaxies.
“Nice to meet you, Chris.” I settled back into my seat and buckled my belt. It felt luxurious to be in a car again, especially one with real air conditioning. Baltimore wasn’t as hot as New Orleans, but it was holding its own. I sighed with relief and pleasure.
“You too,” he said. “So who are you camping with?”
I knew what he meant--most people camped together, either informally sharing space and resources, or organizing elaborate theme camps with names and decorations and events. “Just on my own this time. I’ve not actually been to this burn before.”
That got them going on about different regional burn events and how they compared, as we hit the road. I liked them; they seemed like relaxed, happy people. Chris was a scientist with NASA, I learned, and Dove was a network administrator for a government contractor. “Story of the DC metro area,” she said with a laugh. “We might be big freaks, but we all end up working for The Man.” That launched them into the topic of their most passionate activist causes and political opinions. It was a relief to let it wash over me, to just listen and not have to say much.
“I can’t finish this. Mari, do you want any?” said Dove, offering me her coffee. My pride wanted to refuse it, but I was so damn hungry and the delicious smell was tormenting me. It was still hot, and just slightly sweet with the hint of cinnamon sprinkled in. It tasted like heaven.
They got around to asking about me. I looked out the window. “Well, I’ve been kind of drifting for a while, hanging out with Travelers and musicians and people like that wherever I go. Decided to go to Morph this weekend kind of last minute.” I fell silent, and then added, “I was supposed to go with a friend. But he...died. This week. Real sudden, a bad accident.” I crumpled again, and couldn’t hold back my sobbing anymore. Neither of them spoke, but Dove passed me a napkin and squeezed my hand when I took it from her.
They were so sympathetic, I have to give them credit. They let me cry it out until the worst of this pang had passed, and even turned up their music to give me a little privacy. When I’d calmed down, Dove turned sideways in her seat so she could peer back at me. “What’s next? What are you going to do after this weekend?”
I shrugged, overwhelm crashing over me again. “No idea. I guess if I don’t have any brilliant insights by the end of the weekend, I’ll look for a ride out of camp to the nearest city or to the freight yards and go wherever I can get to.”
“And do what?” she asked, with that same gentle neutrality. Not judging, just curious.
“Survive,” I said.
“Is that what you want?”
Once again, I felt like she was looking into me. It made me feel like I wanted to say the right thing, whatever that was. “I don’t know if I can afford to worry about that right now.”
“There’s not going to be a better time,” she pointed out. “If you’re just expecting to survive, you’re probably going to stay at survival level until you decide you want more.”
I have to admit that I hadn’t been thinking about it as a choice. “Hmm,” was all I said.
Chris glanced in the rearview. “Morph is a great place for figuring things out,” he said, saving me the need for any deeper reply. “You’ve had a traumatic couple of days, haven’t you? I bet you need a really good night’s sleep and a shower and some food just to get back to feeling more human again. If you want, you’re welcome to swing by our camp and hang out with us. I can tell you all about my days on the road with my banjo, and maybe we can help you think about your options.”
Before I could get too choked up again, they changed the subject and regaled me with funny stories about life in a shared house with too much stuff and a constant stream of friends in and out. We talked about favorite movies, old TV shows, which books we liked to re-read. Safe, comfortable topics. I was grateful once more.
Chris wanted to stop for gas. When we pulled into the station, I offered them my ten bucks. “Nope,” he said cheerfully. “I’m already in burner headspace. I’m all about gifting and decommodification right now. Put that ugly money away.”
Dove went around to the trunk and opened the cooler they had stashed back there. “I’m going to make sandwiches for us all as long as we’re stopped. Mari, what do you want? Do you eat meat? We do, but I can make vegan for you.”
I didn’t even try to protest. I was so hungry my stomach kind of hurt. I got out to help her. “I eat just about anything.”
Back on the road, I gorged o
n a sandwich and snacks, washed down with a whole bottle of water and an organic cherry soda that barely quenched my day-long thirst. It was the most I’d had in a couple of days and it tasted like kindness. It was almost cold with the air conditioning on, and Dove turned up the stereo and let some Thievery Corporation wash over us while we ate. I watched the lush green landscape slip by, and I even started to feel some excitement about Morph. Here in the car with Dove and Chris and their jokes and chitchat and shared food, it was easier and easier to believe that this weekend was just a meeting place, a respite, payment in advance for whatever I was supposed to do later. Gods, I wanted to laugh, to walk barefoot, to dance, to sink into a long deep sleep.
Our surroundings got more and more remote the closer we got; by the time we reached the farm where Morph took place, we were on a narrow, rutted road with wild tangled greenery pressing close on either side, and only a smallish, hand-carved wooden sign to indicate the even narrower, rougher drive we needed to turn on to. We crawled along the curves of that road, which had a few scattered homes along it, and then the road turned to gravel and we reached an open gate, where a guy with long, shaggy hair, a pair of lime green horns, and wide-legged purple furry pants worn with rainbow suspenders over his smooth bare chest came forward to greet us. “Welcome home!” He reached in the window to hug Chris, and waved to me and Dove. “Hey, guys, welcome home! You know the check-in drill, right?”
“Pretty sure I remember.” Chris clasped hands with the guy once more before driving on. We drove past the huge front parking field on the right into the temporary parking area farther down on the left. A rough split rail fence separated the parking areas from the rest of the farm, with a couple of paths and gates at intervals. On our side of the fence, there was a large weathered wooden pergola, and a shade canopy pop-up set up beside it. There was a messy line of people leading into the pergola, and another shorter line outside the pop-up, and a loose cluster of people milling around besides.
We joined the line leading into the pergola, where tables were set up and volunteer staffers were checking tickets. I looked around at the people out here and knew I was with my people. I saw hair color in every shade of natural and rainbow-hued. I saw shaved heads, mohawks, fauxhawks, dreds, beaded braid extensions, double ponytails, wigs. There were lip piercings, eyebrow piercings, stretched earlobes; tattoos, scarifications, elaborate henna designs. There were bikini tops and sarongs, baggy pants laden with buckles and zippers, hats with animal ears or monster faces, giant plush top hats, striped arm warmers, vintage dresses, broomstick skirts (at least one worn by a masculine person), steampunk outfits, kilts. Some of the people did look fairly ordinary, but chances were good they were just waiting to get their tents up and their cars parked before they busted out their festival drag.
I saw a volunteer, a cute girl with voluptuous curves accented by her sexy honeybee dress, who had a radio. I waved her over and she skipped up to me and flung her arms around me. “Welcome home!”
I hugged her back. “Thanks. Can you raise Mr. Frosty on the radio for me and let him know that Mari’s here to get his extra ticket?”
“Mr. Frosty” was not in fact the name on his driver’s license. I had first learned at the other burner gathering I’d attended that more often than not, the people you met would be going by their playa name (the piece of desert that becomes Black Rock City during Burning Man is called “the playa”). Playa names evolve or are bestowed; you don’t choose your own. Still, you can’t be sure if the guy you met who introduced himself as Teddy was using his real name because he hadn’t gotten a playa name yet, or if his playa name was Teddy because of a drunken encounter with a plush toy. I didn’t find it all that weird because most of the people I’d been hanging out with for the last few years either had nicknames or had renamed themselves along the way. I guess it’s a way to break from your past, or take control of your identity. I hadn’t done it myself, but I sometimes thought about it.
I was almost at the front of the line when Mr. Frosty found me. He was a big burly guy with an impressive handlebar mustache that he’d waxed into curled tips, and a ruddy shaved head under his ranger’s hat. We did the hug thing and then traded off my fifty bucks for his extra ticket. “Have a great burn!” He wandered off to chat with someone else as I moved up in line.
Dove and Chris got checked in ahead of me, and waited at the other end of the pergola, greeting friends. The volunteers checking me in scanned the bar code on my ticket and then asked for my ID. One of them was fastening a purple holographic wristband on me when the one who was checking my license leaned across the table, looking worried. “Um...did you know your license is expired?”
“It is?” I took it back and studied it. I hadn’t thought about it in ages--I only had to renew it every ten years, and I hadn’t driven in so long that expiration hadn’t occurred to me. “Well, I’m not driving this trip, so it’s not a big deal.”
The volunteer, a skinny girl with waist-length hair and cat’s-eye glasses, glanced uncertainly at her partner. “Well, except that it’s not valid. You need valid ID to get in.”
My stomach bottomed out.
The two volunteers hunched together over it as if staring hard enough at it would reveal some hidden instruction to guide them in this situation. “It was only a couple of months ago,” reasoned the second volunteer. “Maybe it’s okay?”
“Should we call someone?” said the skinny girl.
They went back and forth over it for a bit, and I shifted from foot to foot, feeling the impatience of the people behind me in line, and wondering how I’d fare if they did call someone. If they decided to be hardasses about it and refused me entry, what the hell was I going to do? Dove and Chris had gone out of their way to be nice to me already, and I cringed to imagine myself asking them to turn around and drive me to the nearest urban area.
“What’s up, guys?” It was Mr. Frosty. “She’s got my ticket, I know it’s valid.”
“It’s not the ticket,” said Skinny Chick. “Her license is expired.” She handed it to him and he looked it over too.
We stepped aside so that other people could get checked in while we settled it. I cast a longing glance at the fence that separated me from what at the moment felt like the promised land. “Please,” I said quietly, trying not to attract attention. “I’m begging you, please let it slide. I caught a ride with Dove and Chris, and I just met them. I don’t have any other way to leave if I can’t get in. I swear I didn’t know it was expired. I haven’t had a car for a while now so I just didn’t pay attention. Please, let me go in.”
He gave me a long, steady look. I knew I looked like a pathetic ragamuffin and I hoped I looked a little less homeless than I feared. “You know I’m supposed to uphold the rules, not bend them, right?”
“I know.” My voice was thick around the ball of helplessness in my throat. “I wouldn’t ask for special treatment if I had any other choice. I don’t mean to put you on the spot, man. But if there’s any way, any way, you could make an exception for me, it would really be a lifesaver.”
He fiddled with the end of his mustache. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll make you a deal.”
“Sure,” I said, a little wary.
“You volunteer for at least two shifts, and one of them at least needs to be a late-night shift.”
“Deal.”
“And,” he said, winking at me, “You promise to have an incredible burn.”
Relief flooded me. “I think I can handle that.”
He hugged me again and kept an arm slung around my shoulders as he bellowed, “Tag and release this human into the wild!” to the volunteers. Then he gave my shoulders a squeeze and headed back into camp.
We drove through the gates, making our cautious way through the crowded festival grounds. People waved and smiled and shouted, “Welcome home!” as we passed them. I could see a sea of tents already erected in the fields, a sca
ttering of RVs, and lots of makeshift shared spaces shaded by canopies. We crawled through the center of the grounds, where people built art installations, play spaces, and theme camps. A few DJs had already set up equipment, and electronic dance music filled the air.
It was amazing, the scale of the structures that were being built for one weekend, the lavishness of the spaces. There was a scaffolding of huge, neon-colored metal beams in progress, people climbing over it like ants. A painted canvas was stretched over a geodesic dome. A huge army tent with one of the wide ends rolled up was being set up as some kind of casino. A canvas pavilion was transforming into a medieval feasting hall, complete with fire pits, animal skin rugs, and wrought-metal chandeliers. Bars and pubs and outdoor nightclubs were popping up all around. I recalled that a lot of these things were coordinated by huge groups of people who threw fund-raising events all year and put in their own money to afford all the materials and supplies they needed.
Dove nudged me. “Look up!” Above us, a vast arc of helium balloons in rainbow colors stretched along a string from one end of camp to the other. I gasped in delight and Dove clapped her hands at the childlike joy of it.
Chris and Dove were camping just past the northern edge of that central area, where theme camps started to give way to ordinary tents and common areas. They were part of a camp called Science Faction, whose members were science geeks of various sorts, and whose aesthetic seemed to range from generically nerdy to mad scientist to cyberpunk, with a pulpy sort of feel. Science Faction’s centerpiece was a vast yurt with walls painted with equations, periodic table squares, atomic diagrams, and other scientific and mathematical symbols, and with a big sign over the door that said “The Lab Oratory”. It was taking shape as we arrived.
MetamorphosUS: Book 1 of the Mythfit Witch Mysteries Page 6