by Ryan Ridge
“Focus?” I say. “I can’t. I’m wickedly hungover.”
“What are you selling at your festival?”
“Tickets to other festivals.”
“You could call it Festival Fest,” Dave suggests. “I like the alliteration. Change the tag, too: Your ticket to the hottest tickets.”
“I don’t know how you come up with this stuff on the spot,” I say. “That’s so good.”
“I commune with the divine,” Dave says. “I’m also working on a new poetry chapbook. When is your festival, by the way?”
“Saturday.”
“This Saturday?”
“Uh-huh.”
“The clock is ticking,” he says. “You better start your media blitz now.”
And so I do.
13.
I go get blitzed on Bloodys at the Gold Room, and then I poster every telephone pole in walking distance. I cover each street in Silver Lake and Echo Park with Festival Fest flyers. Meanwhile, since Dave has wheels, he hits Los Feliz, Highland Park, downtown, and the next day it’s up to Glendale, Burbank, and Pasadena. The day after, he heads down to the only cool pocket of Orange County: Santa Ana. “Mission accomplished,” he says over the phone afterward.
“Man, I’m still hungover from that rum I drank with the gun guy the other day,” I say, sipping my second beermosa of the morning.
“I’m not going to be evangelical about sobriety,” he says. “But maybe you could cut back? You might feel better. I do.”
“After the festival,” I say. “Meanwhile, I just need to power through my weaknesses.”
FESTIVAL FEST*
AKA THE PARTY OF THE CENTURY!
Your ticket to the hottest (and cheapest) tickets!
This Saturday @ 10 a.m.
@ ECHO PARK LAKE
(by the paddleboats)
*featuring Clint Eastwood
12.
Lisa calls and asks me to remind her of the location of my festival. I say, “Echo Park Lake.”
“That’s right,” she says. “By the paddleboats?”
“Bingo,” I say.
Then she asks if I can hold on, and there’s a long pause, and I can hear her microwaving something.
Then I hear her eating.
Then I hear her making coffee.
Then I hear her washing dishes.
Then I hear her vacuuming.
Then I hear her turning on a different machine.
Then I hear her having an orgasm.
Then I hear her lighting a cigarette.
Then I hear her taking a shower.
Then I hear her toweling off.
Then I hear her brushing her teeth.
Then I hear her flossing.
She spits and says, “Sorry about that. I like to take a few mindful minutes every couple of hours. Self-care. What time does your festival start?”
I say, “Ten a.m.”
“Perfect,” she says. “I’ll bring the tickets.”
11.
The guy I know with guns calls up and says that he’s got a boner because Clint Eastwood will be at my festival. He says he admires Clint Eastwood so much because so many Clint Eastwood movies feature such fine weaponry and promote the frontier notion of a rugged individualist sticking it to the collective. The guy I know with guns says that all his friends with guns all love Clint Eastwood, too. “Consider your festival safe from the elements,” he says. “I talked to the guys and they’re happy to provide security for your festival pro bono.”
“I can’t thank you enough,” I say. “By the way, I’ve been wrecked since that rum the other night.”
“Yes,” he says. “That was sort of an experimental batch. I’m still tweaking the recipe.”
“You made it?”
“I make all my alcohol,” he says. “When the apocalypse comes, we’re going to need plenty of booze on hand to stay brave. I also make my own shoes.”
10.
Festival morning and Dave is the first to arrive. He shows up with a busload of orphans and tells me they came prepared to dance. “Point us to the dancefloor.”
I point to the dancefloor.
“Grass?” he says.
I tell Dave not to tread on me. “Not now,” I say. “I haven’t had a sip this morning, but you can tread on me all you like after this beer.”
As Dave and company dab their way to the grassy dancefloor, I crack open a cold one, press play on my playlist, and America’s “A Horse with No Name” gallops through the PA speakers.
“America,” Dave says, smiling. “The band. They’re from the UK.”
9.
Man, these orphans can dance.
8.
Lisa is the next to arrive at my festival. She sets up a booth next to my artisanal sandwich stand. On the table, she has hundreds of tickets to a dozen other festivals: Bonnaroo, Burning Man, Cannes, CMJ, Coachella, Forecastle, Jazz Fest, KCON, Lollapalooza, South by Southwest, Sundance, and something called Fyre Festival.
“I’ve never heard of that one,” I say, tapping the stack of Fyre tix.
“Brand new festival,” she says. “It’s supposed to be like Coachella on steroids or something. I know the promoter from back in my Manhattan days. He’s actually the one who hooked us up with all of these tickets.”
“Festival Fest!” I say. “We are the ticket to all of the tickets, and sandwiches.”
“And let us not forget the poker-faced advocate of truth, justice, and the American way,” Lisa says. “Mr. Clint Eastwood.”
“Where is he?” I say.
“He’ll be here,” she says.
7.
Clint Eastwood isn’t the next to arrive at my festival. Instead, a guy on a Triumph motorcycle rides up onto the sidewalk where he parks and removes his helmet. He’s got bright blue eyes like a baby wolf, and he seems somehow familiar. Pretty Eyes kisses Lisa on the cheek and acknowledges me with a nod. “Hey man,” he says, “is this your festival?”
I nod back.
“New development,” he says, handing Lisa a manila envelope. “Mr. Eastwood can’t make it. He’s making a new movie, but he asked me to send his regrets, and also to give you this. It’s cash. He felt bad.”
“Are you in the movie?” Lisa asks him.
“No,” he says. “I quit acting.”
“That’s terrible,” Lisa says.
“At a certain point,” he says, “you just have to be yourself.”
For some reason, he looks directly at me when he says this.
“I’m leaving town,” he says to Lisa. “For good.”
“What?” she says. “When?”
“Monday or Tuesday,” he says. “You should stop by tonight, catch up. I have a cornucopia of delectable edibles.”
“Are you still in that duplex on Liberty?” she says.
“Not for long,” he says.
He leans in again, gives Lisa a peck on the cheek. I reach out to shake his hand, and he grabs my entire arm and leans in, says, “Clint Eastwood knows that Festival Fest will be a big hit. He said to tell you that you’ve just gotta ask yourself one question now: Do I feel lucky?”
“Yes, I do,” I say. “Can I interest you in a sandwich for the road? Perhaps some complimentary Sundance tickets? You’re a movie guy.”
Pretty Eyes flips the visor down on his motorcycle helmet and I catch my reflection in the mirrored lens. I look like hell.
6.
“That guy is good-looking,” I say to Lisa, after he zooms away on his Triumph. “How do you know him?”
“We used to, you know,” she says, making an obscene gesture. “Fuck Clint Eastwood for ghosting on us. Seriously.”
Just then, twelve bearded dudes in fedoras arrive at my festival. They’re wearing matching T-shirts with Clint Eastwood’s scowling face on them, and above Clint’s head, it says: GOT WOOD?
“Who are you guys supposed to be?” Lisa says to the new arrivals. “The Clint Eastwood fan club?”
“One of many,” says the gu
y in front with the scraggliest of beards. “We’re the Newport Beach branch. All the local Woodys are coming today: Hollywood, Burbank, and even Rancho Cucamonga. It’s not every day you get to meet the master.”
“Welcome to Festival Fest,” I say. “We have the cheapest tickets to the hottest festivals as well as an assortment of artisanal sandwiches. The dancefloor is yonder.”
But the Clint Eastwood fans just stand there squinting into the sun sans sunglasses, looking fierce.
5.
The guy I know with guns is the next to arrive at my festival. He says, “Actually, I’ve been here all morning. Maybe you didn’t detect me on account of my disguise?”
I look closer and notice that he’s wearing a white powdered wig, blue aviators, and a red 7-Eleven T-shirt. For some reason, he’s also got a fake mustache plastered over his real mustache. He points to a group of palm trees across the lake. “I’ve got a guy with guns behind each of those trees,” he says, “so everyone is super safe and secure and they will remain so for the duration of your fine festival.”
“Thank you for your service,” I say, saluting.
He hands me his gun. “Hold my Glock for a sec. I’m gonna cut a rug like a licensed carpet installer.”
I play the song “Clint Eastwood” by Gorillaz, and all the Clint Eastwood fans stop standing around scowling and hit the dancefloor.
Turns out, the guy I know with guns can dance. He’s got an impressive Running Man / Roger Rabbit combo. Even Dave is impressed. “Woah,” Dave says, sidling up. “Who is he?”
“Agent 711,” I say. “Festival Fest’s Chief Security Officer.”
“How do you know him again?” Dave says.
“He’s the guy that hangs out at 7-Eleven I told you about.”
“Oh, the gun nut.”
“That’s him.”
“Dude can dance.”
4.
Soon enough, all sorts of folks are at my festival. Another convoy of Clint Eastwood enthusiasts arrives in a motorcade of old SUVs. A kickball team’s worth of Silver Lake hipsters kick off their shoes and dance with Dave and the orphans and the guy I know with guns in the tall grass. A congregation of bearded dudes wander over to Lisa’s booth and buy up a bunch of tickets to other festivals. All of a sudden, I’m low on sandwiches. A spontaneous drum circle surrounds the ticket table. The beat is increasingly syncopated and strange. Out of nowhere, a man in a black robe appears and shakes my hand. He introduces himself as Death.
“Is that your first or last name?” I say.
“Just Death,” he says. “Is this your festival?”
I nod.
“Festivals are dead,” he says, “but even so, this one has a pulse. I can feel it.”
“Thank you,” I say, reaching out to shake his hand.
“Don’t,” Death says. Then he turns and strolls through the middle of the drum circle and kills the vibe.
The guy I know with guns grooves over from the dancefloor. “Is he giving you trouble?”
I hand him back his gun. “I don’t know,” I say. “He says his name is Death.”
The guy I know with guns caresses his pistol. “I’ll keep an eye on him.”
Just then, my Spotify plays a random song that isn’t on the Festival Fest mix: “(Don’t Fear) The Reaper” by Blue Öyster Cult jangles through the PA speakers and five minutes later, after the epic song concludes, it starts over again.
That’s also when the chanting begins.
3.
Once the chanting starts, there’s no stopping it. At first, I think everyone is saying: “We want it. We want it.” And I’m thinking: What is it? But then I realize “it” is “Clint.”
“We want Clint! We want Clint!”
Lisa shouts into the mic over Blue Öyster Cult, “Mr. Eastwood, unfortunately, can’t make it today. He’s making a movie, but he sends his deepest regrets, and says to give you this as a token of gratitude for your loyal fanship.”
She reaches into the manila envelope and makes it rain singles all over the sidewalk. Instantly, Clint Eastwood fans are fighting other Clint Eastwood fans for Clint Eastwood’s cash. They’re yanking each other by their beards and pummeling one another in the face. One fan tackles another fan, and they both tumble into the lake and splash each other ferociously in the water.
“Stand back,” the guy I know with guns says. “I’ll put a stop to this with a warning shot.”
He holds the pistol above his head but, just as he pulls the trigger, a Clint Eastwood fan gets punched in the face by another Clint Eastwood fan and falls backward into the guy I know with guns, causing him to misfire, and instead of taking a clear shot at the sky, the bullet shatters a nearby lamppost before ricocheting into the grass dancefloor. Someone screams, “I’m hit.” It’s Dave. He stops dancing, lifts his left foot, and you can see blood leaking from the back of his ankle, his white Vans turning red.
“Someone call an ambulance,” Lisa says.
Death returns to the ticket table, removes an iPhone from his robe pocket, and says, “Hey Siri, call me an ambulance.”
Siri says, “Hello, an ambulance.”
“Seriously,” says Death.
“Siri: call 911. This isn’t a joke.” Siri abides.
“I’m going to go check on something really quick,” the guy I know with guns says. “I’ll be right back.”
At the edge of the lake, he commandeers a swan-shaped paddleboat. Then he paddles swiftly to the center of the lake, stops, and drops his pistol overboard. It floats for a minute, before sinking. Afterward, he paddles the rest of the way to the shore, and once arrived, sprints down Glendale Boulevard, leaving only his powdered wig in his wake.
2.
“(Don’t Fear) The Reaper” plays for the fourth time in a row and I can’t make it stop. Death shreds an air guitar standing on top of the ticket table as various sirens cut through the music, and now my festival is crawling with cops and paramedics. The EMTs tend to Dave as a couple of officers jog over to me with their weapons drawn. The one who looks like he’s in charge says, “You want to tell us what’s going on here?”
I tell him it’s my festival. “Festival Fest,” I say.
“Do you have a permit for this festival?” he says.
I tell him I do not, and since I always lie to guys with guns, I tell him that this is the first I’ve heard anything about a festival permit.
“Sorry,” his partner says, “we’re going to have to haul you in and shut down this illegal festival.”
He’s handcuffing me when we hear someone hiding behind a palm tree scream, “Death to tyranny!” followed by a rifle report. The cop who looks like he’s in charge clutches his chest and says, “I’m bleeding, bad.” Then he drops to the ground.
Now there’s a swarm of cops surrounding the ticket table. I step back into the grass and out of the way.
The cops fire into the palm trees and the palm trees fire back.
Then all the orphans are crying, and the Clint Eastwood fans are crying, too. Lisa does her best to console the most hysterical criers. The paramedics load Dave into an ambulance on a gurney, and as they do, Dave says, “I don’t have insurance. Am I going to be able to afford this ride?”
The EMT closes the back of the ambulance and speeds away, narrowly avoiding hitting a sad orphan.
Meanwhile, the shootout continues.
The cops fire into the trees and the trees fire back.
The cops fire into the trees and the trees fire back.
Man, these handcuffs hurt.
1.
I’m feeling bad for Dave and worse for the cop who’s bleeding out beneath the ticket table, when Paul, the guy who throws really great festivals, shows up flanked by a couple of winsome brunettes in short black dresses, red heels, and redder lipstick. Paul points to his right and says, “This is my girlfriend, Maya.” He points to his left. “This is Maya’s girlfriend, Adriana.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say. “I’d shake your hands if I we
ren’t handcuffed.”
Paul’s all smiles. “This festival is an absolute disaster. You did it, bud!”
“Did what?” I say.
“You failed bigtime,” Paul says. “And in America, failures of this magnitude are rarely forgotten, especially when it comes to festivals. Festival Fest will go down as one of the worst festivals in the history of festivals. I’m calling it now: you’ll be famous. Well, infamous.”
I attempt to loosen the handcuffs, but somehow manage to tighten them. “Ouch,” I say.
Maya whispers something in Paul’s ear and Paul whispers something in Adriana’s ear, and Adriana nods gravely. “All right,” Paul says, “we’re going to take a little romantic paddleboat ride since we’d prefer not to get shot.”
“Thanks for coming to my festival,” I say.
∞.
After Paul and the automotive showroom models paddle away, I just take it all in, feeling validated for once in my life. It’s the first time I’ve smiled in years. Death appears and hugs me. “Your parents are so proud of you,” he says.
“My parents are dead,” I say.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Death says. “Let’s get you out of those handcuffs.”
He reaches into his robe pocket and produces a key shaped like a skeleton. Somehow the key fits and the cuffs come right off. I’m feeling good, great even. I am the champion of failed festivals—the maddest of madman geniuses. I finally matter, I think, as a stray bullet clips me in the neck. Amazingly, I don’t feel the bullet, but I hear it. The shot rings and rings. It’s music to my ears.
American Literature
American Literature
Most days, like most folks, I work. At night, I sit around and have a drink and read some American literature.
I’ll admit: Whenever I type “Western Canon” I accidentally add an extra n. This, I understand, is my subconscious mind critiquing American literature.
Western Cannon.
Go ahead. It’s okay. I’m wearing a motorcycle helmet and a Melville T-shirt.
Go ahead and fire me from the Western Cannon! I’ll soar over Iowa City, across the Grand Canyon, and into the lost libraries of the sea.