“God,” I said. “That’s awful.”
“Yeah,” Michael slurred.
“But wait! Why don’t you apply to college? Don’t college students get excused from the draft?”
“I coulda done that. I coulda. But Dad always said he only had one son who wasn’t too much of a dumbass for college—and I wasn’t the one. Anyway, doesn’t matter. It’s all fine.”
He suddenly sounded cheery again. It was pretty hard to keep up with the mood swings with this crowd. “Everything’s going to be fine. I’ve got this all worked out now. We don’t have to worry anymore. Okay? Okay. I’m glad we have this settled. I jus’ wanted you to know about the letter, that’s all.”
He started to stand back up, but I grabbed his arm.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “How is this settled? You just said you can’t run away, and you can’t be a conscientious objector. So how is this all supposed to work out, exactly? I don’t understand.”
“I have a plan, Gabriel. A top-secret plan. I went into the forest and bought some stuff—some H—tonight. See, I have to pass a physical exam for the army in October. But I’m going to use some of this stuff … and … and … um…” He trailed off.
Willow looked up from stroking Michael’s hair and said, “And the army is going to think he’s a druggie hippie freak, so he’s going to fail his physical! Then they’ll let him out of the army. And we can get married, and make babies, and bake bread, and live on a farm out in the country. And we’ll take Davey with us, and Mikey’s parents will never bother us again and … Mikey? Mikey?”
Michael had nodded off in Willow’s lap.
“Heroin?” I asked her. She nodded. “Willow, that’s bad stuff. You have to believe me. I know you both think this is the only way, but it isn’t. So what if Michael’s father gets mad at him for a while? Isn’t Mr. Barber an insane drunk anyway?”
“Aww, Gabey, don’t you know? Mikey still loves his dad. You don’t get to choose who you love in this world, sweetheart.”
“But heroin. Heroin. He could become an addict. You could become an addict. Look at you. You’re so beautiful.” I felt myself blushing, even in the cold darkness. “I mean, heroin makes people so skinny and ugly and—”
She still had Michael in her lap, but she somehow freed up one arm and put it around my shoulder. I felt her breath against my throat. “You really are the sweetest angel.” My blush got about ten degrees hotter. So did the rest of me. “But it’s okay. We asked around about this. You only get addicted if you shoot the stuff into your veins. And it takes a while. We just snorted it into our noses to see what it was like. Plus, I’m not even going to do it again. We have to save the rest for Mikey’s plan. I’ll still stay beautiful for you.” She did her famous giggle thing again.
Of all the inappropriate times to be on fire with desire, this had to take the freaking grand prize.
“Uh,” I stammered, “I’m pretty sure you’re wrong about the addiction thing. You can get addicted just from snorting. And it can happen really, really fast.”
Willow was laughing silently. “Wow,” she murmured, “angels sure do worry a lot.”
“And, um, by the way, why can’t I tell David about the letter?”
Willow started stroking my hair with one hand while she was still playing with Michael’s with the other. I had heard about the whole 1960s free love thing, but this was ridiculous. “You’ll have to ask Mikey about that one in the morning, Gabey. But basically, it’s their dad again. Mikey always hides plans from Davey, for Davey’s own good. David can’t know about any of this, because when Mr. Barber finds out that David knew about a secret before he did, he flips out. And then the punishment is bad, man. Really bad. If David finds out that Mikey dodged the draft—and then their dad finds out later? Oh, God. I don’t even want to think about that scene.”
We sat in silence for a while, and I gradually became aware that the music had stopped. I didn’t want to move or say anything, partly because I had so much to think about, partly because I was the most exhausted I had ever been in my life, and partly because Willow was still playing with my hair. I know it might sound odd to say that each hair root on my head was individually sending little personal messages of joy and celebration to my brain, but it’s also the truth. I was going crazy in several different ways.
Then, at the very edge of our hearing, the concert started up again with an explosion of drums. Willow gasped and yanked me and Michael to our feet. “Oh, we have to get back there!” she practically shouted. “I know this song! It’s the Who! Michael, wake up, honey! It’s the Who! They’re playing ‘Heaven and Hell!’”
Well, that’s appropriate, I thought.
She turned to me. “Mikey loves the Who! Come on!”
Before I could even process the sad fact that Willow’s fingers were no longer in contact with my scalp, we were crashing through the underbrush.
It must have taken us twenty minutes to find our way back to our group, and I was amazed when we did. Again, the sound mixing station was what guided us in.
When we were maybe ten feet away from the blankets, approaching from behind, Willow pushed Michael ahead. Then she said to me, “I’m sorry I interrupted you and your girlfriend before, angel Gabriel.”
“Uh, it’s okay, I guess. I mean, this was important, right? And, uh, I mean—”
“Shhh,” she said, and put a finger on my lips. “I think you still have an hour or so before it gets light.”
“Nah,” I said, her finger tickling against my nose as I spoke, “Debbie’s probably asleep by now. Besides, after all that heavy stuff, I’m not really in the mood anymore. I think I’ll just sit on the blanket and listen to the music. Really, it’s okay. I don’t need to—”
Willow said, “You’re not in the mood anymore? Really? What a waste. You’re a fifteen-year-old boy. Get in the mood!” Then she hugged me very, very close, and sort of ground herself against me for thirty seconds or so.
It worked.
“Now go get that girl,” Willow said.
Tired, half-crazy, and confused as I have ever, ever been, I did.
SHAKIN’ ALL OVER
SUNDAY, AUGUST 17, 1969
I woke up for a little while when a stage announcer said, “What we have in mind is breakfast in bed for four hundred thousand!” Then I turned over, put my bare arm over Debbie’s, and tried to fall asleep again. The next thing I knew, some random dude in a buckskin jacket was actually holding a cup of granola in my face. I took the cup, just to make him go away, and turned over again.
Debbie and I slept through the Jefferson Airplane’s early-morning set, and for several hours after that. I only woke up for good when David shook my foot, handed me a cup of lukewarm tea, and said, “Gabriel, I need help. There’s something wrong with my brother!”
I sat up. The first thing I noticed was that I wasn’t wearing a shirt, and that my hood-ornament bruise was turning a sick shade of green. The second thing was that I was starving. I said, “What do you mean?”
While David composed his thoughts, I fumbled around on the muddy, rumpled blanket for that cup of granola and started gulping it down with the tea. Then I said, “Wait! Is this tea safe? Where did you—”
He said, “There’s nothing wrong with the tea. A bunch of nuns came around with tea and sandwiches about fifteen minutes ago. I don’t think nuns are going to spike anybody’s drink, all right? So I got my brother a cup of tea, because he loves caffeine in the morning. And I stuck my head in the tent, and Michael and Willow were both kind of asleep, but they were groaning. I shook Willow’s foot, and she didn’t want to wake up, but she did. Then I shook my brother’s foot, and he won’t wake up. He won’t wake up!”
I swallowed the rest of my tea in one chug, got up, and looked around. The whole area looked like a refugee camp. There was mud and trash everywhere, and the few people who were walking around all looked as stunned as I felt. I stepped over to the tent and knelt down to look through the flap. Willow
was holding Michael’s hand and murmuring to him. She looked relieved when she saw us.
“Gabriel, David, can you boys help me get him sitting up? I think if I can just get him upright, he’ll come around.” Her voice, which had sounded so flirty and playful last night, was high and shaky.
We squeezed our upper bodies into the opening and each managed to get an arm beneath Michael’s shoulders. Willow counted to three, and we lifted Michael until his head was nearly vertical. Then his eyes popped open and he grabbed his stomach. “I have to—” he said, and staggered to his feet.
He made it out of the tent before the vomiting started, but unfortunately, he didn’t make it to the edge of the blankets.
That made it Tina’s second consecutive morning of waking up covered in barf. I had always heard New York City girls were good at cursing, but truly, I had no idea. The scope, power, and precision of Tina’s vocabulary were simply beyond words. Or at least they were beyond the kind of words a Pennsylvania boy like me would know how to use with any fluency.
Debbie jumped up, grabbed her bag, and hurried Tina off in the direction of the water pumps. Meanwhile, David grabbed his brother, a bottle of shampoo, and the blanket, and headed down toward the pond. That left me and Willow standing on the other blanket, staring around at nothing.
“Wow,” I said. “Good morning.”
She hugged herself and shivered. “Gabriel,” she said, “is there another cup of that tea? And are you cold? I’m cold.”
Willow sat down. I realized David had lined up four cups of tea next to the tent. Score another two points for my father: As a teenager, he had been really considerate. And an early riser.
I sat down next to her and handed her one of the paper cups. She took it in both hands and said, “You were right, Gabriel. That … stuff … last night was awful. I’m scared. Look at my hands.” I looked, and saw that her arms were shaking so badly that the tea was sloshing around almost to the rim of the cup. When she took a sip, some of the liquid even spilled down her chin.
“God,” she said, “this is terrible. Do you know what the worst part is?”
I didn’t say anything. Honestly, what was I supposed to say?
Willow stared into my eyes, and for a moment I could have sworn she looked a thousand years old. “Gabriel, the worst part is, my first thought when I woke up was … I want MORE. How sick is that?”
I said, “You can’t do any more. You can’t touch any more heroin. He can’t, either. It’s a matter of life and death. I’m serious.”
She put down her tea and reached out to squeeze my right hand. Then she gave me that thousand-yard stare again, and said, “That’s what you were sent here to tell us, isn’t it?”
I swallowed. I was pretty sure this was one of those “DON’T RUIN THE SPACE-TIME CONTINUUM” moments. I said, “Listen, Willow, you don’t need to be some kind of magical angel to realize heroin is bad news. Do you?”
She smiled. For the most beautiful, tanned hippie girl in the universe, who had been outdoors all weekend, she looked incredibly pale in the morning light, but at least she was smiling. “No,” she half-whispered. “I guess you don’t.”
When everybody got back, Michael looked tired, but basically all right. He asked for a cup of tea and sat down on the other side of Willow to sip it. His hands didn’t look shaky at all. In fact, as soon as he finished, he asked me to bring him his guitar from the tent. I had forgotten all about the guitar in the madness of the weekend, but as soon as I opened its case, I gasped.
Michael noticed. “You like it?” he asked. “It’s a Martin. I think they’re the only serious choice if you’re going to play popular music.” If the hair on my neck kept standing at attention like this, I was afraid it would eventually just stay up in a permanent neck-Mohawk. Michael’s guitar was exactly the same left-handed model my father would buy me one day.
“Wow,” I said. “It’s gorgeous.”
He flashed a grin, and it was as though he hadn’t been in a near-coma fifteen minutes before. “My baby,” he said. Then he started strumming.
Debbie came over and stood over me. I instantly became aware that I hadn’t brushed my teeth or anything, which made me feel pretty darn awkward about the whole morning-after greeting. I was fairly sure that if we kissed, she would keel over and gag. I told her I really needed to freshen up, grabbed David’s toothpaste and soap, and hustled away to the pumps. Behind me, I thought I heard Tina ask, “What’s his problem?”
All I could think was, Good lord, did I really just say “freshen up?” What am I, seventy?
There was a huge line for water and an even longer one for the Porta Potties, so by the time I was all ready to face my day, I had apparently missed the beginning of a pretty major hippie sing-along back at what was left of our blanket area. Michael was playing guitar, and he and David were harmonizing. They were singing some pop tunes, and a crowd of maybe twenty-five people had gathered around.
My father and uncle sounded great! They did a Bob Dylan song, followed by two Simon and Garfunkel songs and one Beatles tune. I edged my way through the crowd in time to sing harmonies on the Beatles song, and then Michael held the guitar out to me. “Wanna play one, Gabriel? I’m a little wiped out!”
I tried to pass, but everybody started encouraging me, and Debbie pushed me forward. So I strapped on my uncle’s Martin, our little circle cheered, and I became the only performer at Woodstock who hadn’t even been born yet. David, Michael, and I did a few Bob Dylan songs, then finished up with “I’m a Believer” by the Monkees—which was another song I only knew because of the Shrek movie. But hey, it went over incredibly well.
As soon as I handed the Martin back to my uncle, I walked over to Debbie and attempted to apologize for running away to brush my teeth. However, she threw her arms around me and gave me one of her ambush kisses, so I guessed the apology could wait.
Guitars: get yourself one.
Anyway, the morning and the beginning of the afternoon were really mellow and nice. Any awkwardness with Debbie seemed to have been swept away by the kiss, Michael and Willow had perked up after the tea and guitar-playing, and we had enough granola and nun-made PB&J sandwiches to get us through our various hangover-type problems. Sometime after lunch, things started to get weird. First, the helicopter traffic picked up. Choppers had been flying around and landing backstage all weekend, carrying supplies, ferrying musicians and equipment, and even airlifting medical casualties out, but it was only annoyingly loud when there wasn’t a band playing. Suddenly, our quiet conversations turned into mini-shouting matches just so we could hear each other. Also, some of the helicopters had U.S. Army markings, and Michael’s mood definitely seemed to grow darker whenever one of those flew over.
The stage announcements became much more frequent as the concert started gearing up for the day, which meant another source of commotion. I was getting nervous, because this was the start of the last day of the concert, and I still hadn’t met Jimi Hendrix. Plus, Michael had used heroin. Sure, I had done some really fun stuff, heard some legendary musicians play, and met an awesome girl I would never see again, but if I had to grade this mission on its success so far, it would have to be a Fail all the way.
At some point, Tina convinced Debbie they should go down to the water and wash their hair. David was pretty excited to join them, but somehow visiting that scene with my dad and two girls in broad daylight was just too weird for me, so I stayed back.
Which left me alone with Willow and Michael. As soon as his brother was out of sight, Michael sort of deflated. He leaned sideways against Willow and said, “Jesus, I couldn’t fake it anymore. I feel like I’m going to cry.”
She just stroked his hair, until finally he continued. “I don’t know what I was thinking. There’s no way my plan is going to work. It’s stupid. My father will find out I’ve been drafted. Or David will. Or my parents will find my stash. Or—God!—I’ll get strung out on the heroin, and then pass the physical anyway.”
&nbs
p; Michael was right. Unless something pretty amazing happened in the next twenty hours or so, his plan was going to end his life, ruin his brother’s, and overshadow the first fifteen years of mine.
SOMETHING’S COMING ON
SUNDAY, AUGUST 17, 1969
When the roadies started setting up the drums and amps for the first band of the day, I had an idea: Maybe I should ask around and find out whether Hendrix was backstage yet. Even though it hadn’t helped at all the night before when we were high, it seemed like maybe I might be able to be a bit slicker about the whole thing when I had my wits about me.
As soon as Debbie got back, I asked if she was up for a walk, and we made our way to the fencing by the left side of the stage area. It was a lot easier in daylight. It was simple enough to find a little cluster of Woodstock employees, and Debbie asked a guy whether Jimi Hendrix had arrived yet. The dude started into a whole “I wish we could tell you that, but it’s classified” speech, which was what I had sort of figured would happen.
Just then, I caught a glimpse of John Sebastian walking by between slats of the tall fence that separated us from the backstage area. “John! Mr. Sebastian!” I yelled. “It’s Gabriel, from last night in the medical tent! You sang to us?” He glanced over, but I could tell it wasn’t clicking.
Debbie added, “With Janis Joplin?”
That did it. John Sebastian’s face opened up into a huge grin, and he strode right up to a break between the slats. “Hey, guys,” he said. “What’s going on? How are your friends’ feet doin’ today?”
“They’re fine,” I said. “Did Janis eat all the bagels?”
He laughed. “Yup. But it was all okay, because the guys from Mountain brought a whole bunch of barbecued chickens. Chickens—can you believe it? Anyway, what are you doing over here, getting hassled by security?”
One of the Woodstock dudes sputtered, “We weren’t hassling—”
John laughed again, and said, “I know, I know. I was just kidding. But seriously, man. What are you kids up to? I know a hustle when I see one, and you’re definitely hustling.”
Are You Experienced? Page 12