by Lola West
I knew immediately. My very first drag was like acid. It burned my throat and smelled like gasoline. But I couldn’t be the loser twice in one day. So, I stood up, took a second drag, exhaled, and said, “Thanks for nothin’, dude.”
I had been drinking and smoking weed all day, that plus whatever those assholes doped me with was a lethal combo. I started to get dizzy a few minutes after I walked away. It seemed like everything around me sped up while I slowed down. I walked into people. Colors raced by me, blurring my vision. I was hot, really hot. I pulled my polo shirt over my head and when the air hit my chest, I freaked out. I thought I was naked. I felt the air on my balls. But when I looked down, I was still wearing my shorts. People near me were talking and laughing, and their voices were shrill. I tried to cover my ears, but I could still hear them. The anger from earlier percolated under my skin, and I clawed at my chest. I had to get away from the people, but they were everywhere. I thought of the tree from earlier. I thought of Candice. I thought of the girl. I wanted the girl. I remembered stumbling along looking for her, and then there was nothing for a while.
Well, not nothing, shards of something, but nothing decipherable. So many sounds, but more than anything flashes of moments, frozen images in time. Bodies, sweaty and swaying to the music. Someone dancing with a glow stick. A paper plate on the ground. Blood all over my hands. Water spilling over my face and shoulders. The moon. Vomiting. The moon again.
Finally, clarity started to descend. I was on the ground. My neck and shoulder were cricked funny, and I had a skull-bending headache. I heard laughing. Something tickled my abdomen. The acrid smell of vomit filled my nostrils, and there was throbbing. My hands were throbbing. More laughter. And voices.
“On his face.”
“Totally, man.”
“What should I write?”
“Ass.”
“No, dickhead.”
Something fluttered against my forehead, the same tickle I had felt on my abs. It was calming, like when my mom tickled my back when I was a kid. More laughter and clicking. Clicking? No, a shuttering. My brain rattled. I knew the shuttering sound but couldn’t place it. It was a bad sound. The shuttering was a camera phone. Whoever they were, they were taking pictures. I tried to open my eyes, but it felt like they were glued shut.
There was a new voice. She was angry. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Just harmless fun,” one of the voices sneered.
“This is what you call fun? Degrading another human being?”
“Whatever.” I could sense eyes rolling. I would have done the same if I ran into the Goody Two-shoes who was currently acting as my savior.
“I have an idea; why don’t you take your fun elsewhere before I call the cops.” Her tone was unwavering; there was nothing empty about her threat.
“We would be long gone before they got here,” a different voice chided.
“Okay, no problem. Let’s test your theory,” and then I heard dialing.
“Bitch.” someone spat, but they were moving away, feet shuffling.
I pushed myself to stir. A girl I’d once dated, Molly? Meghan, maybe? I couldn’t remember. Pretty though, a strawberry blond, curtains matched the drapes, if you know what I mean. Anyway, she had made me go to a yoga class with her, and the teacher’s instructions came to mind. “Slowly, very slowly, bring life back into the tips of your fingers and the end of your toes. Circle your wrists, your elbows, awaken your knees, your calves, and when you’re ready, roll onto your right side into a fetal position. This is a safe space, a position that nurtured you for nine months. Finally, with great care, come to a seated position.” Her voice had been so calm. One of the most calming sounds I ever heard, but when I broke up with that girl, I never went to yoga again.
My body felt heavy, unruly, but I managed to sit up, and when I opened my eyes, the dancing girl was squatting in front of me. It was almost dawn, so the light was funny, and my vision was blurry. I shook my head, thinking maybe I was imagining her, placing her face over the actual woman who had come to my rescue. But when I opened my eyes again, it was still her face, her pouty lips, her big dark eyes full of concern. Embarrassment caught in my throat, and I couldn’t speak.
“You okay?” she asked, her voice soft, even calmer than the yoga instructor. I nodded. “You want water?” I nodded again. She opened her bag and pulled out a water bottle, her water bottle, not a disposable one. She handed it to me. I wrapped my fingers around it. I was slow and uncoordinated. My body felt swollen, like it was made of bread dough. I sucked hungrily at the bottle’s plastic nipple, and when I returned it to her, it was almost empty. She didn’t seem fazed. She just took it from me and put it back in her bag. “I’m gonna find you help; don’t move.” She started to stand.
My embarrassment quickly obliterated, replaced by panic. It didn’t matter that Bonnaroo had a “No Questions Asked” policy. A senator’s son doesn’t show up at the medical tent. Period. Before she was standing, I managed a hoarse, “No.” She squatted again and looked at me quizzically.
“No?” Her voice had a very physical presence, a righteousness, like a soldier.
“No,” I said again, this time stronger.
“You can’t get in trouble,” she argued more gently, touching my leg. Her touch exploded on my skin, rippling aftershocks up my thigh and into my chest.
“I’m fine.” I shifted and attempted to stand, but I was weak, and she had to help me to my feet.
“You’re not fine. You don’t look fine. That hand looks bad.” She nodded toward my left hand. It was black and blue in a couple of places, pretty swollen, and there was crusty brown blood on all my knuckles. I had punched something. Hard.
“It’s fine.” She was not convinced. “Thank you,” I mumbled. She looked at me, searching my face, trying to understand my behavior. There was nothing else to say. How could I have her now? Who would want the guy that stood in front of her? She was still looking right at me. Still searching my face, her hands still on me from when she helped me up. I shifted my weight backwards, and she dropped her hands. I cleared my throat, tried to smile, and said, “Really, thanks.” She nodded. Goodbye, dancing girl. I turned and started walking slowly toward my tour bus. I could hear that she hadn’t moved, but I didn’t look back.
“Wait,” she called out. I stood still, but I didn’t turn around. She jogged over and stopped so that she was once again standing in front of me, facing me. There was something in her eyes that I was unfamiliar with, something decent. She opened her bag again, took out a green bandana, and poured the last gulps of water from her water bottle on it. She then braced her left hand against my temple and used her right hand to rub the wet bandana against my forehead. She was trying to wipe away the vandalism, trying to make it so what happened to me wouldn’t be as visible. I wanted to cry. At first, she wiped gently. Worry filled her face, scrunching her features. She pressed deeper, rubbing hard.
“It’s permanent marker.” She sighed. I looked away, swallowed, and looked back.
“You reap what you sow, right?” I meant it as a joke, but it came out wrong. It wasn’t snide; it was sorrowful.
She searched my face again, and then to my surprise she hugged me. I was tense at first, but when she didn't let go, I relaxed into her. I was so exhausted but not because some assholes doped me or because I had something profane scrawled across my forehead or even because she had a boyfriend. I was exhausted because I spent so much time trying to get it right, trying to be the son my father wanted. Her head rested against my bare chest and just like I thought, me against her and her against me, it was like a salve. It was like the bronchia in my lungs were truly functioning for the first time, like I’d never taken a real breath before. Everything in my body relaxed. I pushed my nose into her hair and pulled her tighter to me. My heart was pounding against her ear, screaming, see me. It was too much, too raw, too real. I bit my lip hard.
When we separated, she reached up and ran the back of her hand acr
oss my jawline. It was personal. Intimate. She was kind. I mattered, and she didn’t even know me. “Maybe, you’re right,” she said softly, like we were kissing. “Maybe you reap what you sow, or maybe the world is just full of assholes.” When she dropped her hand, I knew for sure. I could never have this girl, and not because she had a boyfriend. This girl was bigger than me. She was better than me. I didn’t deserve this girl.
I stepped back. If I couldn’t have her, I had to get away from her. “I gotta go.” The words came out hard, cruel even. I tried to soften it. “I… ah, um… I’m sure my buddies are wondering where I am.”
“I could help you back to your site?” she offered.
“No, I got it. I’m good.”
She offered me the bandana. “To cover your head?”
“It’s okay. It’s fine.” I deserved to be branded, even if she didn’t want me to be.
She pushed the bandana into my hand. “Just take it.”
I did. I stuffed it into my pocket. I wasn’t going to argue with her. I stepped to the side, preparing to walk away, but then it occurred to me I would never see her again, that I didn't even know her name. I had to touch her one more time. I wanted to kiss her, but I couldn’t, so I grabbed her waist and pulled her to me, pressing my lips against her neck. The tone between us shifted quickly. A tiny shudder escaped her lips. I didn’t expect it, and I reacted before I could think, shifting my lips, taking her earlobe between my teeth and pressing my thigh between her legs. The second shudder was deeper, more growl, and I growled back. My own sound shook me. There was heat coming off her and I wanted so much to absorb it, to run my hand up her thigh and slip my fingers deep into her wetness, to make her shudder over and over again until there was nothing left. But I couldn’t. I would not take this girl, poison her with my shit. I wanted to know that I had left this girl intact. I wanted to know that she was out there, that something good, something whole and normal existed.
“Fuck…” I pulled back, ran my hand through my hair, and started backing away, still facing her. “I’m sorry… God, I’m so sorry.” I was shaking. She just stood there. She didn’t smile or try to play it off like it was alright. She didn’t say anything. She just watched me. She looked sad, her face still. I turned and kept walking. I walked straight across the site.
I passed through the campgrounds and didn’t stop to take a breath until I was standing beneath the Ferris wheel. It was turned off, so it felt creepy, like a ghost town or a post-apocalyptic world. It wasn’t really light out yet, and everything was still. I pulled the green bandana from my pocket, held it to my nose, and wished it to smell like her, but it didn’t.
When I got back to the tour bus, there was a sock duct-taped to the door and my buddy Pete was sitting on the ground. I’d known Pete most of my life. His dad was a corporate lobbyist for big oil, so we were both prep school brats together in DC. We didn’t mean to go to the same college, but it ended up that way, and then it was like a done deal, same frat, same friends, lifers. People often thought we were brothers, but we really didn’t look alike. Pete was blond with brown eyes and brown facial hair. I had dark hair and green eyes, but we were built similarly—tall, athletic, nothing that says obsessive body builder, but nothing that says couch potato either. Pete was just my family and people could tell. He was the guy I’d call if I needed help to get rid of a body.
“Jesus, Drew. What the fuck, man? Where have you been?” He was never one to pull punches, and I respected him for it.
I didn’t have an answer. I didn’t want to talk about what happened, so I rubbed my face with my hand for a second and then asked, “Where’s Candice?”
Pete nodded toward his Land Rover. “Sleeping, with Kates.” Katie Sullivan was our third. We grew up with her too. She was a year younger than us and an athlete who could whip both our asses in all things, particularly tennis. I swear if she could have pledged our frat she would have, just to remind us who was boss. She was good people, oddly stiff and very controlled but good people. “She’s pissed, dude.”
“Candice?”
“No, man. That one’s like all worried and shit. Katie’s pissed. She’s more familiar with your…” He paused, searching for the right words. “Shall we say, extracurricular behaviors?” Our entire life Pete made a constant joke out of the PR spin machine that was my life. “She had to take care of Candice all night. It was not cool, dude.” He paused, smirked, and pointed toward my face. “Although, I think that shit on your forehead might help your case a little…” He snickered.
“What’s with the sock?”
“Conner.”
Conner was the other friend we’d come to Bonnaroo with. He was another of our fraternity brothers. Pete and I had met him as pledges. We trusted him because when we were pledging, he was always the brother who stepped in when he felt shit was going too far. He was a funny guy, the kind of guy everyone liked, the ladies included. The entire ride down from DC, Conner kept making “If the tour bus is a rockin’ don’t come a knockin’” jokes, and apparently he wasn’t kidding. I sat down next to Pete and leaned against the bus. He looked at me seriously. “You look like shit, dude. You okay?”
I nodded, and then we were quiet. Pete always seemed to know when to be still and when to push. The bus door inched opened and a petite olive-skinned girl with black hair emerged. She was moving slowly, stealthily sneaking out. Pete and I watched her. She looked disheveled; there was red lipstick stained around her mouth and her mascara had smeared and run. I realized we needed to say something or else we were going to startle her.
“Hey,” I said quietly. The girl jumped, dropping the bus door so that it slammed. So much for not surprising her. She looked at Pete and me for a split second and then ran off toward the other campgrounds. A groggy Conner appeared in her place, hollering after her, “What? No breakfast?”
We laughed.
And then it was time to go. Time to pack up the Land Rover and leave the dancing girl behind.
2
Lua
Joe, my best friend, is basically a stubborn asshat. As usual, I was standing at his bedroom door waiting for him to be “decent” which for any normal human being means dressed, like clothed, like not naked. For Joe, “decent” meant fashionable, which he pronounces fah-shun-ah-ble; I think the pronunciation is like saying tar-jay instead of target, in other words, trying to make something seem like more than it really is, but that’s Joe. He’s obsessed with living a life that’s explosive, and when that’s your bag, that’s your bag. We’ve all got to dance to the beat that suits us, but Joe’s version is wow, just wow. To be clear, explosive is not my calling. I like my life soft, rich, and kind, like folk songs, or blurry and wish-filled like a full moon right before it snows. Conversely, I also appreciate practical and useful, so fah-shun-ah-ble is not me, mostly because it takes a lot more time than “decent.”
Historically, I would have chosen to just stand there and sigh, waiting for Joe, but I’ve been impatient lately. And, for Christ’s sake, I was wearing a hand-me-down bathing suit and a ratty old beach towel. This was not an instance that required showboating. The plan was to go to the lake. The lake on our property. My dad and Joe’s parents were founding members of an intentional community, a commune called Community Thrives. We call it the “thrive,” and Joe and I have lived on the property literally our entire lives. So, I could pretty much guarantee that Joe wasn’t going to run into the love of his life or a modeling scout on the way to the lake. In fact, it was a million times more likely that he’d run into someone who changed his diapers and honestly, pretty much any outfit is a step up from poop in your pants.
“Joe!” I hollered, lifting my hands to bang my fists against his door, but instead almost fall into him as he threw it open.
Immediately, his hands and chin dramatically rose toward the heavens and he deeply growled, “Patience, Padawan.” His vibe came off more Gandalf from Lord of the Rings than Jedi Knight, but whatever. He was wearing a black t-shirt and a hot-p
ink banana hammock. Not kidding. I rolled my eyes and smiled because he’s an asshat, but he’s my asshat and I love him. Once he’d cleared his bedroom, aka his dressing room, he pushed past me, heading for the kitchen. I turned to follow him, noticing that the butt of his itsy-bitsy swimsuit said bootylicious in stenciled font. There is no question he ironed those letters on himself.
In Joe’s house the kitchen is actually a great room, very open concept, which is pretty normal for the thrive because we build our own houses, so fewer walls mean less work. Basically, the room is a huge rectangle divided by a counter/breakfast bar type thing that has three wooden stools at it. I’ve eaten more snacks and breakfast there than I could possibly count. The walls of the room are mud, adobe-like, and Susan, Joe’s mom, has painted murals on them of big winding green vines. To the right side of the counter, there are all the things one finds in any kitchen and to the left there is a living room/art room/office, featuring an easel, craft table, desk, and a set of mismatched couches and chairs, which are all covered with afghans and Navajo blankets. In the corner on the far-right side of the room there is a fireplace and around the hearth are painted handprints of all the kids born on the thrive, starting with Joe and I on the bottom left corner. It’s homey and comfortable and might just be the place that I have laughed the most in my life.
Like the diva that he is, Joe headed straight to the kitchen, pulled out his air guitar, and belted out a blues-y song of his own making to his mom who was sitting at the kitchen counter reviewing papers. “Good morning, Mama… Dododododo.” He whipped his dark hair around and squinted at her. “I don’t know if you noticed… dododododo.” Full body toss, followed by squealing. “I overslept.” The guitar has disappeared, and he was creeping toward her with sultry eyes and whispered singing that crescendoed to all-out madness. “Oh, tell me, Mama… Tell me! Tell me you packed our lunch. Dododododo… ’cause Lua seems oh soooooo tigh-iiiiii-t-ly wound.”
