Barefoot in Babylon

by Bob Spitz

  “C’mon outta there, you little cocksucker!” Goodrich screamed. “I’m gonna push those teeth of yours back down your throat! You’re trying to sabotage the whole operation, and I’m not going to let you get away with it.” Goodrich pounded furiously on the door’s recessed handle, but only succeeded in denting the corrugated aluminum frame.

  A temperamental inferno erupted from inside the trailer. “I want my gun, Weber! Get away from in front of that cabinet! I want to teach that son of a bitch that he can’t fuck around with me!” The blistering howl bore a remarkable resemblance to none other than Jeffrey Joerger, Food For Love’s impassioned spokesman.

  “What the hell’s going on here?” Lawrence asked the Black Shirt, whose name he didn’t know.

  “They’re having a difference of opinion.”

  “Thanks. I can see that. What about?”

  “Food and love—but mostly food.”

  Suddenly the door to the trailer was flung wide open and Joerger, unarmed and unruly, jumped to the ground. “This is your fault, you son of a bitch.” He shook a fist at Goodrich.

  “No, Joerger. Don’t hand me that crap. You fucked up. You were so worried about slipping a couple extra bucks into your back pocket that you blew it. We’ve got 65,000 kids out there who are gonna be hungry in a few hours, and you’re not ready. You’re a kid, and I should have known better than to let a kid do a man’s job. Get out of my sight.”

  “You fucking asshole! You no good fucking asshole! We did our part. You don’t even have the goddamn booths built so we can get our stuff in. I’ve got $125,000 worth of food sitting out in those trucks, and all you’re looking for is a bigger rake-off. You incompetent fuck!”

  Goodrich’s eyes flashed pain, and then widened with rage. With the quick, deadly strike of a rattlesnake, he lashed out a fist and caught Joerger on the side of the face.

  “Oh my God—he hit me! He hit me!” Joerger crumpled in distress.

  Lee Howard stepped forward to revenge his partner’s humiliation, but thought better of it when the two Black Shirts moved menacingly in his direction.

  “Aw shit, Peter. Did you have to hit ’em, man?”

  “I’m sorry, Michael. He had it coming.”

  Joerger looked at Roberts with accusing eyes. “You saw that! You saw him hit me. You think we’re going to stand for that kinda shit? Like hell we are. We’re pulling out. You guys can go fuck yourselves.”

  “Now wait a minute,” Roberts blurted, not quite sure how to cope with the situation, “It’s obvious that things haven’t been going well here, but I’m sure whatever problem you have, we can work it out.”

  “You bet your ass, man. You’re going to have to make some real concessions to us—like changes in our contract. We’ve had it up to here with you,” he said, running a bloody finger across his forehead. “And I’m tellin’ you right now, man. If you don’t square with us, if you think we’re kiddin’ around—well, then I feel sorry for you. Because we’ll fix you. I mean it, man. We’re not gonna take this shit!”

  “Don’t be a fool, Jeffrey,” Roberts said. “Look, we’ll meet again tonight—say, about 7:00 in your trailer—to talk this thing out. I don’t want you to leave or do anything foolish until we’ve had a chance to discuss this rationally. Can you at least do that for me?”

  “Yeah—all right. Fine.” Joerger pouted. “We won’t leave yet. But I’m warnin’ you, man. You’re gonna pay for this to the point where you’re gonna wish that you never even heard of Food For Love.”

  “Jeff,” Roberts said, fighting back a smile, “you must be a mind-reader. I don’t think I could have said that better myself.”

  • • •

  Michael returned to his stageside trailer tired and withdrawn. His face had the puffy, bloodshot look of an alcoholic who had just come back from an all-night tour of bars. He switched off the overhead light as he entered the motor home, opened a can of warm soda, and curled up in a plastic contoured chair by the window.

  “That fight just wasted me, man,” Lang disclosed to John Morris, who, still pumped up from his splash on stage that morning, was on the phone with the festival’s press coordinator. Michael waited until Morris was finished and recounted the violent scene at the concessionaires’ trailer in patchy detail, making it seem as though Joerger had thrown the first punch. “We got burned by those dudes. They’re bad cats, and now Peter says that we’re stuck with them. That’s karma, man—we gotta ride it through. What’s happenin’ on your end? Are we okay for tomorrow?”

  “I think so. Everything’s pretty much ready to go,” Morris said, sprightfully rocking back and forth on his heels.

  “Hey, do me a favor, man, and stand still. I got enough trouble tryin’ to keep my eyes open without watchin’ you bounce up and down like a beach ball.”

  “Sorry, Michael. I’m just excited,” he apologized, sitting down on the corner of a formica table. “The groups have begun drifting in over at the Holiday Inn most of this afternoon, and it’s turned into sort of a homecoming over there. I’ve got Country Joe’s manager, Bill Belmont, babysitting the performers, and he said the lobby’s turned into a stage for a big jam session. Everyone’s got a guitar, and Janis is singing duets with just about anyone who can carry a tune.”

  “Far out!” Lang’s spirit perked up.

  “Belmont’s in the process of working out a schedule with the drivers of the limos we hired to move those guys over here in time to do their sets during the next three days. It might get difficult, what with all the traffic, but he’s pretty resourceful. He’ll figure something out. You heard from Jimi yet?”

  “No, man. He’s a weird cat. I talked to Mike Jeffries this morning, and he told me Jimi’s freaked over the number of kids he heard are comin’ in here. He doesn’t want to do the show, but Jeffries is takin’ it all in stride. He’s given me his word that Jimi’ll be here.”

  “How about Dylan?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.” Michael shrugged. Dylan had granted an interview to Al Aronowitz of the New York Post in late July, in which he said, “I may play there if I feel like it. I’ve been invited, so I know it’ll be okay if I show up.” But Lang had not heard a word since from the counterculture’s poet laureate. “If he does make it, just make sure and keep everybody out of his way. I don’t want anyone hasslin’ him.”

  Lang and Morris spent a few minutes going over a change of sequence for Friday afternoon’s show, in which Tim Hardin was moved from the opening spot to sixth, behind the Incredible String Band. Hardin had arrived from his home in Woodstock a day early to let the promoters know he couldn’t cope with going on first. “We’ll open with Sweetwater,” Lang decided, “then go to Richie Havens, probably Country Joe and the Fish next, Bert Sommer, the String Band, Tim, and we’ll see how it goes from there. I got a feeling that a few other cats are gonna ‘drop by,’ and we’ll have to let ’em do a few numbers.”

  “Yeah, somebody told me that Melanie showed up at the Holiday Inn last night.”

  “Outta sight! We’ll work her in sometime during the night. Have you cooled off Josh?” Intentionally disobeying Lang’s wishes, Morris had gone ahead and contracted Joshua White, from the Fillmore, to put on a light show, justifying the expense as a “religious necessity.” When he found out about it, Lang demanded the show not last more than a few minutes.

  “He’s taking it like Josh—badly.”

  “Well, fuck ’em. Nobody gives a shit about light shows anymore,” Michael declared.

  “Speaking of which—Chip’s shittin’ a brick over the lights. Drevers came down with the final word on that today: no go. Chip’s gotta be satisfied with a couple of follow-spots and some gels to get him through the show and he’s pissed.”

  They both began to laugh. “All those lights sitting on the side,” Michael cackled, “oh—it’s too much, man. I think the bill for that system is even
bigger than Chip’s ego. Man, he must be goin’ out of his skull seein’ ’em sittin’ there like that and knowin’ he can’t use them.”

  “He was stompin’ around like Rumplestiltskin when Drevers laid it on him.”

  “Well, he’ll get over it. I want him to share announcing chores with you, John. You guys work it out between you.”

  “Oh shit, man.” Morris was shamelessly dejected. “You can’t do that to me.” He took it as a calculated slap in the face.

  “I gotta. That’s all there is to it. Look, how about cuttin’ outta here for a few minutes. I wanta make a few calls, and then I’m gonna try to catch a few z’s.”

  “All right,” he moaned. “There’s just one more thing we gotta discuss. It’s about all those people out in the bowl, man. We gotta figure out some way of askin’ ’em to leave.”

  “What!” Michael shrieked. “Have you flipped, man?”

  “Be serious, Michael. We gotta find some way of collecting their tickets.”

  “I am serious. We’re not collectin’ their tickets. It’s too late for that. They’re like groovin’ on the vibes, and you want to hit ’em with something like that! Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “We’re gonna take a beating then. I mean—hell, John Roberts has a fortune invested in this thing.”

  “He’s got plenty of bread. I told you, man, it’s too late for that. I can’t worry about it.”

  “How about if we recruit a few guys from the crew, I’ll go on stage and make an announcement about how we’re gonna get schlonged by lettin’ everybody in ahead of time, and these guys can pass a basket around the audience for contributions.”

  “Don’t kid around with me.”

  “I’m not kidding, Michael. I think it’ll work.”

  “You’re out of your fucking mind. You try anything like that, man, not only’ll Chip be making all the announcements, he’ll also be taking home your paycheck. Now, get outta here and leave me alone.” Lang tipped his chair back on two legs until it rested against the wall, put his hands behind his head, and closed his eyes.

  “What am I supposed to tell people when they ask me where they can buy tickets?”

  “You can tell ’em to c’mon inside and enjoy the show. This is a free festival from here on in.”

  • • •

  Later that afternoon, six broad-shouldered, athletic-looking men dressed in jeans and army fatigue jackets entered the security office looking for “the General—the man in charge of the infantry.” Their “friend,” Joe Fink, had suggested they “get in contact with some guy named Pomeroy about a few days’ work” at the festival.

  “We are, uh, affiliated with—uh, how can I put this?—a certain well-known police bureau,” their spokesman, a stout man with huge jowls and a piddling moustache, told Lee Mackler, “and we’d rather that our presence not be broadcast too loudly for fear of repercussions, if you get what I mean.”

  Cops! Like the cavalry in a Hollywood western, they had come to the rescue at the last minute, boldly defying Commissioner Leary’s edict forbidding it. Lee assured them that she understood perfectly, and asked that they have a seat while she located Pomeroy who had gone over to the site to attend to a problem with the state police.

  “How many of you are there all together?” she asked the leader, while she dialed the production trailer.

  “About two hundred. More if you need them. That all depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On the magic word.”

  Pomeroy could not tear himself away from the conference to meet with the cops but sent Don Ganoung in his place.

  The magic word, Ganoung soon learned, was cash. The patrolmen, most of whom carried NYPD shields, wanted twice what they had originally been offered to work in White Lake, and they wanted it in cash at the end of each twelve-hour shift—“or else.”

  “I’m afraid of these guys, Wes,” Ganoung reported back to Pomeroy over a cup of coffee in the employees’ mess hall. “The way they’re acting—well, they’re talking crazy, not like cops but like thugs. I know a veiled threat when I hear one. They insisted that we meet their demands for pay, that they be given contracts because they don’t trust us worth a damn, or else they said they’d raise all hell with the festival. They’re organized, Wes, and that could spell trouble.”

  Pomeroy was furious, but he instructed Ganoung to proceed with the negotiations. “Give them anything they want,” he sighed. “I’m afraid we’ve got no choice. They know that we need them more than they need us and, by God, we need them. I’d gladly pay for the opportunity to tell them to go fuck themselves, but, right now, that looks like it’s out of the question.”

  Ganoung spent two hours with the renegade cops, listening to their list of inflexible and corrupt prerequisites, and he finally agreed to hire them under aliases.

  “No names,” they stressed, although it was more appropriately a threat, “or else we’ll keep on running and never come back. As far as you’re concerned, nobody’s ever heard of us. We don’t exist. No records, either. You give us a contract, but you get nothing in return. We don’t sign any receipts for our pay, we don’t talk to any reporters. You fuck around with those conditions, and it’s all over.”

  At 6:00 Thursday evening, 276 “unofficial” members of the Peace Service Corps crowded into the security office for an improvised orientation program. Pomeroy and John Fabbri briefed them on their responsibilities, gave each man a walkie-talkie in case he needed assistance, and issued them special red T-shirts with the festival logo on the back.

  For God’s sake, just remember one thing: you men are here to help these kids,” Pomeroy reiterated. “If you don’t like the way they’re acting, or how they look, even if one of them comes up to you and gives you the finger—ignore them. We’re sitting on top of too explosive a situation to fool around. And just one thing more. You can do whatever the hell you like out there this weekend, but I’m warning each and every one of you: You lay a hand on one of those kids and, so help me, I’ll find you and take you apart myself.”

  Before they left for an impromptu party with a few “hippie chicks” two of the men had corraled before orientation, the cops picked up their contracts made out to such distinguished personalities as Robin Hood, R. T. Tin, Deputy Dawg, Irving Zorro, and Clark Kent. Pomeroy signed each one as they went by. At first, he felt like a warden who had been coerced into paroling hardcore criminals. But as the procession moved on, as the fictitious names ranged from comical to ludicrous, he unwound. He no longer saw them as law enforcement officials, or, for that matter, as real people. Casper the Ghost, Barney Rubble, Wile E. Coyote, Elmer Fudd. No, they were artists in their own right, he thought—con artists—and he was the ringmaster of an egregious carnival who had just been given the signal to send in the clowns.

  • • •

  “Give them anything they want.” Wes Pomeroy found himself imparting the same expression of defeat for the second time within an hour. “Do whatever they ask you to do. You’re being extorted, and we’ll be able to straighten it out after the festival.”

  “It might not be that easy,” Joel said, wrinkling his face like a hand-puppet. “After all, they’ve got a binding contract with Woodstock Ventures that holds us responsible for providing them with adequate facilities for serving the food. I don’t know exactly how faultless we are in this situation.”

  “And they’re really prepared to take off,” Roberts added. “I don’t think they’re bluffing, and I’m not so sure we can afford to call them on it.”

  “No, I don’t want you to do anything that might endanger the welfare of those kids sitting out there. Hell, without food we’d have an absolute catastrophe on our hands. But it’s extortion, nonetheless. They’ve got you backed into a corner whereby you’ve got to do anything they ask. Just remember, they’ve got clauses in that contract which they’ve got to abide by as well. Now the
y want to alter the deal or they’ll close you down. I don’t like threats like that, and anyway, I’ve got my suspicions about that bunch. Do as I said—give them anything they want. Tomorrow, I want you, John, and your lawyer to drive into Monticello with me. There’s an FBI office there, and I intend to bring this matter to the attention of one of their agents. In the meantime, don’t give those bastards any reason to walk out. Unfortunately, we’re in desperate need of their services, however amateurish they may be. Now, you’d better get over there and see them before they jump to the conclusion that you’ve stood them up. And, by God, call me as soon as you get back.”

  John and Joel rode over to the site on spanking new motorbikes that had been gleaned from the corporate toychest to mollify their deep-rooted despair. During the course of their briefing, Wes had made it starkly clear to them that the gates and ticket booths they counted on to recoup their investment were no longer within the realm of reason. There were too many people inside the amphitheatre—110,000 was the latest estimate—and no politic alternative but “to allow the freeloaders to remain there in peace.” It was a crushing defeat for the two promoters, one that meant the waste of seven months of their precious time, of professional disappointment, and, ultimately, failure. What had struck John at that moment was not the inevitability of the financial ruin he faced as a result of his gullibility so much as his realization that there was still an element of choice open to him. Instead of personally assuming a debt of close to $1 million, he could refuse to pour another cent of his money into the festival, forcing Woodstock Ventures into bankruptcy. That was the logical thing for him to do. Any financial expert would give him the same advice. After all, he was but one of four principal shareholders of a company whose creation had been legally streamlined to take advantage of corporate loopholes, should the occasion present itself. Why should he solely underwrite the loss when it seemed to him that two of his partners had gone out of their way to bring it upon them in the first place? There certainly appeared to be a decision to be made, and ironically, it seemed to have fallen entirely into Roberts’s hands.