First, it’s Country Joe and the Fish. Joe looks like a pirate, with big hoop earrings and a wide patterned bandanna wrapped around his forehead. He’s wearing a green army shirt, and he’s hard to hear at first because they’ve turned the microphones off. But the rains stops sometime in the middle of his set and the sound system is back on in full force by the time he ends with a jaunty sing-along about ending the war in Vietnam. That’s right after he leads us in a rousing cheer. “Give me an F. Give me a U. Give me a C. Give me a K. What’s that spell?” He hollers and is answered with enthusiasm. I cheer along, but a little part of me is thinking about what my dad said too.
Then it’s a band called Ten Years After, a shaggy-haired quartet that plays some long instrumentals with sporadic singing. (“Blues,” Michael tells me.)
Then there’s the Band.
We have a fun Abbott and Costello exchange there.
“This is the Band,” Michael says.
“What band?” I ask, playing dumb.
Him: The Band.
Me: The band? As in, your favorite band? So emphasis on the ‘the’?
Him: No, the Band. As in, that’s their name.
I give a mischievous smile and he smiles back at me and kisses my forehead. I lean back into him, glad I brought the thickest blanket since the ground is soaked. We listen to the band. Or the Band, oblivious to pretty much everyone until directly addressed.
“Hi there.” I look up to see a guy in his early twenties with round glasses staring down at us. “My name is Greil. I write for the magazine Rolling Stone. Would you mind if I ask you some questions?”
“Um . . .” I look at Michael, who looks confused. “Sure.”
“Can I have a seat?” Greil asks, pointing to a spot on the blanket.
“Yeah,” I say, and scoot over.
He grabs a thin notebook and a pencil from his back pocket. “First, could you tell me your names and where you’re from?”
“Michael Michaelson. Somerville, Massachusetts.”
“I’m Cora Fletcher. I’m actually from here,” I say. “Bethel.”
“Really?” Greil says, looking interested. “So you live around here?”
“Less than a mile away,” I reply.
The reporter then starts to ask me all sorts of questions about the farm and the town, what it looked like before, and how I feel about the festival being here.
“I feel like the circus came to town,” I say truthfully. “It’s wonderful.”
When he goes on to start asking us about some of the things we’ve seen and done and our favorite acts, Michael finally interrupts him.
“I’m sorry. You said you write for Rolling Stone magazine?” he asks.
“That’s right,” Greil says.
“So you get to go to rock shows. And then write about it? And get paid?”
Greil chuckles. “Pretty much, yeah. Sounds like the life, right?”
“Sir, you will have to excuse my language, but fuck, yeah,” Michael says.
Greil laughs. “That’s basically the right attitude.”
“How do you get into something like that?” Michael asks. His eyes are bright and he’s suddenly sitting upright. If he had a tail, it would be wagging.
“Well,” Greil says, “it’s not easy. But then again, if you really have the passion for something, there’s no way to stop you from getting to it, is there?” He looks at Michael thoughtfully for a minute.
“Tell you what,” he says as he gets up. “I’m on deadline with this piece.” He fumbles around in his pocket and emerges with a small rectangular card. “But this is my card. How about you give me a call sometime? If you’re really interested in talking about it?”
Michael scrambles to his feet and takes the card. “Yes, sir. Thank you. Thank you so much.” He shakes Greil’s hand.
“Michael Michaelson, right?” he says. “I’ll remember that. Sounds like I’ll be hearing from you soon?”
“Oh, you bet,” Michael says.
“Thanks to both of you for speaking to me,” Greil says pleasantly, before giving us a wave and sauntering off.
Michael slowly sinks down on the blanket again, staring at the business card like he can hardly believe it’s real.
“Looks like somebody may have just found some direction,” I say.
“Direction?” he says to me before pocketing the card. “I think that was my life calling.”
Monday, August 18
chapter 68
Michael
It’s past midnight when I ask Cora if I should roll out my sleeping bag. She nods her assent.
She lies down in it first, and then I arrange myself so that I’m curled around her, one arm over her waist. Neither of us says anything. My nose is in her thick dark hair. It smells like the sun.
Of course, then all I can think about is how much I must reek. Do lake baths really count? I didn’t even use soap in the one I reluctantly had yesterday.
I move my nose closer to my own armpit and try to do a discreet body-odor check. But all I can really smell is the mud, which, as we know, doesn’t smell too great to begin with.
Oh, well. Hopefully she’ll just chalk up any foul smells to nature or whatnot.
I hug her tighter and she shifts into me.
The stars twinkle above us and I remember staring up at them just a few days ago, certain that they were divining something monumental for me. I thought it was just the rock festival. Now I know it’s something infinitely greater.
I can’t believe she can stay the whole time. I can’t believe she’s here with me. I find that more incredible than anything else I’ve seen all weekend. I wish the reporter were here now, because that’s what I would tell him. That the best thing I’ve seen here is her, and it’s going to continue to be her, no matter what Jimi’s set is like.
The reporter. The music reporter. It’s brilliant. I have to call him when I get home. Somehow, I have to make this work. And in a way I’ve never been sure of anything before, I know I will.
Sometime during Blood, Sweat & Tears’s performance, I think both of us doze off. I’d never imagine sleeping during a rock concert, normally. But there’s something about Cora’s sun-scented hair, and the closeness of her body, and, I guess, just the fact that I need sleep at some point.
When I wake up, Crosby, Stills & Nash are on stage. It’s too dark to see, but I hear the announcement and I recognize the song because I just got their debut album a couple of months ago. They’re playing “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes.”
I shift a little bit and Cora turns around to show she’s awake too. She smiles at me.
“I like this song,” she says softly. And then, as the guys sing about two people belonging to one another, she turns around so that we are face-to-face. She begins to softly kiss me.
The harmonies surround the length of our bodies, as they touch and move and shift. We never stop kissing. Not when she starts to undress me or I her under the cover of our sleeping bag, in the darkness of a star-speckled Bethel night. I don’t overthink a thing. Not my inexperience or even my excitement. I let the music wash over me and give in to it, feeling that our bodies know everything they need to know and that nothing but beauty surrounds us.
I think we fall asleep with our lips touching. When I open my eyes again, the sky is bright with the risen sun and Cora is sitting up beside me, looking up at the stage. She has put on her clothes again but I am immediately hit with the unique sensation of open air whistling through my nether regions.
I search with my hands for my pants, which are balled up at the bottom of the sleeping bag, and then I do an ungraceful wiggle inside the bag to put them on.
Cora turns around to watch and laugh at me.
“Modesty looks interesting on you,” she says.
“I’m sure you had to do the same thing to get yours on
,” I say.
“Nope. It was still dark,” she says. “Well, ish.” She shrugs with a sly little smile.
“I’ve created a monster,” I say.
“Yeah, you and half a million other uninhibited people.”
I sit up and kiss her shoulder. “I hope you don’t decide to make streaking a regular hobby.”
“I’m considering it,” she says.
“What I meant to say is that I hope you don’t decide to make streaking a regular hobby unless I’m there to see it.”
She grins and playfully sticks out her tongue.
I squint up at the stage to see who’s on and am met with a bizarre sight. A group of guys in shiny gold suits are doing some sort of choreographed dance and singing an old fifties song.
“Sha Na Na?” I ask, confused. For some reason, I didn’t know they were on the bill. Or maybe I saw it and my brain just disregarded the information since it made no sense.
But I look over and Cora is tapping her toes and mouthing along with the words.
I stare at her. “A favorite of yours?” I ask.
Cora looks at me and blushes a little. “We used to listen to a lot of these when we were kids,” she says. “My older brother loved doo-wop and Elvis and all that stuff.”
I smile. “Who didn’t, huh?” I ask. “Did you have to sneak Elvis around your dad?”
Cora laughs. “Actually, I think my dad was cool with Elvis. Believe it or not.”
“Elvis? The original rebel?” I ask incredulously.
“I know, right?” Cora says. “Maybe it has something to do with him being in the army.”
“So this is not hippie music?” I ask.
She laughs, eyes wide. “Just wait until I tell Dad they played ‘The Book of Love’ here. It’ll blow his mind.”
“It’ll trip him right out. Diabolical, Cora Fletcher.”
She grins at me, and then unabashedly mouths along with most of the rest of Sha Na Na’s set.
They get off the stage and I start to look around while they set up for the next act. It’s really cleared out overnight. For the first time, I can see a lot more muddy ground than people.
When I look up at the stage, I know why I could never have left this show early.
There, at the very back, someone with a guitar is facing away from us. Someone with a telltale Afro wrapped with a pink scarf.
It’s him. It’s happening.
chapter 69
Cora
Michael goes into something like a trance as soon as Jimi Hendrix gets introduced. Jimi saunters out to the microphone, wearing a white fringed half-shirt with turquoise beading, his dark, flat stomach peeking through. There’s a bright pink scarf around his forehead, and a gold hoop gleams from his ear.
“I see that we meet again,” he says with an enigmatic smile before introducing his band. Someone from the audience yells out, “Are you high?”
“I am high, thank you,” he says easily, and it’s probably the most charming way anyone has ever made that declaration.
Then he plays. It’s almost as fun watching Michael as it is watching the rock star. Michael’s eyes are half closed and there are moments when he seems wholly intent on just Jimi’s hands. I can see Michael’s head move from side to side as Jimi moves his fingers up and down the guitar.
He told me Jimi was his favorite and I remember him getting all hyperbolic on me when describing his playing. I can see the fascination now.
There’s an almost indescribable beauty about the man on the stage. Not just how he looks, but also what’s happening up there between him and his guitar. His mouth hangs wide open as he plays, almost as if he has to suck in as much oxygen as he can to create that sort of energy. At one point, he starts to pick the strings with his teeth. The crowd goes wild and even I, who knows next to nothing about music, can tell I’m witnessing something special.
Michael and I hold hands but don’t speak; I wouldn’t want to ruin this moment for him. At one point, I recognize the melody that Jimi is picking out. It’s “The Star-Spangled Banner” and I give a little laugh of recognition. Michael turns to me with a huge grin on his face, and then he pulls me close and places his chin on my head. We stay like that until Jimi stops playing.
Then there’s a final announcement. They ask everyone if we can help with taking some garbage out as we leave, and thank us, and it’s over. Time to go home.
Home. I am home. I can’t believe it. The circus came to town and now it’s leaving.
I look over at the boy still clutching my hand. Michael came to town and now he’s leaving too.
When he looks back at me, my panic is echoed in his eyes.
We stand still as everyone starts to move around us.
Finally, Michael speaks. “I had an amazing time,” he says, his voice a little hoarse.
I try to give him a big smile past the lump in my throat. “Of course you did,” I say. “You just saw Jimi. You talked to Janis Joplin. You got mistaken for a rock god.”
He shakes his head. “No,” he says emphatically. “I had an amazing time. With you.”
I take in a deep breath and then hug him. His voice reverberates at the top of my head. “I’m going to come back,” he says. “I have to drive home now but then I’m going to come back.”
Surprised, I break away from the hug to look up at his face.
“How . . . ,” I start. But he doesn’t let me finish.
He leans down and kisses me. It’s not the kiss of a rock god this time. It’s Michael’s kiss and it feels as comfortable and right as the most sure thing I know about myself: that I belong working in a hospital.
It answers my question, too. I don’t really need to know how or even when he’s coming back right now. I just believe him. Someday soon, he’ll be back.
We stay kissing and hugging for what seems like a long time as Mr. Yasgur’s farm starts to finally empty out.
After a while, slowly, Michael rolls up his sleeping bag and repacks his backpack. I fold up the blankets. I know we’re both taking our time.
“You’re meeting your friends at the medical tents, right?” I finally say gently, when I know we can’t keep putting off the inevitable for much longer.
He nods. “Walk me there?”
But I shake my head no. I think of Amanda and know that I don’t want my last memory of this weekend to be of her. “I think we should say our good-bye for now here.”
“Our good-bye for now,” Michael promises as he pulls on a strand of my hair and lets it slide through his fingers.
Then he suddenly dips me back to give me one final earth-shattering kiss. I swear I can hear Jimi’s guitar solo start singing again in my ear.
Maybe there will always be a little bit of rock god in him after all.
chapter 70
Michael
It’s strange to be going to the medical tents and be walking away from Cora instead of to her. She fills my every thought, though: her hair, her skin, the feel of her body. More than that, everything I’ve learned about her. Everything I have yet to learn.
I have a smile on my face when I think about that and all the time together that lies in our future. The time I’m going to find and make.
It’s pretty easy to pick out Evan and the girls now that the crowd has thinned out so much. They’re standing by the tents just like we said. Rob must have already split.
Evan gives me a hearty wave. Amanda scowls and looks away and, in a show of solidarity, Catherine and Suzie don’t really look at me either. I don’t pay much attention to any of it.
As we start to trek to the car, I ask Evan who his favorite act of yesterday was. He starts talking about Country Joe McDonald, when Suzie butts in and asks him how he could possibly say anyone other than Joe Cocker. A friendly argument ensues, one that Amanda can’t help but get involved in too,
and I’m happy that my question had the intended effect. I’m free to be alone in my romantic haze amid the noise of the conversation.
It takes us over an hour to make it to our car. We have to walk slowly down the emergency lane of Route 17B, partially because it has opened up again and there is traffic going by, and partially because we don’t really remember exactly where the car is and have to keep a sharp eye out for it.
Finally we see it, the big purple boat gleaming in the sunlight. All that rain gave it a good car washing. My mom should be pleased.
We let out a collective shout of triumph as we run over to it, even Amanda.
But she refuses to sit in the front, giving Evan that honor.
As I start the car up and get ready to pull out, I think about the day that I can just turn around and come back here. To miraculous, wonderful Bethel.
I think I’ll do it right after I sign up for a college course when I get back home. Maybe something to do with journalism. As soon as I do that, I can come back and Cora and I can spend the last weeks of summer together. For now.
But if this weekend has confirmed anything for me, it’s how important now is. Now is all we have, really. And we never know when now will be the instant that changes everything.
So here’s to keeping an eye out for that moment when some clueless executive mistakes you for Roger Daltrey.
And here’s to fucking going with it.
Acknowledgments
Agents don’t come any braver or truer than Victoria Marini. Thank you for helping Cora and Michael find the greatest home with the Simon & Schuster BFYR team. I’m especially grateful to Dani Young, for going to bat for a slacker hippie and a budding doctor, and doing so much to help them reach their full potential. Thank you times a million to Zareen Jaffery, for continuing that journey with me and for, quite simply, being a rock star of epic proportions. It’s been such a privilege to work with you both. Thank you to Krista Vossen, for designing the cover of my psychedelic dreams, and to Katharine R. Wiencke, for copyediting with the precision of a guitar virtuoso. And thank you to Justin Chanda and the rest of the incredible team at Simon & Schuster BFYR. I have half a mind to organize and dedicate a three-day festival to all of you.
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