The Great Woodstock Story - Part 10

In this continuing series I detail my adventures at Woodstock ‘99.

Read Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8 and Part 9 to catch up.

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I wandered the parking area for quite some time, going back and retracing my steps, trying to remember the exact angle at which I approached the front gates. After this proved futile, I simply began walking down the rows, one by one, looking, searching, hoping.

There! There was my mom’s car! I literally skipped over there, elated to finally be on my way. Now I know it may seem strange to be excited to leave such a huge party, but all good things must come to an end. This was no different.

I threw open the trunk and put my duffel bag inside. I unlocked the doors and took a final moment to look around.

The sun was shining brightly. People of all ages, races, and backgrounds were hanging out. Some leaving, some tailgating, but all of them happy. I was happy. It was time to go.

So I got in the car, put the key in the ignition, turned it…

Nothing. Panic washes over me like cold water. What? What in the hell…

Then I see it: The dashboard light. Specifically, the Door Ajar light is on.

When I was taking my duffel bag out of the car three days previous, I hadn’t properly shut the rear passenger door. #&^#%#$!.

I hung my head, completely destroyed and disheartened. But, as always, I knew there was an upside: There were plenty of people around with lots of cars that worked fine. Statistically speaking I couldn’t not find someone with jumper cables. And with such a giving mood inundating the weekend, surely someone wouldn’t mind giving me a boost.

I walked over to four people, a woman and three men, all sitting around a barbeque and drinking cheap canned beer.

“Excuse me,” I said, “Does anyone here have jumper cables?” I tried to surmize the story as quickly as possible. I felt like a moron. Who doesn’t know how to shut their own doors?

“No, I don’t reckon we do…” said one of the guys from beneath the brow of his large straw hat. I got the impression they just didn’t want to help. Which was okay, there were surely more willing fish in the sea of Woodstock.

“Oh, well, okay. Thanks anyway.” I ventured off to another group of young people sitting on a truck.

After prompting them, they mumbled and finally admitted they had some. Would they mind giving me a boost? Perhaps they did mind, but they finally agreed and drove their truck around to where I was parked. After a few minutes of charging, I tried to crank the car and Eureka! — it started up just fine. Pure elation was experienced and I hastily thanked them and got back inside.

Finally with a car tha t was running and a will to get home, I drove my way down the lanes of cars. Before me I saw about a dozen cars all heading toward the entrance. Which, of course, made perfect sense.

This was it, I was going home! I got behind the line of cars and pushed on the brake.

I didn’t move an inch for two hours.

And my gas tank was sitting on E.

And I couldn’t turn the car off to save gas because the battery was drained.

Oh. Shit.

I had to come up with something, and something fast.

Next week: The story concludes. How I make it out, and the surprises that await in the middle of the night on the drive home.

Read Part 11

Over forty million served
And that’s a record for the master, it stood forever after