The Great Woodstock Story - Part 2

This story details my adventures regarding Woodstock ‘99.

Read: Part 1 to catch up.

---

Back at the club…

Needless to say, I was pretty freaked out. I quickly scanned the crowd for David. Where was he? I couldn’t see him anywhere.

I looked back toward the stage. The main guy, we’ll call him Bozo, was wiping the long needles with something, I’m assuming alcohol, and rubbing the chest of both the female and male with the same fluid.

Then, the man put the needles in their skin. Insert cringing here. And blood.

Two needles went in each person, pointed downwards, diagonally in the chest of each person. They entered the skin just below the collarbone, then a few inches later came back out, then glided past their flesh for 8–10 inches before going back in-and-out of the skin near their abdominal muscles. The circle hooks were at the top, sticking out of their skin near the collar bones.

All the while the boyfriend was closing his eyes, smiling. All the while, the girlfriend was crying. It was like a train wreck, except the crowd was loving it.

Well, most of the crowd was loving it. I felt a little sick to my stomach.

It was then that Bozo gestured toward his assistant for something. The robed dude dug in his inside pocket and unveiled the grand plan: a rope. Bozo began to snake the rope back and forth from boyfriend to girlfriend through the hooks at the top of each needle. Bozo then took the ends of the rope, along with the taut strands linking the needles, and tied them together in a large knot between the two.

From somewhere the assistant produced a cup of water. Except it wasn’t water. It was the same stuff they had cleaned the needles and the couple’s skin with. Rubbing alcohol or pure grain, I don’t know.

Bozo held the cup under the knot tied between two. He dipped the knot in it, letting it soak.

The crowd was hushed.

He removed the glass, the rope now dripping with alcohol. I could see streaks of blood staining the girl’s bra a deep mauve.

Bozo produced a lighter. He struck a flame and then lit the knot between them. The crowd cheered then got quiet as he raised his hand. Then he said one word that could be heard clearly throughout the entire place:

“Pull.”

You ever have to watch a surgery in progress? Perhaps a bad accident caused you to witness a leg being broken or a piece of metal yanked out of some person’s skin? Yeah, it was sorta like that.

I averted my eyes, positive that it was now officially time to get the hell out of there. This was not what I anticipated my night would end up like. Looking down at the crowd, I couldn’t see Dav—oh, wait, there he is, near the door. I look back at the couple. I wished I hadn’t.

The force of the pulling had raised the skin on both of their chests. The rope was now taut between them, burning brightly. The crowd was cheering.

“Harder, harder!” they yelled. Again, streaks of blood flowed down each of their chests.

Finally the knot gave way, bursting in a flash of flame as the rest of the alcohol in the rope burst aflame. Bozo and the assistant both leapt into action, dowsing the fire with water and covering the couple in towels. I was halfway down the staircase at this point. I found David near the bar.

We spoke at the same time, both sentences intermingling. Whatever we said, our eyes told the tale: It was time to get the hell out of here. We basically ran out into the street, into his station wagon, and back to the Days Inn.

The next day we went to Mr. Gatti’s to eat. It was then that David tried to call me on my promise.

“Hey dude, you’re driving home, right?” I had told him I would.

“Oh man,” I whined, “I’m just not feeling good today.”

He pressed. I pressed back. He angrily agreed to drive, now having drove down there, through Atlanta, and then back home.

It would be a mistake that would haunt me in more ways than I had anticipated.

As July quickly approached, the repercussions of that action came back to me: David was going to go with another friend of his, a friend of whom I wasn’t, a friend of whom had no space for me.

This was around July 18th. The concert began on the 23rd. I had less than a week with little to no hope of finding a ride. Okay, zero hope of finding a ride. It was tough enough to buy the $150 ticket. Let alone find someone to go up there with.

I felt betrayed and angry. But I would be damned if I wasn’t going up there, no matter what. And so I swallowed my pride and asked the only person crazy enough to let me use their car, alone, on a 1,600 mile round trip journey to the wildest party of the decade…

…my mother.

Did she say yes? How was the drive and what happened when I got there? Find out Thursday!

Read Part 3.

Fall in love and fall apart
Things will end before they start