The Great Woodstock Story: Finale

In this 13–part 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, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11 and Part 12 to catch up.

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The couple were in their mid-to-late 30’s. They were wearing t-shirts and jeans and looked pretty normal. So what were they doing here?

“We’re selling blankets,” the woman said.

Selling blankets. Seriously. At 4AM. I ran my hands across my face.

“Well, my car brokedown about a mile from here…” I said, and proceeded to tell them the story.

After I told them the story there was a long ten or fifteen minute period of time where we sort of sat/stood around looking at one another. Then the woman comes at me with:

“Do you know Jesus?”

Yes lady, I know him, and I also know that those blankets probably have something other than blankets in them or…you’re the weirdest blanket seller who ever sold a blanket.

Another person arrived soon another with a covered bed truck. This person—a redneck man in his 30’s—was not talkative. He didn’t care that I was there and he may not have even seen me. The couple took turns picking up the large, rolled up blankets (that looked more like carpet/rugs) and put them in the other vehicle. When they couldn’t fit anymore, they thanked the man and he drove away.

Looking back on it, the only explanation I can think of is they were transferring blankets to sell at a flea market—which traditionally get started up very early (I recall getting up at 5AM to help my father sell some stuff at a flea market once).

Otherwise, who knows. Maybe small illegal immigrants were inside them. Uncomfortable…yet warm.

Anyway, confirming that yes, I knew Jesus, they said goodbye and good luck and did I need anything. I assured them my father was on my way and that I would just hang out here until morning. The hopped in their truck and noisily made an exit.

Which then left me with a dilemma: I was again alone, and it was still the middle of the night. Worse, I was getting very tired. A nap sure would be nice…

…but I couldn’t go back to the car. What if my father called? What if he was lost? He knew only the number I gave him. I would need to stick by the phone.

After trying to sleep sitting with my back against the wall, the concrete sucked all of the heat right out of me. I didn’t want to get on the grass behind the building because it was wet with dew. Then I sat down on the pavement, and it felt fine. It wasn’t too cold, and while it was really sad to do it, I curled right up on the parking space next to the phone booth.

I slept like a child.

Until the next morning that is, when I was woken up by the deafening rumble of a large truck pulling into the space beside me.

I opened my eyes staring at a dirty wheel rim that had just come into view, about a foot from my face. One of the power station guys had pulled into the space and must’ve not even seen me. It was morning now, and the birds were chirping in the distance. Early morning, the sun barely over the horizon, but morning nevertheless.

I sat up and hoped that the guy driving the truck wouldn’t even see me. I was embarrassed to having slept in a parking lot, let alone nearly getting run over by his vehicle. I stood up, brushed off whatever bits of dirt and pavement were sticking on me, and wandered over to the Burger King.

The place was pristinely clean, I was obviously their first customer of the day. But it wasn’t that so much as the looks I got from the nice, southern women working there.

They looked afraid and concerned.

“Um, a sausage biscuit and an orange juice please,” I told the woman who couldn’t even manage a “Good morning” when she saw me.

She rang up the order and immediately left for the kitchen.

When she came back, she said “You don’t have to pay for this.” Oh, crap. The woman thinks I’m homeless. She’s got good reason to—I slept in the damn parking lot, didn’t I?

I told her the quick story (on a trip, brokedown) and tried to hand her some dirty bills.

“It’s okay,” she told me in consoling terms.

I shrugged and took my free meal. Then I visited the bathroom. And I was shocked by what I saw.

Firstly I hadn’t used the bathroom in going on three days, which was scary in itself. Secondly my sunburn, still somewhat purple around the ear, was gnarled across my face as it had begun to peel. I could still see faint indentions of the pavement on my face where I had slept in the parking lot. My hair was matted and greasy and my clothes were dirty. I hadn’t showered in three days either, and when I smelled myself I could easily see how a free meal could be achieved.

I tried to clean up and wash off as best I could. My face howled in pain from the soap and water, but it felt good to get some of the grime off. I went back to my food, ate it slowly, and waited for another three hours until my father showed up.

Upon seeing his vehicle I was ecstatic and ran out to meet him. His face was priceless.

“What happened to you?” He asked.

I grinned. “Woodstock, baby.”

He laughed. “Okay, let’s go get your mother’s car.”

The drive back home was long and slow-going. We stopped to rest and eat a few times, and via the radio I learned that rioting had occurred on Sunday night. I was not surprised. On the trip I tried to tell my dad what happened, leaving only the illegal and unethical portions out. But mostly it was quiet and I was exhausted.

It took about a week for my skin to begin looking like my skin again, and my mother’s transmission was indeed gnarled to nothingness. It had to be completely replaced. She was, as they say, not pleased.

But overall I think Woodstock taught me a lot. About self preservation, the kindness of strangers, and making the best of situations. Hell, I got a free biscuit out of it, how’s that for a $150 ticket and a $1500 repair bill? I also learned a lot about my friends, myself, and what I valued most. Mainly that trips like there were special but less so when someone wasn’t there to share them or reminisce.

Woodstock would be the last great trip before I found my beautiful wife and settled down a few years later. But the experience has lasted all of these years, and with a tale so twisted and involved, I’m sure it will be told and retold a few more times before I’m too old to remember it any longer and the details merge and everything fades away.

Because somewhere, right now, there’s a kid out there who bought a business card for $40 and fully believed he and his buddies tripped their friggin nuts off with it.

And me? I just draw lines on the paper.

So thanks Woodstock, and thanks for reading.

Fin

There is no reason to grieve
The world that you need is wrapped in gold silver sleeves