Sometimes, the stupidity of a situation could be masked in the moment, leaving only blissful ignorance of poor decision-making and regretful choices. This wasn’t one of those times. I didn’t need hindsight to reveal my best-laid plans were actually fucked. The minute the door sucked closed and the shortie bus jerked into movement, the batshit craziness of my actions twisted my gut into a knot. I had 730 miles to steel myself up for a weekend of peace and love that I would enjoy alone amongst hundreds of thousands of other music lovers. One of whom was not my pal Denise, who bailed on me. 

I called her on Wednesday afternoon from the Lazarus break room to confer on the plan and remind her of the bus’s departure at 6:00 p.m. on the dot. I smacked the back of my hand in the other, punctuating the time. I couldn’t guarantee the “on the dot” part of the itinerary. This was a group trip, after all, and corralling 25 twenty-somethings for a trek to central New York could easily get off schedule. But Denise’s penchant for tardiness was her Achilles’ heel, so the exaggeration didn’t hurt anything. She assured me she had her list of supplies and $50 in tips from her Taco Tuesday shift. I reassured her that I had our tickets, my half of the supplies, and the $250 I’d been squirreling away since the festival date was announced. I called again before leaving my apartment on Thursday afternoon, and once more from an Indianapolis airport parking lot pay phone, with no answer each time. 

One of the pluses of Denise’s no-show was getting a seat to myself in which to stew. Oh, and I stewed. I took a second job doing displays at the department store to afford the tickets and have extra spending money for food, souvenir T-shirts, and incidentals. Denise and I had planned for months, making lists and daydreaming while watching 90210 and Melrose Place.

While adorable, Denise was flighty. Her portion of the supply list skewed light compared to mine. I didn’t trust she’d bring sunscreen, baby wipes, or extra batteries, so I added those essentials to my already long list. But her list included the tent. That camping essential was something I couldn’t afford and didn’t have an interest in owning. Sleeping on the ground was for animals, but I’d make do for the chance to hear Funkadelic, The Roots, Bruce Hornsby, and John Entwistle live in the same weekend. Another plus of Denise’s no-show was that I no longer needed to subject myself to Limp Bizkit, Korn, and Kid Rock. The popularity of these acts confounded me. What was my generation hearing?

At the Flying J truck stop just north of Cleveland, I dropped a quarter into the pay phone outside the restrooms I had just used and called Denise one more time. My mind raced, and she needed a piece of it.

“Hello?”

“Girl, what the fuck?” I hissed through gritted teeth. I didn’t yell. Other travelers on the trip to New York waited in line behind me. There were still hours left on our trek, and the bus was small. Being the crazy bitch popping off at the pay phones would only alienate me further. Heading to Woodstock alone had already earned me pitying looks.

“I’m sorry, Gettie. I couldn’t go through with it.”

“What does that mean? It’s not an abortion. It’s a concert.”

“It’s a three-day festival and Burke…”

“Please don’t say you ditched me because of Burke.” 

This guy. Jesus. Who names their kid Burke? Surely, a parent who doesn’t want their son getting laid. Crying out “Burke” in the throes of passion would only make a gal sound like a clucking chicken or the Swedish Chef. 

“He was concerned.”

“About what exactly? Sunburn? Heat stroke? You tripping and accidentally falling on another dude’s dick?”

“Kinda. He’s really jealous, Gettie. And there will be tons of boys running around. He said guys only have one thing on their minds when they go to concerts.”

Three things, actually. Sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll. Burke had a point. He was forgettable, and Denise was a free-spirited flirt, so maybe his concern was justified. But controlling assholes should be avoided like the plague. “You still owe me for your ticket.”

“That’s another thing Burke mentioned. It’s stupid expensive. Could you try to sell it?”

“I guess. It’s not like I can sleep on it.” My sleeping arrangements now required brainstorming. “You owe me for the bus fare.”

“Please deposit twenty-five cents to continue this call,” a mechanical voice interrupted.

“Denise, I gotta go. Enjoy your weekend with Burke.” The jerk.

“Try to have fun. I’ll look for you on MTV.”

I depressed the switch hook, cradling the receiver between my ear and shoulder, and dug another quarter from my pocket. After depositing more money, I dialed home. The gal behind me in line side-eyed me for double-dipping.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Mom.”

“Suzy Q! How’s your camping trip?” 

“Good so far. Denise is setting up the tent.” Only my mother called me Suzy Q. I didn’t mind. Suzy Q’s were delicious. The lie brought a wave of guilt, and I bit my lip to keep more words from spilling through my teeth. “Is Daddy home from the shop?”

“Bobby! Gettie’s calling.”

I pulled the receiver away from my ear to prevent permanent damage. 

“He’s coming, Suzy Q.”

When Dad picked up the second line, Mom said, “Be safe, sweetie. Have a s’more for me.” 

“Will do. Love you, Mom.” A click signaled she hung up.

“Gettie Sue!”

“Hi, Dad. The 1970 AMC Gremlin was designed on the back of a Northwest Airlines airsickness bag.”

“And released on April Fool’s Day. What’s the matter, kiddo? Talk to me.”

My bat signal. The code for when I needed help before being schooled, parented, or disciplined. Dad had a “don’t ask, don’t tell” system in place, designed to problem-solve before either of our emotions got involved or in the way. There was always time for that later.

“Let’s say camping is defined only by sleeping outside for three nights, and the person bringing the tent left me high and dry. God, I hope it stays dry. Improvisation is needed. Thoughts on sleeping arrangements?”

“Do you have a sleeping bag?”

“No. It’s supposed to be hot. I have a thin blanket that fits in a tiny drawstring bag.” And I didn’t want to lug a sleeping bag around for three days.

“How much money do you have?”

“Enough. $250, plus the potential to add $150 after arrival at the … campsite.”

“Gettie Sue, I know your road leads to Rome. You can cut the crap.” The door of my father’s study creaked closed.

“Please don’t tell Mom. She’d have kittens. The stuff she heard about Woodstock ‘94 got her all spun up.”

“Kiddo, you’re twenty-six years old and can make your own decisions, including lying to your mother. If she asks me anything, I’ll be truthful. But I won’t offer anything not asked.”

“Fair. Thanks, Dad.”

“But listen, I’m concerned. Are you alone?” 

“Yes. And I’m freakin’ out a little.” I cupped the receiver and lowered my voice as another measure against raising any red flags with my fellow shortie bus passengers.

“I can come get you.”

“Please deposit twenty-five cents to continue this call,” the mechanical voice interrupted again.

“No, Daddy. John Entwistle! I may never get the chance to hear him live again.” 

I dug another quarter from my pocket and fed the phone as the gal behind me huffed, “C’mon!”

“The man’s only 54. There’s plenty of time.” Dad said.

“Easy for you to say. You got to see him play while Keith Moon was still alive.”

“True. OK, listen to me. Get the thickest windshield shade the truck stop has available. The kind that folds. You have a backpack, right?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Buy an automotive funnel, preferably one with a flexible hose. And keep the bag the clerk puts it in.”

“Why?”

“From my experience at the first Woodstock, the bathroom situation can get dicey. I possess the natural equipment needed for taking care of business, standing under a tree. You don’t. Get a funnel and a bag to keep it in.”

I could not have predicted the turn this conversation took. But my dad was a practical, level-headed dude. “Gotcha.”

“Do you have a pillow?”

“I’ve got the inflatable neck kind, for travel.”

“That’ll do. Got a first aid kit?”

“Yes. And sunscreen, bug spray, baby wipes, a flashlight, and spare batteries.” Plus four joints cleverly stashed inside some tampon packaging.

“Good girl. Buy a roll of toilet paper. Wiggle the tube out and flatten it to save space.”

“Good idea.”

“Stick to marijuana. Don’t drink too much. No hard drugs. Stay sharp and be vigilant.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get some pepper spray. Keep it in your pocket.”

“Will do.”

“And Gettie Sue?”

“Yeah, Dad?”

“Have an amazing time.”

“I will. Love you.”

“Love you. Call me as soon as you’re home or if anything goes south.”

“I promise.” I made two kissy noises, hung up the phone, and went shopping.

I hustled through the automotive aisle, adding all that Dad suggested to my hand basket, plus a cheap rain poncho. I’d have included hell if it wasn’t inherently there already. Up and over one aisle, I grabbed the pepper spray, a roll of toilet paper, a neon pink poster board, and a box of Ziplocs. It was prudent to have a sealable bag for my makeshift Shewee. I pulled a door open on the refrigerator, adding a bottle of Snapple for the road. Midway through the candy aisle, I located the gummy bears and tossed four bags on top of my growing pile of weird. At the end of the toy aisle, I got distracted by a rack of Maisto die-cast metal cars in 1:18 scale. I picked up a green 1951 Volkswagen Export sedan and flipped open the hinged door with my fingertip. 

“That slugbug was my first car. Mine wasn’t as fresh and shiny as that one, though.” The driver of our shortie bus stopped at the Maisto display and picked up a pink Lamborghini Jota. His faded Grateful Dead tie-dye swirled in pastels that matched the car in his hands. “I ran out of gas more times than I could count.”

“Yeah. I bet. Having no fuel gauge will make that likely. Driving purely on ‘feels’ is madness.” 

“Hmmm.” The driver’s breathy exhalation and downturned mouth suggested my knowledge was surprising. “I noticed you got on the bus by yourself. Are you meeting friends at the festival?”

“No. My pal stood me up. I’m going it alone.” I tried playing it cool, but I still hadn’t come to terms with my new circumstances. Trusting the Deadhead with my solo status could be a mistake, but my gut assured me he was harmless. The dude whistled “Sugar Magnolia” and “Truckin’” repeatedly when passing cops and pumped his arm at the semi truckers in exchange for honks. He was a happy-go-lucky goofball, chauffeuring strangers toward an adventure of a lifetime.

“Seems brave.” He said, putting the pink sports car back on the display. Patchouli and Nag Champa lingered from his movement. 

“It is stupidity rather than courage to refuse to recognize danger when it is close upon you,” I said. 

“Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Impressive. He also said, “There are always some lunatics about. It would be a dull world without them.”

“I recognize I may be a lunatic as well as putting myself in danger.”

“By the looks of your shopping list, your adventure won’t be dull.” He nodded at my basket and then stepped into the toy aisle. His elevator eyes scanned the shelves for something. He grabbed a cubed box with an “ah ha” and tossed it back and forth between his hands like a baseball. “From my experience at the first Woodstock…” he stopped juggling the toy and shook it at me. “A trip toy should round out your supplies.”

“Oh, trust me. I have no plans to eat acid, brown, or otherwise.”

“But others will. This may come in handy.” He dropped the rainbow Slinky into my basket. “What’s your name, love?”

“Gettie.” Here it comes… like the frontman and bassist for Rush.

“As in Stan Getz?”

My face, the Betrayer, twisted with surprise.

“What?” The driver smiled.

“Typically, most folks guess wrong.” I slipped the V-Dub Beetle into my basket.

“I’m not most folks. I’m Cal, by the way. Nice to meet you, Gettie. Now, c’mon.” He motioned toward the register with his head. “We got a schedule to keep.” He walked away, whistling “The Girl from Ipanema.”

But I didn’t follow. I doubled back to the automotive aisle and grabbed something for Cal. The old hippie was unconsciously looking out for this young hippie riding his bus solo. I relaxed knowing someone had my back. Our motivations for taking this trip potentially differed. Him: Reliving musical history. Me: Borrowing what his generation built.

As I climbed the steps into the bus, I paused, peeling the backing off the sticker at the bottom of my gift. Cal shifted in the driver’s seat, attempting to see what I was up to. I wiped the dust off the dashboard with the heel of my hand and plopped a hula dancer in the middle, wiggling the base to secure her. Cal chuckled.

“She’s not Brazilian, but she’ll dance like she is.” I winked, shimmying to my seat, singing “The Girl from Ipanema” to Cal’s whistling.