The riders grew restless, including me. My butt was numb. The inside temperature of the short bus rose with the sunrise. Smooth and steady highway speeds slowed from a run to a walk. Now we crawled. Griffiss Air Force Base was near.

Cal was on fumes. Short of smoking cigarettes, the poor hippie attempted all the things to keep himself awake, including bopping the hula dancer on the dashboard for entertainment and sticking his head out the window for blasts of air. If he smacked his face one more time, he’d break some blood vessels. It’s possible he had not planned for the pace of the last fifty miles to be such that a person could keep up on foot.

I had caught some sleep, curled up in my seat alone, breaking in my inflatable horseshoe pillow. Two solid hours of drive time and two restless ones completely disappearing from the eleven-hour timeline were worth a stiff and sweaty neck. I tucked all my loose belongings into my backpack, stood, stretched, then shimmied up the aisle to the front of the bus.

“Morning, Cal.” With one hand on each of the two front seats, I leaned forward to see out the windshield. Southbound traffic on Black River Boulevard flowed nicely—probably slower than on a normal day. But the northbound lanes were bumper-to-bumper. Festival-goers bantered with folks in other cars. Some perched in their open windows; asses resting on the doorjamb. Others were brave and sat cross-legged on roofs like surfing Buddhas.

“Morning, Gettie. How’d you sleep?”

“Well enough. Thanks. How many miles, you think?”

“About ten. At this pace, it could be another hour. Maybe two.”

“Need a break? I’m happy to take the wheel.”

“Can’t ask you to do that.” Cal stifled a yawn.

“I’m offering.”

“I don’t think that’d be right.”

“Why? Because I’m a girl who can’t handle your Minotour?”

“Nah. I suspect you know your way around vehicles.” He shook his head. “I’m responsible for you kids.”

“Dude. We’re going like five miles an hour. And us kids are probably safer in my hands right now than yours. You’re exhausted.”

Cal made a breathy noise, wrestling with the duality of what it meant to be a responsible adult. I turned to address my fellow travelers. “Hey! Anyone care if I take over for Cal so he can catch a nap?” Rousing “no’s” and “go for it” granted the permission Cal needed. He groaned.

“Pull into that gas station.” I pointed to the Fastrac, about a yard ahead on the right. It’d probably take us another twenty minutes to reach it. “We could all use a bathroom break and a stretch.”

After our pitstop and a quick schooling from Cal on the Minotour’s quirks and functionality, he settled into my seat and I into his. The Who’s “Magic Bus” sidled into my brain, transitioning into the Hollies’ “Bus Stop”. I inched the vehicle into the long line of cars, singing under my breath about falling in love under an umbrella.

The parade of cars led us east toward the defunct Air Force base, then north again to a massive, flat open stretch of pavement that, before retirement, probably spent its career as a runway. I deviated around the vehicle in front of me and bypassed the open parking spot to its right. Instead, I maneuvered the bus into the first grassy space next to the pavement and perpendicular to a cross street, thinking those details would give us something specific to remember after a weekend of God knows what mind-altering behavior.

Cal was racked out and sawing logs. While everyone on this journey appeared to be an adult and, in theory, should take responsibility for finding the bus on Sunday night, the base looked even more enormous than the parking lot, so I stepped up for Cal and shared some PSAs with the concertgoers.

“Remember, the bus departs at midnight on Sunday. Take a mental snapshot of where we’re parked. Be safe. Have fun!” I said some iteration of this message to everyone as they departed the Minotour. Spirits were high, and folks were eager to get their parties started.

Cal’s hulking frame folded in the fetal position on the small bus seat. His T-shirt sleeve shifted over his biceps, revealing an Eagle, Globe, and Anchor tattoo. Semper Fi and tye-dye. Interesting combo. I hadn’t pegged Cal for a military man, but people can be more than one thing. Former Marine. Current hippie. Bus driver. Music lover. Protector.

I shook him awake, feeling bad for disturbing the man. Good sleep and bus seats rarely marry up, but he’d made do, probably a holdover from his training. He bolted upright with his dukes up.

“Oh, shit. Sorry, Gettie.” Cal lowered his hands and wiped his mouth.

“How’d you sleep?”

“Decent. Thanks.” He glanced around at the empty bus. “Fuck. I didn’t get a chance to tell everyone when to meet back.”

“It’s handled. Your informational packet said ‘midnight on Sunday’, so that’s what I told everyone.”

“You’re really something, kid.”

“Thanks.” I tossed him the keys, motioning with my head. “Now, get up and get on the good foot. If security isn’t a nightmare, we can catch James Brown.”

“Yes, ma’am. Lead the way.”

Outside the bus with my backpack on and my neon pink poster board in hand, Cal and I followed the masses toward the gate, chatting about how Griffiss was giant compared to the air bases he’d had the displeasure of experiencing in Nam. Now and again, I held the pink sign above my head, hoping to hook a fish.

Somewhere between Cleveland and Erie, under the 226 lumens of my Mini Maglight, I scrawled “1 MIRACLE | FACE VALUE” across the flimsy board’s center. The sign’s creation provided thirty minutes of distraction from boredom and potentially a Sharpie high for everyone around me. I had my spare ticket offloaded to a shirtless frat bro in a backwards Tennessee Vols hat halfway to the security corrals. Cal stood sentry as I tucked $160 in twenties into my wallet, then stashed the wallet in the depths of my bag. I kept a twenty at the ready in my pocket.

The buzz around the security lines warned that the surrender of all food and drinks was imminent. My gas station Snapple was empty, but my gummy bears were critical for surviving the weekend with as few visits to the Port-o-Potties as humanly possible. Happy gut. Happy butt. I suspected this property seizure might happen, and I prepared for the possibility. I transferred my weekend meals into a Ziploc somewhere between Erie and Buffalo, drawing a lotus flower with Sharpie on the bag’s white triangle printed in the upper corner.

Cal surrendered three Slim Jims, two cans of Jolt Cola, and a pint of Jack Daniels with quiet resolve. He waited for me while getting his backpack in order.

“No outside food or drinks.” The lanky dude in a yellow Peace Patrol shirt barked as he began confiscating my Haribos while making a mess of my tidy backpack.

With a sly handshake, I pressed my pocket twenty into his palm like a proper gangster and tapped the flower drawing with my left index finger. “Those are special.” I looked him dead in the eyes and winked. “Would you care for a couple?”

His eyes widened, and he glanced around, slipping the twenty into his back pocket. “Hell, yeah.”

I reclaimed the Ziploc with a fluid motion. “Flavor preference?”

“One of each?”

“You got it.” I opened the bag, selected a red, green, orange, yellow, and white bear, and placed them in Peace Patrol’s palm. I leaned close and spoke in a hushed tone. “If you take ecstasy or smoke weed, it will enhance the effect. But don’t take them all at once,” I warned. “That would be unwise. Have fun.” I winked again, resealed the Ziploc, grabbed my backpack, and stepped to Cal without looking back.

“Are you nuts?” Cal asked as we hustled away and into the playground of Woodstock 99. “That’s a metric crap ton of LSD!”

“No. It’s not. It’s four bags of gas station gummy bears. When that jerk discovers they don’t do shit, he’ll find a high somewhere else.”

“Probably from the next kid in line.” Cal chuckled.

As Cal and I approached the first beer garden, a fellow rushed up and stepped in front of me. Speak of the devil—the guy from behind me in the security corral.

“Hey.” He was slightly out of breath, huffing as he spoke. “I heard ya talkin’ with the security gawd.” His Boston accent made it sound like “security God”, which that Peace Patrol prick certainly thought he was. “You sellin’?”

“Five for twenty,” I said, sliding my backpack off one shoulder and swiveling it over my chest.

“Gimme ten. Don’t matta the culla.”

Boston dug a wad of messy cash from his pocket and handed me two bills—one folded mostly in half, the other in a ball. Both were damp. I tucked them into my bra strap. Cal eyeballed me but kept quiet. He stood sentry again, scanning the surrounding area.

As I extracted the Ziploc, Boston snatched the bag from my hand and darted away. Or he tried to. With cat-like reflexes, Cal hooked his arm as if signaling for a right turn and clotheslined the would-be thief. Boston went down like a sack of potatoes. Flat on his back and feet in the air. His skull hit the concrete with an unpleasant thud.

“Oorah!” I shouted, completely stunned.

Cal chuckled, bent over Boston’s body, and plucked the bag off the pavement. He reached his hand out. “C’mon, Gettie. James Brown awaits.”

I placed my hand in his and stepped over the Bear Thief. “Cal … wait.” I opened the Ziploc, grabbed a few gummies, not really counting, and laid them on Boston’s chest.

As we walked away, Cal asked, “Why’d you do that?”

“He paid for them.” I pulled a twenty from my shirt. “Here. You earned it.”

“Nah.” Cal waved off the payment. “That exchange was reward enough. No more of that, though.”

“Understood. Thanks, Cal.” I nudged his body with my shoulder.

“Papa Don’t Take No Mess.” Cal joked.

“No, sir. He surely doesn’t. Semper Fi.” I said as we made our way to the East stage.