Since they were kids, Kurt had a knack for talking Ray into all kinds of stupid shit, like that winter of '74, when Kurt dared Ray to stick a 9-volt battery on his tongue. From 6th grade until they both graduated high school, climbing the lattice girders of the Orange and Blue lines while the trains rumbled overhead was a last-day-of-school ritual. This also started as one of Kurt’s dares. The two knuckleheads knew exactly when to stop climbing so the 600 deadly volts of electricity that powered the El’s third rail didn’t fry the Frye boys.

Building ramps to jump their BMX bikes, fashioning makeshift flamethrowers from cans of their mother’s Aqua Net, or “borrowing” Old Man Johnson’s Caddy from the shop, Ray played along with Kurt’s hairbrained ideas because Kurt made everything fun. Ray gambled on this situation being no different.

He had no frame of reference for what the festival grounds should look like after two days of peace, love, and rock ‘n’ roll, but Ray’s vision and reality didn’t marry up. When he, Alma, and Kurt arrived late Saturday morning, he expected a Taste of Chicago vibe—hot, crowded, sunburned skin, overflowing trash cans, and a bouquet of smells. And there was all of that. But this was beyond Thunderdome.

The grounds were trashed. A dusty film coated the dry surfaces. An expansive puddle formed near one of the water stations, and mini geysers shot up from the broken sinks. Concertgoers were caked in runoff from the Porta Potties. And had the brown sludge not reeked of shit, Ray could pretend it was mud.

The angry frat-boy vibe was too much, even for Kurt, who usually found the good in any circumstance. He either postured for Alma’s sake or was truly head over heels for their bassist because Kurt attempted to shield her from aggressive advances and demands to show her tits. Kurt grew curt, and the rampant nakedness unsettled all of them. What should have been sexy felt tortured.

In comparison, the artist’s compound was Shangri-La, and within its sanctuary, the wind returned to Kurt’s sails. Ray could still feel the Mad Max vibe permeate through the line of demarcation. The fame-to-anonymity ratio was disproportionate, and the compound teemed with more unrecognizable faces than recognizable ones, yet Kurt still chatted everyone up with equal enthusiasm and respect. He’d never met a stranger and was always up for anything. Trusting the rave review from the Everclear roadie concerning an illicit drug seemed foolhardy to Ray, but totally on brand for Kurt. But Ray didn’t want to be a stick in the Porta Potty mud or a sober third wheel, so he rolled the dice. As the perforated paper tab dissolved and the chemicals filled his mouth, Ray tasted that 9-volt battery.

“No going back now.” Kurt swept Alma into his arms, dipping her, then planting a kiss with enough tongue to potentially increase both lovers' acid intakes. Alma’s bass-guitar bag slid off her shoulder, and Ray lunged to catch it before it hit the pavement.

“Mistake,” Ray thought, but muttered, “No going back now.”

As Kurt righted Alma, he said, “C’mon, Cuz. Relax.”

“Easy for you to say. You know what to expect.”

“Every time is different.” Alma took her bass from Ray. “At least for me, anyway.”

“That’s still an advantage,” Ray said.

He was pretty sure he was too old for new recreational drug experiences. Yet he didn’t want to look back on this big day and say he didn’t go all in. As Grandma Frye liked to say, “Don’t be a Wish-I-Had.”

“OK …” Kurt looked at his watch. “We’ve got about 45 minutes of lucidity, then maybe another 45-ish before showtime. Let’s explore.” He clapped, then spun like Michael Jackson, complete with a jerky high kick and a flash of his flannel shirt tails. His Dr. Martens scraped across the concrete, and debris skittered away rhythmically. A nearby group whooped in appreciation. Kurt flashed the Sign of the Horns.

As the trio wandered the artist’s compound, Kurt and Alma struggled to keep their hands off each other. Shit. They may not have even been trying. Like dogs marking territory, the two christened each location with some variety of snogging. Eventually, the two disappeared completely. Ray waited at the last place he remembered being together, but grew restless.

All up in his head about the drug, the rising temperature, and the pending performance, Ray’s legs moved with little input from his brain. Needing to assert some amount of control, he headed to the Emerging Artists area. He flashed his pass at the security folks and climbed the steps to the risers.

Whoa! The stage was massive—the hangar was even more so. Ray slid his guitar bag off his back and propped the soft case against the drum risers. Viceroy Brown was the first act that afternoon. Plenty of salty bodies peppered the cavernous dome, cooling off or resting up. Even with the lull in the lineup, an audience awaited. Behind the stage, several oversized banners with Keith Haring-like graffiti stretched tall and wide, creating a colorful wall and a makeshift backstage. Stacks of speakers and amps in key locations promised a wall of sound.

Ray repositioned the mic stands so he and Alma could be closer to each other and to Kurt. While Ray often meandered when he hit a groove, and Alma gravitated to the drums, the three liked their microphone triangle tight. He counted 12 lengths of his size 12s in an equilateral triangle, whistling “12” from Sesame Street. Ray’s teeth and gums tingled, and he stretched his mouth muscles.

The fringe lining the edges of the Persian rug under his feet shimmied and rippled like sea anemones to the rhythm of the sequential number song that was potentially the earwormiest of earworms. Ray crouched for a closer look. The geometric patterns in the wool rearranged themselves like the falling tetrominos in Tetris. Ray stabbed the shapes with the extra fingers his hands sprouted, certain the tips sank into the foamy fibers up to his second row of knuckles. That was weird.

He stood, then walked the length of the stage, still counting, but with looser strides, getting the lay of the land. He had a lot to work with. The Cyclops peeking behind the black mesh cover of the last stack of Peavey speakers at the side of the stage caused a jump scare. Ray yelped, then cursed as his left foot slipped over the edge. A pillow broke his fall, yet somehow there was still pain. Wetness dripped around his eye.

“Fuck!” Ray scrabbled backward to the stage supports as the pillow morphed into a person and scrabbled backward to the stage steps. His ankles crisscrossed the pillow’s ankles. Four Chuck Taylors. Red low-cut, black high-top. Red. The blood of angry men. Black. The dark of ages past. Words fit for this festival, but ones that came out of nowhere.

A gal in red sneakers tugged a poncho hood off her head, knocking an inflatable neck pillow to the concrete hangar floor. It lolled in an arc. Ray stared at it until it stilled.

“Holy shit! Are you OK?” she asked.

Ray thought he spoke but wasn’t sure. A French Revolution show tune still played in his head. The gal wiggled out of a poncho, too heavy for the heat, and freed a backpack from her chest. She rooted for something. Ray touched his head and winced. The red ooze on his sausage fingers was slick and shiny, and his thumb made sparkles as he smeared the ooze over each tip.

“What have you taken? Mushrooms? Ecstasy? Acid?”

“I’m so hot.” The words escaped like smoke.

The gal pulled a water bottle from her backpack. “How long ago?” She already seemed to know what was what, which was good because Ray knew fuck all at that moment. She slid the bandana from her dark Audrey Hepburn pixie hair, untied the knot, and shook loose the folds. After balling it up, she poured water over the fabric. The excess liquid pattered the floor as she wrung it out. She shimmied between his splayed legs and lightly pressed the cotton to his forehead. He sucked air between his tingly teeth with a rattlesnake’s hiss. She took his hand and directed him to hold the bandana in place.

She asked a question, right? What was it? How long? “Maybe an hour. I feel … weird. My eyes aren’t working.”

“Is this your first time?” A first aid kit and baby wipes appeared from the recesses of her backpack. She wiped her hands clean and ripped open something small and square.

“Yeah. My cousin thought it would be fun.”

“This will sting.”

He hissed again as she pressed the small square to the spot that stained his fingertips and clouded his eye.

“What’s your name?”

“Ray.”

“Where’s your cousin now, Ray?” She affixed three sticky butterflies to his head, and taped a white fibrous cocoon over them. That wasn’t the order. Cocoons first. Then butterflies. The butterflies throbbed and radiated heat. “Can I have that?” She pointed at the bandana clutched in his fist.

“He’s in the artist’s area with our bassist. They’re probably fucking in Bruce Hornsby’s trailer,” Ray sighed, handing her the wet fabric ball.

“Are you one of the festival performers?” She refolded the square into a thin rectangle and tied a ring of pain around his head. He hissed a third time, worried that Audrey Hepburn had just smothered the butterflies. “Sorry!” She winced in solidarity. “Leave this on so you don’t sweat off the bandage.”

“OK … We go on stage soon. I think.” He held out his hands, fixated on the flowers of light blooming from his slowly wagging fingers. “I’m not sure I can play like this.”

“Look at me.” She snapped and pointed to her face. “What’s your start time?”

“You have a nice face.” She was symmetrical, with kissable lips that completed the triangle from her cat-like eyes.

“Thank you. So do you. Yours may be scarred now … Ray? What’s your start time?”

“Four. Doesn’t matter. My hands don’t work.” He smooshed and kneaded her smooth cheeks, enjoying the softness and elasticity.

“Iss dare a place yer sa post ta meetch yo cousin?” Her words wormed through her fishy lips. She chuckled and glanced at her watch.

Ray let go of her face. What the fuck was he doing? “Sorry. I don’t know why …”

“Acid. That’s why,” she said. “Don’t sweat it. Do you have other friends here?”

“It’s just the three of us. Kurt and Alma said to meet near the stage if we got separated. Our gear is there.” He pointed up. “The dude …” Ray snapped, fascinated by the crisp sound his index finger made as it smacked against his thenar muscles. He snapped three more times in quick succession. Then once more, slowly. He scanned the backstage area and pointed at the dude who monitored the run of show. “That guy said we can plug in after 3:40. It’s hot as balls right now. Did I hurt you? I fell kinda hard.”

“I’m fine. Where’d you fall from?”

He pointed up again, flinching at the scary one-eyed monster lurking in the Peavey.

“Here. Lay down. I’ll try to cool you off.”

“OK.”

Ray laid his head on a horseshoe-shaped pillow in Audrey Hepburn’s lap, sprawling his legs over the hard hangar floor. The noise level rose, and the space sounded like flocks of geese. Audrey gently cleaned his nose. Why was she cleaning his nose? The wipe came away red. Oh. She mopped the sweat from his face and neck, poured some water into the wipes, and laid them on his skin.

“That’s nice!” He sighed, mesmerized by the flares around the lights of the curved trussed ceiling. He counted the points. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six … If he squinted, the ceiling disappeared, and only halos remained. “Why doesn’t this seem weird? I mean, I feel completely fucked up and weird. But right now, I’d probably do whatever you asked.”

She rummaged in her bag, then handed him a Slinky. “Here. Play with this.”

“Ooh. Neat!” The metal spring tinged as he unfurled the coil back and forth between his hands. The rainbow blurred in an iridescent arc. “It’s Slinky, it’s Slinky. For fun, it’s a wonderful toy …”

“It’s fun for a girl or a boy,” she joined in, singing the ‘70s jingle.

“Why do you have this?”

“Just in case.”

“Just in case of what?”

“This.”

“A neck pillow, first aid kit, baby wipes, and a Slinky. And were you sleeping on a windshield shade? Who are you? Mary Poppins?” He chuckled.

“Nope. I’m Gettie.”

“Like Lee?”

“Same pronunciation. Different spelling. And yeah. I have all sorts of random things that are good for festivals. It’s important to be prepared.”

“Are you tripping, too? I’m tripping, right?”

“Oh yeah. Buckle up, buttercup. You’ve got at least eight hours of weird ahead of you. And no, I’m not tripping. That would be the second dumbest thing I could do this weekend.”

“What was the first?” He inserted a hand into each end of the coil and pulled.

“Coming here alone.”

“That’s brave. Ummm, I’m stuck.” He shook his hands, and the toy bounced off his gut.

She giggled, then eased him out of the rainbow handcuffs.

“Ray!” Kurt and Alma’s voices called from above. “Ray?”

“Down here!”

“What the fuck?” Kurt laughed as he peered over the edge of the stage. “It’s time to set up, man.”

“My hands don’t work,” Ray said, sitting up.

“Your hands are fine. Say goodbye to your cutie and get up here to help with the drum kit!” Kurt shouted over his shoulder.

“I don’t think I can do this,” Ray whispered to Audrey. Umm, Gettie … Gettie. Gettie. Spaghetti. Must remember she’s Gettie.

“What instrument do you play?”

“Guitar.”

“As soon as you hold it, muscle memory will take over. Let the music tell you what to do. Feel your way. Focus on a friendly face in the crowd if you spin out.” She scooped up her first-aid items, deflated the pillow with a satisfyingly noisy raspberry, folded the windshield shade, and tucked everything into her backpack. Her too-heavy-for-this stupid-heat, Baja poncho filled the last bits of space at the top.

They both stood, hovering at the bottom step. People scurried around them, preparing for the day’s first act. Him. And his shaky hands, untrustworthy eyes, and mounting trepidation.

“Here. Hydrate.” Gettie handed him her water bottle.

“You’re like an angel.” He took a swig. Water splashed down his chin and over the monkey printed on his Pixies “Doolittle” shirt. “Jesus. I’m a wreck. I can’t even drink properly.” He wiped his chin with the back of his hand. Was his stubble always this scratchy? And loud?

“Ray, look at me.” Gettie snapped her fingers and pointed to her face again.

“You really do have a nice face.” He tilted his head, trying to decide if her eyes were hazel or brown.

“So do you,” she smiled. “Now listen. Just as you can decide that you’re too fucked up to function, you can also make the decision that you’re just fucked up enough to enjoy the trip.” She took his hand and squeezed. “Make the right decision.”

“Will you stay where I can see you?” The words sounded too much like a plea. He may have imprinted on this poor gal like a duckling. Or a dickhead. Fucked if he knew.

“I will. Now, go.” Gettie guided him into motion.

He started up the steps to the stage but looked back. Gettie. Gettie. Sharp as a machete. Gettie.

“Have a blast,” she said. “Knock my socks off!”

“Or die trying,” Ray thought, but flashed the Sign of the Horns.