"What the heck," I say to myself. "40 years old and never been to one, it's about time."
I see a couple, hitchhiking. I swear to god I saw them in 1971 on Long Island heading for the Long Island Speedway to a Grateful Dead concert. I didn't pick them up then, so I do now.
Bellbottom jeans on both of them, swear to god. Hers has a band of some embroidered red and yellow threads sewn to the bottom of each leg and butterfly patches flying up and down her thighs. She has a peasant blouse and a leather vest and rectangular sunglasses. Granny glasses, we used to call 'em. Hair parted in the middle like that ripply spaghetti only black and a head band with a peace sign embroidered on it. His bellbottoms are tie dyed, really tie bleached, bands of jagged white going around his legs. Corduroy shirt with a zipper at the neck. Dungaree jacket with Dead patches all over it. Big huge electric Dead Head symbol embroidered on the back of the jacket. The skull with the big red and blue circle and the white lightning bolt. Blond hair long and straight and little colored beads braided in on one side. His glasses are round and have holographic eyeballs on them. Neither wear shoes. They stand with their thumbs out. Twenty years ago they would have been picked up immediately. Today, no one is stopping. I pull over near them.
He opens the passenger door and looks in at me. I smile and raised my hands, palms up, like a shrug. He nods.
"Goin' to the show?" I say.
"Yeah, thanks for stoppin'" he says.
"No problem," I say. I tell him my name.
"I'm Jason, and this is Heather."
They aren't the same people I saw twenty years ago. Nobody over five was named Jason or Heather then.
"Well, climb on in." I say.
Heather climbs in first. The Mercedes has bucket seats, but there's a little jump seat thing that fits into the console between the seats, and the fold down armrest becomes a backrest when it's folded up. I guess I forgot to mention that when I was talking about the Mercedes.
Jason gets in and shuts the door. Heather slides over against him and he puts his arm around her.
"All set?" I say.
I put the Mercedes in gear. I lean out the window, looking back over my shoulder, trying to catch someone's eye. The lines of cars are crawling by at about ten miles per hour. A line of BMWs, Lexus, Honda Accords, Accuras, Broncos, Jeeps, mostly new cars, shiny, tinted glass, windows rolled up, air conditioned. In the other lane, there’s a painted VW bus with the top part of a VW beetle, just the window part, welded onto the top of the bus. The woman in the passenger seat sees me trying to get back into the line of cars. She raises her hand palm up out the window, lifts her eyebrows and then her shoulders go up and down. She shakes her head, eyes looking at all the cars.
I let the clutch up a little, turning the front wheels. The front fender of the Mercedes, the one that is all dented up, starts to move toward the line of cars going by. I look for the perfect car. The exact car whose driver will see my car coming, will look at the high heavy faded blue sides of it, the solid been-here- forever look of it, the big dents in that big front fender made out of solid heavy gauge 1966 steel, and know he is gonna lose out big time in a fender bender. There it is, a brand new shiny black Lexus with copper accents on the custom chrome wheels. I make the Mercedes jump toward his front right quarter panel and he stops short, tires chirping. The Mercedes rolls out in front of him.
"Dude!" Jason says, "That was awesome."
"People get out of my way," I say.
"Great car," Jason says. He sticks his hand up through the open sun roof.
"Know anybody with extra tickets?" I say.
"Dude!" Jason says. He sits back down in the seat, bouncing around over there on the other side of Heather.
"I got some right here!" Jason says, "How many do you need?"
When Jason says need, Heather moves her arm, and Jason's voice sort of breaks the word in the middle, like nee-eed.
"What?" Jason says, quiet to Heather.
Heather whispers in his ear.
"Don't worry about it, I will" Jason says, quiet to Heather.
"So, Dude?" Jason says, loud to me, "You want some tickets?"
"Just one," I say. "How much?"
We settle on a price. The line of cars starts slowing down. Everyone in our lane stops.
"You guys from around here?" I say.
"Marin," Jason says. Heather moves her arm again.
"Ow!" Jason says, quiet to Heather, "What?"
Heather whispers something in Jason's ear.
"Oh, stop worryin'" Jason says, "Dude, Heather's worried you might be a nut case or something."
"Well, she's right," I say, "To worry, I mean. Nowadays, there's all kind of crazies out there. I was worried about you guys, a little."
"There, you see?" Jason says, "He's a cool old guy."
Heather doesn't say anything. I don't say anything either. I keep hearing the words over in my head. Old guy. Old guy. I'm an old guy, now.
The car ahead of me starts moving forward, I let up the clutch and the shift lever pops out of gear and the car makes a sort of whirring sound, like maybe metal baseball cards in bicycle spokes. I have to wait until the engine goes back to idle before putting it into first gear again. The Lexus behind me honks just as we jump forward.
Jason is talking about how he got the tickets.
"...for the concert for my three compadres who said they wanted to go and I even fronted all the money for them and Dude! wouldn't you know at the last minute they got all like, you know, on me and wouldn't give me the money and one of them was supposed to get his old lady's car but, you know, that was bogus and so we rode the bus up here but din't have enough to go all the way 'cause of the tickets and then Dude! you show up and like, buy a ticket, so now we can get some lunch. You sure you only want one ticket?"
"Just the one," I say, thinking. Old guy, Old guy. "Thanks."
"Well, how about some OW! Shit!" Jason says. "What!"
Heather's face is turned toward Jason, and her hair hangs down over her face, and I have to watch the cars in front, so I don't know what she says or how she looks at him. All the brake lights are coming on again.
"Fuck!" Jason says, "That hurt."
Jason rubs his ribs.
"I was just gonna ask if he wanted to buy some pot, Christ!" Jason says.
Heather sits back hard against the seat and folds her arms across her chest. Heather's mouth looks small and sharp, no lips, just hard white edge of mouth. Heather stares straight ahead.
"Are you a cop?" Heather says. Heather's voice is like an edge of broken Plexiglas.
"Hey!" Jason says.
"No, I'm not a cop," I say. "Always ask, and always get a straight answer."
"Dude, I'm sure.." Jason says.
"I mean it," I say, "I been there before. If they say something like 'Do I look like a cop?' or 'Yeah, sure.' all sarcastic, don't accept that. They have to tell you the truth or it's entrapment. Heather's a smart woman."
Heather's face in the rearview mirror does not change. Her arms stay folded, her lips hard broken Plexiglas.
"So again," I say, "I'm not a cop. I'm not an FBI agent, I'm not an ATF agent. I'm not a DEA agent. I have nothing whatsoever to do with law enforcement or any other government agency. There are no wires or microphones or hidden cameras."
"See?" Jason says.
Heather doesn't say anything. Hard. Broken. Plexiglas.
I buy a couple of joints. I put them in my pocket for later. Jason is so happy he gets off on a long rambling talking jag about school and work and waves and surf nazis and Santa Cruz and Mendocino and Napa and Mexico and cars and skateboards and skiing and snowboarding and snow and ski lifts and anything else he could think of. The radio has been playing low, in the background, but when the songs change I say.
"Oh, hey, I like this song."
And I turn the radio up. Jason keeps talking, but I can sort of tune him out.
* * *
At the gate, I meet an old friend.
The gate is four sentry box type things all covered with painted flowers and Grateful Dead stickers and banners. And there are strings of banners, like at a used car lot, with all pointy little flags pointing down in different colors hanging between the sentry boxes, over the car lanes. When the car in front of mine stops, and the guy who is taking money for parking and tickets for the concert stands next to the car in front of mine talking to the driver, he looks familiar. Not the driver; the ticket taker, he looks familiar.
I can't stop staring at him. He looks just like David Mattheson from Florida. The car in front of me goes inside to look for a parking place and I move up to where it had been.
David Mattheson's eyebrows go way up on his forehead. They disappear under his straight black bangs. David Mattheson has hair like Sonny Bono, only it isn't getting thin on top, even though he’s an Old Guy like me.
"Hey," David Mattheson says, "It's really you, isn't it?"
"Yeah!" I say. I stick my right hand out the window and he shakes it. "How you doing?"
"Cool!" David Mattheson says, "But, I'm really sorry but I don't remember your name."
I tell him my name.
"Oh yeah!" David Mattheson says, "That's right! These your kids?"
Old guy, I’m thinking.
"Nah," I say, "Just givin' 'em a ride in."
"Hey look," David Mattheson says, "I gotta keep the line moving, y'know? How 'bout if you park over there by the office and then come back and we can talk while I let people in."
David Mattheson steps into the sentry box and comes out with a yellow plastic cone that says "Staff" on it in big black letters and sticks it on the roof of my car. The cone has magnets in its base.
"Just go over and park where it says Staff Only by the trailer and then come back here." He says, “It'll be worth your while. You're just the guy we've been looking for."
I drive over to the office. The office is a white construction trailer with a big sign on the side that reads 'Staff Only.'
"Dude!" Jason says, "You know this guy? How cool!"
Jason gets out of the Mercedes. Heather gets out after him and walks a little ways away, stretching and looking around like she just woke up.
"Knew him in Florida in the seventies." I say. "We used to play at the same clubs, the local musician circuit."
I pull the jump seat out of its slot and find the vice grip pliers I kept down in there.
"Circuit?" Jason says.
Clamp the vice grips on the piece of metal sticking down from the sun roof latch. The piece of metal that was left after the handle broke off.
"Y'know," I say, "There was a bunch of little bars down in North Miami beach and Fort Lauderdale. They had live music."
I pull the sun roof closed by hauling on the vice grips. The metal sun roof section on the slides makes a dry sliding sound, kinda like the sound they use in sword fight movies when the sword comes out of the scabbard, only heavier, and instead of ending with a ring of metal when the sword comes free, this sliding sound ends with a heavy thunk, like someone dropping a barbell onto carpet.
"Acoustic stuff." I say, "James Taylor, Cat Stevens, Jim Croce."
I twist the vice grips to latch the roof. The sound the latches make is like stuff breaking inside. Like complicated metal mechanical stuff coming apart. It always makes me wince.
"Oldies," Jason says.
"Yeah, well, they weren't oldies, then." I say. I get out of the car.
"Lock your door." I say. Jason is staring over my head, eyes far away.
"Yeah," Jason says. "Wow, cool! Like I just realized. Someday, Hootie and the Blowfish will be oldies!"
Heather comes up just as he says this. Heather rolls her eyes up in her head and pulls her mouth to one side.
"Let's go." Heather says. Her voice like hard Plexiglas.
"Yeah," Jason says. "I'm hungry."
They started to walk away. Jason turns and walks backwards a few steps, holding his backpack to his chest with both arms.
"Dude," Jason says, "Thanks for the lift."
I wave. He turns back around. I watch them walking away. Thinking about being twenty.
I go over to David Mattheson where he is taking money and tickets and directing cars through.
"Hey, David," I say, "So how've you been?"
"Can't complain," David says. "How's about you?"
"Five dollars," David says to the driver of the Lexus I'd pulled in front of.
"Excuse me, sir," I say to the driver of the Lexus as he is holding out a five dollar bill, his wallet open in his lap, edges of a lot of bills in there. I make my voice low and official sounding. Make my eyes hard and cold. Make my face stone.
"Federal agent," I say. I show him my badge and ID. His eyes twitch and his face gets pale.
"Pull right over there, sir." I say.
I walk with his car as he pulls it over.
"License and registration, please, sir." I say. I lean over and let my suit jacket fall open so that he can see the gun in my shoulder holster.
"What's this about?" he says, handing over the license and registration. His hand shaking, holding the papers out.
* * *
Not really, I don't really do that. I'm not a federal agent, so I can’t do that. Want to, though. Would like to harass this guy. This guy in his Lexus. He has that look. That 'I'm more important and richer and better looking than you are' look.
I watch the Lexus pull away.
"So, you still play?" David says, "You still do all that old Dead stuff?"
"Five dollars," David says to a woman in a yellow Rabbit.
"Sure," I say, "Like Uncle John's Band, and Friend of the Devil? Long Black Veil? Yeah, I still do that stuff."
"You always had a righteous harmony voice," David says.
"Five dollars," David says to a woman in a brown Blazer.
"Thanks," I say, "It comes easy for me."
"Yeah, well," David says, "They need someone. Do you wanna play?"
"Play?" I say.
"Five dollars," David says to a man in a pea green Gremlin with Speed Racer decals and Arizona plates.
"Yeah, play," David says.
David turns to me with a fist full of five dollar bills. He must have a hundred of them. A white Mazda pulls up and a woman's arm holds out another five dollar bill. David takes it without looking.
"One of the guys is sick," David says, "You wanna take his place, it's all yours. You got your guitar?"
"It's in the car," I say.
"Five dollars," David yells to a man wearing a Kaiser Wilhelm helmet complete with spike on top. David has to yell because the man in the Kaiser Wilhelm helmet is riding a Harley Davidson motorcycle. The man in the Kaiser Wilhelm helmet wears dark granny glasses and has a beard like C. Everett Koop, but the face of the man in the Kaiser Wilhelm helmet is all round instead of squarish. The man on the motorcycle growls and bares his teeth.
"Okay, two dollars for bikes," David says. He takes two dollars from the man wearing the Kaiser Wilhelm helmet.
"So, you wanna do it or not?" David says to me.
* * *
After the first chorus of "Friend of the Devil" Jerry Garcia looks over at me and nods and smiles. I can't see his eyes behind his mirrored sunglasses, but it seems like a friendly enough smile.
They are really organized. I guess they have to be for all the people they have up there on stage, and all the practice they'd had over the last thirty years and I guess they can afford to be. Efficient, I mean. They have all the songs they are going to do, all the sets all printed up in big type and taped to the stage and to the backs of amps and speakers, and the keys the songs are played in and who has a part in each song. I don't have any trouble following along and even get to play a little lead, when Jerry gives me the nod in the middle of a really long blues number. I don't play lead much. I just plink along kind of simple until the verse is over and then I give it right back.
I play four or five songs and then the band members change around a little and I don't have to play anymore. I hang out backstage and pretend I know who all the guys are. I pull out one of my joints and hold it up.
"Oh, shit!" A guy named Jack says, "What have we here?"
"Don't let Jerry see that!" Another guy says. I think his name was Bobby.
"Yeah," Jack says, "He's got a thing about pot."
"What thing?" I says. I start to put the joint away.
"No, no!" Bobby says, "He'll see right through that. We'll have to burn the evidence."
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