When Eddie finally proposed during a Dead concert, it blew everyone away.
For many years, the girl May harbored an obsession with Eddie, though the situation waxed and waned over time. He couldn’t remember why or how they met, but admittedly they shared a few mutual friends. The two had attended the same high school, although several years apart. Every native of the town of Loonis knew about May Murphy’s strange fixation: her pursuit of imaginary passion, to some, became legendary. During a five year period, her melodramatic antics included swoons at his band’s live gigs, a spray-painted love poem on a old wooden fence, and various sentimental gestures, such as congratulatory flowers and gifts. Intense, nervous, and round-faced, she hung around uninvited all the time, showing up to house parties and calling at weird hours. The whole attraction eventually became a source of embarrassment to both of them. To his great relief, Eddie hadn’t seen hide nor pony tail of her since the previous Summer. Apparently she had listened to reasoning and given up all hope for a deep and lasting bond. Or so Eddie thought.
Two weeks before finals of their sophomore year at State, Eddie and his buddie Tristan got a little antsy. Eddie, struggling desperately to make the dean’s list again, couldn’t sleep and drank too much coffee. Tristan, failing Marketing Statistics with flying colors, smiled a great deal and smoked more pot than usual. Despite their differing tactics and attitudes towards life, their connection traced back towards childhood. They could sense each other’s tensions on the rise. The local party scene had became too routine, so they needed a bigger escape: the almighty road trip! The penultimate experience which removes all care and concern for daily realities, simultaneously exposing the voyager to highway mythology and the possibilities beyond home town academia–a behavior appearing frequently in midwestern, upper middle-class, under twenty-five pot heads.
The perfect opportunity arose when Tristan got three excellent tickets to The Dead at Beechwood Creek in Wisconsin. Across many college campuses, reports about this “band of aging hippies” spread among what remained of the liberal student population. To many, their timeless act appeared as an adventuresome two-day dream vacation. The Dead: the most fascinating modern-day sociological phenomenon, the only living link to sixties anti-establishment practice, a haven for psychedelically heightened states of conciousness. In the age of Republicanism, it was the closest to underground culture Eddie and Tristan might ever get. The boys eagerly envisioned an enlightening evening of good music and life-altering experience, under clear black skies, with all the necessary accouterments.
“We gotta start getting in an open-minded mood,” said Jack, the driver of the blue Pontiac coupe. “Put a tape in, T, would ya? Make it a bootleg one.”
Eddie slumped in the back seat and opened a beer. He felt great being in this moving vehicle, gliding steadfastly across the state of Illinois. He looked out the window and saw windmills. He thought about Jazz, Ken Kesey, and Keroac.
In the passenger seat, Tristan propped his sneakers up on the dashboard and sucked on a joint. He imagined himself with a couple of hot blonds in bikinis on Australia’s Great Barrier Reef, diving off a 14 foot yacht. He knew he would fit right in Down Under. Some trustworthy friends in Sydney even offered him a job in the stockmarket. If he could just find a way to get down there. . . .
Jack swerved to miss some messy road kill. Earlier, he rushed out of work without changing his shirt. He managed a pizza place and still smelled like garlic. However, the credit card which rented the get-away car belonged to him, and he suspected this fact influenced his inclusion. Yet, Jack believed the two younger men honestly liked him. Being a few years older and successfully avoiding college, he liked to think of himself as wiser and more down-to-earth, qualities which the boys might actually admire. It didn’t much matter–this would be his sixty-eighth Dead concert–ninth this year, and at twenty-five he was still alive. On the road again. Keep on truckin’.
After a while, they turned down U.S. 21, now a good three-hundred miles from Loonis. They’d been driving for several hours, and had a hundred more miles to go. Many beers and many tokes were shared. They stopped once to get gas and some potato chips, but somewhere past Indianapolis, their restlessness returned.
Tall, lean and strong, Tristan downed a carton of milk. Gazing at the passing images, he thought of his meat, cheese and bread coming from places deep inside this rich land, and of the lousy economy. He also remembered a grade school field trip to a farm where he and Eddie sneaked away, and almost got trampled by a raging bull. Tristan giggled as he remembered the look of frightened shock on Eddie’s face as the creature’s nostrils steamed and flared. Now, Eddie often swore that at that moment, he heard the voice of Hemingway.
Jack thought about pizza.
Now on his seventh or eighth beer, Eddie looked in distaste at the ignorant countryside unfolding before them. Despite the true misfortune of many American farmers, he snubbed the little houses and broken-down barns. He balked at the rusty tilling equipment, collapsed barns, and laundry whipping in the dewy breeze. Those houses, he imagined, belonged to men forced into marriage because they knocked up some dumb chick during high school. Eddie hated to think of those snot-nosed children, littering lawns with tacky and un-educational toys. How could those hopeless, uninformed people possibly have any relationship to him? While in college, simple dreams of a happy family seemed trite compared with his ambition to be a rock-star. Male-female relationships always proved dysfunctional anyway, and procreation fell very low on every student’s list of priorities, with world hunger and disease and impending nuclear disasters. Fame, fortune, and artistic integrity held much more philosophical potential. After all, Eddie’s studies pointed to the fall of traditional society, and perhaps of the species itself. And if that was the case, he wanted to do his part. And like many of his peer group, he chose music as his ultimate weapon.
“Look you guys. I’ve been thinking about the future of Rock. What if music becomes the medium of a new religion? It’s got ritual, it’s emotionally evocative, it’s been known to control people’s minds. . .”
“What people? Where?” laughed Tristan.
“Man, put on another tape! Hey, Eddie. Don’t you think Rock ‘n Roll is already religion, dude? I mean, look at where we’re headed,” said Jack, motioning towards Tristan. “Toke. Toke. I need a smoke.”
“I’m just saying how cool it could be. Rock is supposed to be provocative, radical, subversive even. The stuff that comes out now plays like cotton candy. It’s asinine. It’s either unfocused studio slickness or uninspired reckless noise. What happened to the meat of it? The soul?”
“Yeah, man, check out this new band,.” said Jack. “‘Tee’, are you gonna pass that damn joint my way or not?”
“But what I’m saying is that new music is shit,” sighed Eddie.
“Shut up and listen to this, okay? It’s called Toxic Goop Bonehead. They’re from Cleveland. Isn’t that righteous?”
Jack fumbled a tape out of his pocket and handed it to Tristan, who slipped it in the deck.
“‘Righteous?’ What kind of band is ‘righteous?'” Eddie stammered.
“You’ll like this. No, really.”
The player silently went backwards, clicked, then forwards, then suddenly emitted a blasting sound. The guitar screeched like nails on a chalkboard. Jack pounded the steering wheel with the heels of his hands, and yelled along.
“America rotting away, silicone fields, pesticide mold, invading babies milk! Mommy? Are you home? HOW ARE YOU IN BED? HOW ARE YOU IN BED? HOW ARE YOU IN BED?”
“Heavy.” said Tristan, ejected it, and put The Dead back on. “I know what you mean, Eddie. Why don’t you write a paper about it,” said Tristan, ever the diplomat.
“Yeah. A paper,” Eddie mumbled. With a faint trace of remorse, Eddie wondered about the women in the farmhouses, and how each one was in bed. Eddie liked beds. As a matter of fact, he recently found it difficult getting out of bed to go to class, because, for all he really knew, higher education was no “higher” than farming or raising kids. Far beyond, a swell of misty pink and old rose clouds betrayed the setting sun. The rows of corn spilled by like dominoes. For an instant, Eddie wanted to be a farmer.
“Beer?” said Tristan.
“No more beer,” said Eddie, “I’m totally monkey-brained.” This behavior occurs when a human thinks monkey things: ‘I’m cold,’ ‘I’m hungry,’ ‘I need to reproduce.’ These thoughts originate in the monkey brain, a little-known part of the cerebral cortex, located near the munchie center. The monkey brain actives only under severe circumstance, such as the use of certain illegal or controlled substances. As any cigarette smoker can attest, nicotine fits embody the classic monkey-brained state, as does dieting around holidays. But, in this particular occurrence, Eddie felt a craving, a hunger, a longing, which at this moment focused on the soft tender curves of a women’s body.
“I can’t stand this,” Eddie thought to himself. “It’s been months since I’ve been laid!”
Tristan snored very softly and Jack was singing about roses. The orange glow of the last city faded behind. But even the fireflies made no difference in Eddie’s feverish mood.
“I’m too smart to get monkey-brained. It’s probably the pot.” Eddie thought as he stretched out on the backseat. He immediately sat up again.
“Okay, it’s not the pot. It’s stress. An extreme emotional reaction. What’s this? Oh my god. It’s a boner! It’s probably because of May. Yeah. May’s fucked me up.”
She was so young an pushy and weird, and certainly not as cute as the girl Tristan had picked up the night before. But the thought of those stage blood lips breaking into an embarrassed smile whenever she saw him, her constant words of encouragement, her willingness to undress, her bending down like a puppy before him warmed him, comforted him. No one else in his life had accepted him with that kind of unconditional adoration. For an instant, he missed her.
“Maybe she isn’t so bad. She’s growing up. Maybe, I should give her a chance. Maybe, this time, I could keep a girl instead of having her run away when she finds out how much I drink and how much I think. Maybe. . .”
Eddie could not separate his mixed feelings, but he lusted after May. Yet, lust was not a nice word for Eddie. To Eddie, lust was a monkey thing, not a human thing. Even if the human race faced it’s final moment within his lifetime, he, for one, wished to retain that piece of neurotic conciousness which made man separate from animals. That part that calls sex an act of choice and not one of instinct or pleasure. He simply refused to think lusty thoughts.
Suddenly, a word occurred to him. A familiar but forgotten word. A four letter, misused, vandalized word. It danced in his mind like a butterfly in a rainforest, like the tail of a comet, like the initial spark of spontaneous electron-icity which very well may have started the Big Bang.
At this moment, the right left tire blew out. The three all screamed as the Pontiac swerved into a ditch.
Earlier that day, May hid in the long grass outside Eddie’s farmhouse and watched the two boys packed up a blue rental car to leave for The Dead. Though she hadn’t been invited, she knew their plans by way of the Loonis under-25 grapevine, a network through which those who had graduated from South Putnam High could find anyone they cared to catch up with. After a year of estrangement, it took seven phone calls and two trips to Burger King around midnight to get the low down on Eddie’s whereabouts.
Before they left, she ran back to her dirty red Chevette, tucked in a ditch down the road, and drove away unnoticed. She slipped out of high school a bit early, since her teachers and parents didn’t really care. Almost ready to graduate, her grade point hovered around a three-five, and she never caused anyone any trouble. Due to an incredible ability to surround herself with a facade of self-sufficiency, she could get away with anything, and usually did. Teachers generally didn’t take much notice of May, sitting in the back row with her Dad’s clothes on, and they had no idea of the oddities of abuse she experienced at home.
Independent as always, she waited in the Amaco at the corner of the street where Eddie lived. Breathing very quietly and slowly, she belted herself into the drivers seat. A very cold bottle of diet pop shivered between her thighs. A map was crinkled up on the passenger seat. An unopened pack of cigarettes fell of the dash as she coolly pulled out to follow the rental car. She kept far behind, out of sight.
She considered turning back. After all, she’d been good for almost a year now–no contact. But she had a legitimate excuse as she was going to meet a friend of hers at the concert, a girl who had gone up a few days earlier to do a whole Dead weekend. May worked at a flower shop part-time and couldn’t get off except for this night.
All the way she sang; songs from musicals and rock songs and rhymes she made up as a child. She hit the wheel with her thumbs. Her foot rested comfortably on the window crank. She let the rental car fly off in the distance: she knew where it was going. After a while there were no another cars in sight. As she passed the Indianapolis her heart began to race. She pulled her Dad’s old Irish Fishermen hat down around her ears, and fumbled to unwrap the cellophaned Lights. Pulling out one with her nervous hands proved a fiasco. Seven little cancer sticks spilled on the muddy floor board. She reached down to pick them up.
When her head popped up she caught sight of a large object, which proved to be a deer. She swerved and spun to the other side of the two lane highway. After she came to a stop, completely unharmed, the graceful doe glanced at her, winked, and darted into the grove of median flora. May slowed the car back to the right side of the highway, pulled off on the gravel, and turned off the engine. Flopping out of the front, she sat on the hood and smoked her first cigarette.
Up the road, Jack spat out strings of profanities.
“What kind of fucking rental company gives you a car without a tire iron? Look some more ‘Tee’ will you? It’s gotta be somewhere. . .”
Tristan sat cross-legged in the gravel, rolling a joint. Eddie clutched his gut and hid in the bushes, wretching. Too much beer, no food and the shock of the great blowout overwhelmed him.
“This is bullshit,” said Jack, throwing the incomplete parts of a jack to the ground.
“Look,” said Tristan. “Let me go make a phone call. I’m sure I can get someone to come out here and drive us the rest of the way. We’ll get them a ticket when we get there.”
“Who? Mike’s out of town.”
“I don’t know yet. Trust me. I’ll call some friends. Someone will want to do it. Just, go see if Eddie’s okay yet.”
Tristan set off in the semi-black emptiness of undeveloped countryside. With each breath he savored the way it smelled, dew, insecticide, manure and all. He caught a lightning bug and stuffed it in his brown beer bottle, so it blinked orange like the sunset.
May was just about done with her third cigarette and contemplating abandoning the Eddie-hunt when she heard footsteps down the stony shoulder. She quietly retreated to her vehicle and turned on her brights at the figure rapidly approaching.
Tristan lifted his long arm to shield his eyes. He tilted his head and flashed his white-toothed smile, tossing the bottled bug off in the dark.
“Hey! Need any help there?” Tristan knew how to make friends.
“No, I’m okay.” said May, a bit wary at this male intruder.
“Listen,” said Tristan. “We got a flat about a mile or so ahead. Do you think. . .”
“Tristan?” said May, cocking her hatted head out the window.
“Yeah. Who are you?”
“It’s May. May Murphy. I’m sort of a friend of Eddie’s.”
“May Murphy? Alright!” said Tristan, laughing. “Alright!”
The gang of four, stuffed in May’s red Chevette, curved around a corner and caught their first glimpse of the nomadic tribe of concert groupies. A scraggly caravan of utility sport vehicles, banners, small grills, coolers and an amazing stench blended to create an unforgettable archetypical vision like a corrupt old testament bazaar or Alexander’s army resting on it’s leg to Persia. They might not even go through the main gates. The music whispered over the trees. The real concert took place here in the parking lot.
May reached over and locked her door. She felt sick herself from the ten cigarettes she just smoked trying to be cool, and the gallons of carmelized carbonation sloshing around in her stomach. Despite their endless pleading, May would not let the men drive. Every one of them stammered and slurred, even though they tried hard to fight it. Jack made a deal for some acid on the way in, from a vendor on foot who approached the car window, and all but May took some. May thought surely it would be bad and laced and whatever and they were crazy to trust someone they didn’t even know. Her evaluation pissed them off, so they tried very hard to annoy her.
Or, maybe just Eddie, in the backseat talking about sex.
“God. Check that one out. She was one hot thing,” he said of a woman running past them with long brown hair, about the width of a small sapling.
May pulled into a spot next to a van with a fantasy super-hero painted on the side. A man, woman, and child posed inside like a freaked-out nativity scene. The parents had different skin, leathery and rich as if it had been tanned, and the grime had settled in. Yet, they moved serenely, both conferring to change the toddler’s diapers.
As soon as they stopped, the boys tumbled out of the car, writhing with excitement and disappearing like magic worms through the crowd. May watched them transform into children, knowing she was the mother for the moment. She undid her seat belt, and peered over her shoulder to check of the happy family. The man was blowing smoke from a hookah slowly into the baby’s face.
“Hey,” she cranked her window down. “I know it’s none of my business, but do you really think that’s good for your child?”
“Hey. It’s not my child!” the man laughed. “Don’t worry, doll. It won’t hurt her. You want some?”
May got out of the car, intending to talk this man out of his abhorrent actions, if only for a little while. But, many hits and rolls of laughter later, she ended up asleep in the plush shag carpet of the fantasy van.
An hour passed. May slept alone. Jack shook her leg.
“May–May–what’s wrong?” He was panting and out of breath. “Are you sick? Get up! It’s great! Did you get any acid? Man, we were ‘Naming, running through the woods around the amphitheater. There were these two dead heads having sex, and we almost stepped on them, but, the guy got up to urinate–you know how you have to pee afterwards?” May? Are you listing?
“Yeah, yeah.”
“I was crouched down and I thought he was going to piss on me! But Tristan saw, and get this, he started clapping! Clapping! And we all got and started clapping, and this guy thought it was because he was some great lover or something, like it was a show.”
“I need to eat some food,” said May, sitting up.
“Have you seen Tristan? I wonder where he is,” said Jack, who took off through the parking lot.
May got up, depressed and alone with the family gone. She wanted to find someone to sleep with, to cuddle, but the concert was still going full tilt. In the parking lot, people were selling their wares: tye-dye shirts, pins, buttons, stickers, beaded jewelry, and paraphernalia of all kinds. One guy was selling warm cream cheese and avocado bagels. May got one.
She couldn’t get her hips to stay beneath her as she stood talking to the merchant. He charged her three bucks, and offered her some acid or mushrooms. She declined politely, and stood in the mud with bugs biting her ankles, eating her food like a squirrel, quickly, intently. She tried to remember what state she was in, both geographically and physically. Her cheeks puffed out because she kept forgetting how to swallow.
The music prodded her, penetrating her slowly. It began to enter her limbs and torso, leering them waft and wave in the aural breeze. May closed her eyes and imagined mandalins, horses, and foggy forests. She started to sing and stomp her feet and let her head swing round. She felt her ribcage aching and her breasts tender from the bounce, but the kept prancing, enjoying the movement, the release.
A few feet away, Eddie watched her, quite amused. He admired her courage to go ahead and dance alone. But there was something not right.
“You look so sad when you do that, May.”
“Eddie! Oh, I’m so embarassed,” said May, dropping the dance.
Eddie stood before her in Technicolor. Soft fingers lifted May’s chin, and Eddie wiped avacado off the corner of her mouth with his freshly torn shirt.
“You know, I really love that hat,” said Eddie.
“You do?” said May, who had forgotten she still had it on.
“Could I buy it?”
“You could have it, Eddie,” she said, putting on his head.
They walked. People smiled and said hello. A great feeling of love and plenty surrounded them. The music wove around as they drew closer to the stage but it did not stop casual socializing.
Eddie ran his hands over May’s posterior freely.
Suddenly, they were attacked by a lone banshee. May screamed as he charged at them with wild fierce eyes. Eddie instinctually tried to protect her. The menage collapsed in a downhill roll. When all motion stopped but breath, they all became starkly aware of the beautiful clear endless sky.
“I love you,” the man kissed May.
“And you,” the man kissed Eddie, and faded off into the woods.
May’s chin rested on the tender part of Eddie’s belly. She could hear the juices inside as she looked at the stars above.
“Oh. A shooting star.”
“I didn’t see it,” said Eddie.
“Well, I did. Something good always happens to me when I see a shooting star.”
“What if I just went ahead and asked you to marry me?”
May closed her eyes and wished time to stop, knowing this would be the last time she could pretend that it might happen.
“Naw, I take it back. I’m too fucked up to get married.”
“Look at my family,” said May. “I wouldn’t feel comfortable with anyone who wasn’t.”
“Okay. Then let’s get married.”
The crickets sung louder than The Dead.
“Just kidding, right?”
“Of course.”