Are You Experienced? (16 page)

“Gabriel, David, can you boys help me get him sitting up? I think if I can just get him upright, he'll come around.” Her voice, which had sounded so flirty and playful last night, was high and shaky.

We squeezed our upper bodies into the opening and each managed to get an arm beneath Michael's shoulders. Willow counted to three, and we lifted Michael until his head was nearly vertical. Then his eyes popped open and he grabbed his stomach. “I have to—” he said, and staggered to his feet.

He made it out of the tent before the vomiting started, but unfortunately, he didn't make it to the edge of the blankets.

That made it Tina's second consecutive morning of waking up covered in barf. I had always heard New York City girls were good at cursing, but truly, I had no idea. The scope, power, and precision of Tina's vocabulary were simply beyond words. Or at least they were beyond the kind of words a Pennsylvania boy like me would know how to use with any fluency.

Debbie jumped up, grabbed her bag, and hurried Tina off in the direction of the water pumps. Meanwhile, David grabbed his brother, a bottle of shampoo, and the blanket, and headed down toward the pond. That left me and Willow standing on the other blanket, staring around at nothing.

“Wow,” I said. “Good morning.”

She hugged herself and shivered. “Gabriel,” she said, “is there another cup of that tea? And are you cold? I'm cold.”

Willow sat down. I realized David had lined up four cups of tea next to the tent. Score another two points for my father: As a teenager, he had been really considerate. And an early riser.

I sat down next to her and handed her one of the paper cups. She took it in both hands and said, “You were right, Gabriel. That … stuff … last night was awful. I'm scared. Look at my hands.” I looked, and saw that her arms were shaking so badly that the tea was sloshing around almost to the rim of the cup. When she took a sip, some of the liquid even spilled down her chin.

“God,” she said, “this is terrible. Do you know what the worst part is?”

I didn't say anything. Honestly, what was I supposed to say?

Willow stared into my eyes, and for a moment I could have sworn she looked a thousand years old. “Gabriel, the worst part is, my first thought when I woke up was … I want MORE. How sick is that?”

I said, “You can't do any more. You can't touch any more heroin. He can't, either. It's a matter of life and death. I'm serious.”

She put down her tea and reached out to squeeze my right hand. Then she gave me that thousand-yard stare again, and said, “That's what you were sent here to tell us, isn't it?”

I swallowed. I was pretty sure this was one of those “DON'T RUIN THE SPACE-TIME CONTINUUM” moments. I said, “Listen, Willow, you don't need to be some kind of magical angel to realize heroin is bad news. Do you?”

She smiled. For the most beautiful, tanned hippie girl in the universe, who had been outdoors all weekend, she looked incredibly pale in the morning light, but at least she was smiling. “No,” she half-whispered. “I guess you don't.”

When everybody got back, Michael looked tired, but basically all right. He asked for a cup of tea and sat down on the other side of Willow to sip it. His hands didn't look shaky at all. In fact, as soon as he finished, he asked me to bring him his guitar from the tent. I had forgotten all about the guitar in the madness of the weekend, but as soon as I opened its case, I gasped.

Michael noticed. “You like it?” he asked. “It's a Martin. I think they're the only serious choice if you're going to play popular music.” If the hair on my neck kept standing at attention like this, I was afraid it would eventually just stay up in a permanent neck-Mohawk. Michael's guitar was exactly the same left-handed model my father would buy me one day.

“Wow,” I said. “It's gorgeous.”

He flashed a grin, and it was as though he hadn't been in a near-coma fifteen minutes before. “My baby,” he said. Then he started strumming.

Debbie came over and stood over me. I instantly became aware that I hadn't brushed my teeth or anything, which made me feel pretty darn awkward about the whole morning-after greeting. I was fairly sure that if we kissed, she would keel over and gag. I told her I really needed to freshen up, grabbed David's toothpaste and soap, and hustled away to the pumps. Behind me, I thought I heard Tina ask, “What's his problem?”

All I could think was,
Good lord, did I really just say “freshen up?” What am I, seventy?

There was a huge line for water and an even longer one for the Porta Potties, so by the time I was all ready to face my day, I had apparently missed the beginning of a pretty major hippie sing-along back at what was left of our blanket area. Michael was playing guitar, and he and David were harmonizing. They were singing some pop tunes, and a crowd of maybe twenty-five people had gathered around.

My father and uncle sounded great! They did a Bob Dylan song, followed by two Simon and Garfunkel songs and one Beatles tune. I edged my way through the crowd in time to sing harmonies on the Beatles song, and then Michael held the guitar out to me. “Wanna play one, Gabriel? I'm a little wiped out!”

I tried to pass, but everybody started encouraging me, and Debbie pushed me forward. So I strapped on my uncle's Martin, our little circle cheered, and I became the only performer at Woodstock who hadn't even been born yet. David, Michael, and I did a few Bob Dylan songs, then finished up with “I'm a Believer” by the Monkees—which was another song I only knew because of the
Shrek
movie. But hey, it went over incredibly well.

As soon as I handed the Martin back to my uncle, I walked over to Debbie and attempted to apologize for running away to brush my teeth. However, she threw her arms around me and gave me one of her ambush kisses, so I guessed the apology could wait.

Guitars: get yourself one.

Anyway, the morning and the beginning of the afternoon were really mellow and nice. Any awkwardness with Debbie seemed to have been swept away by the kiss, Michael and Willow had perked up after the tea and guitar-playing, and we had enough granola and nun-made PB&J sandwiches to get us through our various hangover-type problems. Sometime after lunch, things started to get weird. First, the helicopter traffic picked up. Choppers had been flying around and landing backstage all weekend, carrying supplies, ferrying musicians and equipment, and even airlifting medical casualties out, but it was only annoyingly loud when there wasn't a band playing. Suddenly, our quiet conversations turned into mini-shouting matches just so we could hear each other. Also, some of the helicopters had U.S. Army markings, and Michael's mood definitely seemed to grow darker whenever one of those flew over.

The stage announcements became much more frequent as the concert started gearing up for the day, which meant another source of commotion. I was getting nervous, because this was the start of the last day of the concert, and I still hadn't met Jimi Hendrix. Plus, Michael had used heroin. Sure, I had done some really fun stuff, heard some legendary musicians play, and met an awesome girl I would never see again, but if I had to grade this mission on its success so far, it would have to be a
Fail
all the way.

At some point, Tina convinced Debbie they should go down to the water and wash their hair. David was pretty excited to join them, but somehow visiting that scene with my dad and two girls in broad daylight was just too weird for me, so I stayed back.

Which left me alone with Willow and Michael. As soon as his brother was out of sight, Michael sort of deflated. He leaned sideways against Willow and said, “Jesus, I couldn't fake it anymore. I feel like I'm going to cry.”

She just stroked his hair, until finally he continued. “I don't know what I was thinking. There's no way my plan is going to work. It's stupid. My father will find out I've been drafted. Or David will. Or my parents will find my stash. Or—God!—I'll get strung out on the heroin, and then pass the physical anyway.”

Michael was right. Unless something pretty amazing happened in the next twenty hours or so, his plan was going to end his life, ruin his brother's, and overshadow the first fifteen years of mine.

 

SOMETHING'S COMING ON

SUNDAY, AUGUST 17, 1969

 

When the roadies started setting up the drums and amps for the first band of the day, I had an idea: Maybe I should ask around and find out whether Hendrix was backstage yet. Even though it hadn't helped at all the night before when we were high, it seemed like maybe I might be able to be a bit slicker about the whole thing when I had my wits about me.

As soon as Debbie got back, I asked if she was up for a walk, and we made our way to the fencing by the left side of the stage area. It was a lot easier in daylight. It was simple enough to find a little cluster of Woodstock employees, and Debbie asked a guy whether Jimi Hendrix had arrived yet. The dude started into a whole “I wish we could tell you that, but it's classified” speech, which was what I had sort of figured would happen.

Just then, I caught a glimpse of John Sebastian walking by between slats of the tall fence that separated us from the backstage area. “John! Mr. Sebastian!” I yelled. “It's Gabriel, from last night in the medical tent! You sang to us?” He glanced over, but I could tell it wasn't clicking.

Debbie added, “With Janis Joplin?”

That did it. John Sebastian's face opened up into a huge grin, and he strode right up to a break between the slats. “Hey, guys,” he said. “What's going on? How are your friends' feet doin' today?”

“They're fine,” I said. “Did Janis eat all the bagels?”

He laughed. “Yup. But it was all okay, because the guys from Mountain brought a whole bunch of barbecued chickens. Chickens—can you believe it? Anyway, what are you doing over here, getting hassled by security?”

One of the Woodstock dudes sputtered, “We weren't hassling—”

John laughed again, and said, “I know, I know. I was just kidding. But seriously, man. What are you kids up to? I know a hustle when I see one, and you're definitely hustling.”

“Well, um, I was just trying to find out whether Jimi Hendrix was here yet.”

“You and about half a million other people, my friend.”

“I know, but … it's really important. I can't tell you why, but I think my friend—the one from last night? I think my friend and his brother really have to meet him.”

“Listen, Gabriel. Gabriel, right?”

I nodded.

“I'm really tired, man, and I have to go crash for a while. But I'll tell you this. Jimi's a friend of mine, and he hasn't gotten here yet, as far as I know. Now here's what I'll do. I'll write down your name on a piece of paper, and later on, when I wake up, if Jimi is willing to see you and your friends, I'll have Chip—you know, the announcer?—call you to the stage. All right?”

“Really? You'd do that?”

“I already played a private concert for you, didn't I?” He smiled. I swear, John Sebastian was like Santa Claus with a guitar. “But I'm not promising anything. I mean, everybody wants to meet Jimi. And sometimes Jimi just wants some hang time, you know?”

“Okay,” Debbie said. “We understand.”

“Wow, thanks, Mr. Sebastian!” I shouted, as he started walking away. He waved over one shoulder.

“Well, that was pretty amazing,” a female Woodstock crew member said to us. “Most of the performers aren't that nice.”

One of the male crew members snickered and said, “You got that right. Last night, I saw Keith Moon spit on a kid who reached out to touch his arm through the fence.”

I asked the Woodstock people, “Do you think he'll remember to write my name down? And do you think Jimi Hendrix will really get them to call us backstage?”

All of a sudden, none of them wanted to make eye contact with me. That pretty much gave me the answer I had expected. Debbie and I headed back toward the others.

Debbie said, “That might work, right? I know it might not, but at least it might.”

I said, “Yeah.”

“Gabriel,” she asked, “why is meeting Jimi so important to you?”

I stopped walking. “I'm sorry, Deb, but I can't tell you. It's just … I kind of have a reason why I had to come this weekend, and I think getting David, Michael, and Jimi Hendrix together is part of what I have to do.”

She turned to me, took both of my hands in hers, and said, “You know that sounds totally insane, right?”

Feeling myself blushing, I nodded.

“But I believe you. I guess that makes me crazy, too. Either that, or those were some seriously long-acting brownies.” She pulled me close and kissed me softly. Then she kind of pushed me back so we were looking into each other's eyes at arm's length. “We're not going to see each other again, are we?” Wow, this was a new twist: a kissing ambush, with a devastating emotional question attached.

I looked at her for the longest time. I thought of a million things to say, but every single one of them made me a lying player to one extent or another. I could lie outright, and be all
Sure, baby, I'll call you
, just to make our last night together buttery smooth. I could make up some half-truth, like
I'll be thinking of you
, or
We'll see what happens
, or that old online favorite,
It's complicated
.

I suppose I waited too long, because she half-turned away and said, “You know, my dad's a lawyer, and he always says you should never ask a witness a question unless you're a hundred percent sure you want the whole courtroom to hear the answer.”

She bit her lip, looked at me again, and continued. “But it's okay, Gabriel. I mean, Tina and I kind of made a plan before this weekend. We have some boys that we sometimes date at home, you know? Nothing serious or anything, just dates. And Tina told me on the bus, ‘Let's just forget about everybody we know for a few days, all right? I want to pretend that this concert is a little magical bubble of time, and everything we do in this bubble is going to be different—and magical—and beautiful—and separate from the regular world.'”