“Where’s April?” Jerry asked Bill.
“Country Fair,” he grumbled.
Jerry asked around and learned that the Country Fair in Eugene, Oregon sprung out of Ken Kesey’s tripped out imagination in 1969, “The Summer of Love.” From its hippie, anti-establishment beginnings, it was now a town sanctioned weekend of music, dance and merriment.
Jerry rearranged his work schedule, packed his backpack, hopped in his car and set off. Eugene was down Interstate 5 and by late afternoon he pulled into its co-op to grab some food.
As he moseyed into the store, April strolled out.
“Whoa. What are you doing here?” she said doing a double take.
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” Jerry said with a beaming smile.
“You’ve gotta stop meeting me like this.”
Jerry realized why. Coming out of the store was a guy who sidled up next to her. He was the quintessential Pacific Northwestern male: scruffy beard, long curly brown hair, soulful eyes, slender frame, flannel shirt, beat up jeans, hiking boots laced but not tied, pierced ear.
“Gary, Jerry,” April said.
Jerry gagged on the awkward moment. “Hey, Gary.”
“Jerry’s a friend of mine from Port Townsend,” she said. She turned to Jerry, “So, I guess we’ll be seeing you around. Are you camping on the grounds?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
“Why don’t you follow us. We’ll show you the ropes,” said Gary.
“Great.”
They wended their way down a dirt road strewn with potholes. Jerry’s car bottomed out several times. His hands gripped the steering wheel. Maybe he’s just a friend, he thought. Fat chance.
They pulled into a field for parking. Jerry’s VW Dasher stood out amidst a sea of Volvos, Subarus and Saabs, with a healthy sprinkling of classic VW buses and converted school buses painted in swirling colors. As he headed towards the fair grounds, he spotted bumper stickers like Question Authority, Imagine Peace, Arms Are For Hugging and Darwin squeezed inside the Jesus fish.
April led Jerry to where they were camped.
Jerry said, “Ok, this is a little weird. Sorry to just crash in like this.”
“I’m not sure what you’re expecting. Are you expecting anything?”
“Welllll,” he said sheepishly.
“OK, I’m hooked up with Gary, just so you know.”
“I thought we were going somewhere.”
“And where did you think we were going?”
“Towards…something.”
“You don’t even know what to call it. No can do. I want someone who knows what’s going on. Towards being a couple. I think that was the word you were searching for. And couple is an active verb. It takes work.”
“Good to know.”
They eyed each other. Jerry anticipated more foul tasting medicine that was good for him, but it didn’t come.
April’s eyes softened. She pushed Jerry in the shoulder and smiled. “C’mon,” she said.
Together they walked off. Young families with their Baby Bjorn carriers (worn by the husbands) and Eddie Bauer threads strolled the grounds. Workshops included “Beginning Reiki” and “So You Want to Commit Civil Disobedience.” Vendors hawked nose flutes and Raku pottery.
They sat in with a group exploring Rebirthing.
“Breathe deep and as fast as you can,” said the soft spoken leader.
Jerry complied and became lightheaded. In this woozy state his mind chattered: Put it together, Jerry, put it together. You’re no partner, says April. You’re just looking for a Mommy, says Chris.
Your penis is an umbilical cord!
Wow, where does he come up with this stuff, he thought.
“Now go back to the moment you were born,” she said in an hypnotic drone. “Try to relive it.”
I’m looking for Mommy.
Moans arose around him.
This is complete bullshit!
He got up and walked over to Gary standing on the side.
“Shrooms, man. Enjoy,” nodded Gary holding out what looked like some forgotten food scrap picked up off the floor.
He gagged down what tasted like moldy dirt and hoped he wouldn’t puke.
They wandered around the eating area, considering such alt choices as tofu reubens and nut burgers. Jerry savored a papaya/banana smoothie which towards the end mutated into a glacial flow creeping down his gullet.
As they headed over to the main stage, Jerry felt like he was wrapped in velvet only it was inside his skin. They headed towards the front, amidst hundreds of people packed together. The band launched into its first number. With his back to the stage, Jerry opened wide his arms in an air embrace with the entire crowd. Tears streamed down his face.
These people are so beautiful, he thought. Oh, wow! All the heads are nodding in unison! Look! There are three tie-dyed shirts in a row!
A beach ball appeared. Its caroming flight riveted him.
The band broke into a cover of The Allman Brothers’ “Jessica.” He turned around and danced in gooey euphoria.
As the sun set, an announcer thanked everyone for coming and informed them that the grounds were closing. April grabbed Jerry’s hand and pulled him into the woods where they hid. A human chain of security corralled stragglers towards the exit. When all was clear, they returned to the open grounds where now only the vendors remained.
The food stalls were still going full tilt as the people working the stands took their meal break. Jerry felt weak, not having eaten anything solid since morning. His burrito never tasted so good. Then they returned to their tents for extra clothes. With the sun down, the air grew chilly. Jerry’s body felt porous. Cold air wrapped around his organs. He pulled on an extra t-shirt, flannel shirt, sweat shirt and wrapped a blanket around him.
Tonight was Midnight Madness, a show put on by the performers just for the vendors. They headed over to the stage and found a patch of dirt close to the front. Out pranced the Flying Karamazov Brothers. They juggled chairs, chain saws and bowling balls while keeping a running banter going. Jerry gasped for air while drowning in laughter.
Next Spoon Man whacked his body with two spoons held together by each hand, a tour de force of maniacal clickety clack. When both hands were going it was like tap dancing with spoons, and then when he was really going, he became a blur of motion, hitting his cheeks, stomach, legs, whirring around in syncopated rhythm.
A sword swallower plunged a two foot steel sword down his throat. His diaphragm struggled for air and his neck veins bulged as he shoved this weapon further and further down his throat.
A knife thrower hurled knives at his wife and a magician pulled ooh’s and aah’s out of everyone. Finally dueling banjos set the house on fire.
Gary, April and Jerry headed back toward their tents by way of a throbbing drum circle and sweat lodge.
“Let’s go in. I’m cold,” April said. Gary and Jerry followed.
They hung their clothes up on pegs and entered the canvas dwelling much larger than the teepee in Deborah’s backyard. There were tiered benches on three sides and red hot rocks in the center. A flickering lantern hanging from the top cast a golden glow. They selected the lowest bench and sat in silence.
Gary hopped behind April and massaged her shoulders. His hands slid down her sweat slicked arms grazing the sides of her breasts then moved back up again, then they languidly descended the front of her chest.
Jerry pulled Gary’s hand away.
Gary considered him, then smiled. He continued doing the exact same thing.
Jerry yanked his arm away. “That’s not cool.”
Gary’s eyes turned into lava. “Back off,” he growled.
“Leave her alone.”
A hand pushed hard on Jerry’s chest. It was April’s.
She pushed him outside the tent. Glistening hot skin, they stood face to face.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked.
“He’s putting the moves on you.”
“So?”
“He’s taking advantage of you.”
“That’s not your call. I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself. You know what? This is too weird. You need to leave.”
“I want to be with you.”
“Just leave before this gets ugly.”
“He doesn’t care about you.”
“As if you do.”
Jerry grabbed his clothes, wrapped the blanket around himself and straggled away.
He crawled into his tent and into his sleeping bag. No position was comfortable; the ground was too hard. Nausea threatened to get the best of him, and a headache clamped down hard.
He heard the zipper of April’s tent and lowered voices, then soft laughter. His heart climbed into his throat. He knew where this was going.
He had to shit real bad. Racing barefoot over to the restroom, he winced at every sharp pebble.
When he returned, as if he were being chased by a giant mosquito, he zoomed into hyper motion. He couldn’t break down his tent fast enough. He didn’t even bother rolling up his sleeping bag. He draped it over his shoulder, grabbed his tent bag and back pack and sprinted to his car.
As the car squealed out of the dusty driveway, pale light emanated from the horizon. His senses screamed; his head throbbed. He grabbed some acrid coffee from a gas station and barreled on.
Four hours later, he collapsed onto his futon and fell into a black out sleep.