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ONE CAN NOT LIVE ON PEANUT BUTTER AND WINE ALONE: ADVENTURES AT A CANCELED ROCK FESTIVAL copyright 1996-2006 Robb Strycharz part 10 FRIDAY July 10, 1970 continued
I THOUGHT YOU WERE DRIVING! As we approached the greater metropolitan Mountaindale area we began to find Freaks hitchhiking west to the Fest. At various times we picked up 7 hitchhikers. In the first group were 3 guys. As if the Devil wasn't bustin' balls already just hauling the six of us... now there were nine! The Bus was now down to eight horsepower per person. We dropped them off in a small town a few miles outside Mountaindale. From one of them we learned of a short cut to Mountaindale. There was a back road on the map but we had no idea where it might actually be. According to the hitchhiker we needed to take a left at a white shed by a small pond. The intersection was not hard to find. There were a few signs, one for the Monticello Speedway; another rusted sign indicated that Mountaindale was but four miles away. It was at this intersection that we picked up a guy and a young woman. It was also at this time the Devil began to die: it had stalled and wouldn't start. Being a standard it was no problem to pop the clutch but despite being in the Catskills there were no hills immediately available. The only way to get up to speed was if we all pushed. With seven people that would be easy. Hell, seven people could have pushed the Bus uphill! Just think of what we could do with eight. We all took positions wherever we could, in the back, along open door frames; anywhere we could get a grip. Slowly the Bus lurched forward and began to gain speed. When the Bus was at a sustained 10-mph some of us began to wonder what Nelson was waiting for. As Greg pushed he happened to glance over at the person next to him. Who he saw was not the person he expected. "Shit! Nelson, I thought you were driving!" Nelson looked back in disbelief, "I thought you were driving!!" In the mean time the Devil, with no one at the helm, was steering an independent course towards a nearby ditch. Greg ran to the open driver's door and grabbed the wheel just in time to avert a disaster. Granted, it would not have been the first time the Devil had rolled over and played dead. When Greg bought the Bus he knew its previous owner rolled it. The Bus still showed signs of where a tow truck's hook had been attached to the inside of side door to pull it off its side. The rain routinely leaked in there. But, out in the late night, back woods, boondocks of NY we would not be so lucky to find a tow truck to further damage the Bus. But, we speculated that we did have a big enough contingent to right the Devil back onto all fours should it have rolled over. If not, there were standers-by milling about who could help. As the Bus sputtered to life and began to putter down the dark road we began to pour back in. I still have dreamlike images of the following. It was like a crack military operation. Instead of paratroopers systematically jumping in single file from a plane we began jumping into the side door. That maneuver generally entailed running along side the Bus, and one by one grabbing on to the top door frame and swinging into the back. (A real tight outfit, that Circus!). By the white shed an old sign that read "Mountaindale 4" We took that left turn onto Post Hill Road. A couple of miles down that road we dropped off our latest passengers and 30 feet later we picked up two more. One of them was surely every mother's greatest fear when she admonishes her children not to pick up strangers. But then, the road to Gonkers, as is the road to Hell, was paved with good intentions. "Ya know, this is a really groooo-vy thing happenin' here, ya, it's like a real Happening, man. It's all so beautiful. It's gonna be another Woodstock! I can feel it! Know what I mean?" We turned in disbelief to check out one of the two hitchhikers we'd just picked up. Who was this guy? Did people really talk like that? Maybe in the weird reactionary dementia of Jack Webb... not in the real world. Our new, suspiciously clean-cut passenger was a Dragnet-esque parody of a Hippie wanna-be... about as believable as the infamous Blue Boy. He was a Dragnet acidhead who ate the bark off trees. His name was changed to protect the innocent. Those of us closest to him instinctively pulled back a few inches, as if we feared by breathing the same air we, too, might be afflicted and eventually shunned. Fortunately, we wouldn't have to endure his presence long. The last road sign said it was but a few short miles to Gonkers. None the less, we feared, we it would be all too long a ride. The Bus laboriously chugged on. "Everybody's just soooo beautiful, ya know? I mean like anywhere else I've been it's just so hard to thumb, but you guys picked us right up. That was really outta sight, know what I mean?" To the extent that we could even see in the dark we began tossing furtive, glances of disbelief at each other, rolling our eyes and nodding our heads in disgust whenever he wasn't looking. Was he an inept dropout from the NY State Police Academy for aspiring undercover narcs? He certainly couldn't actually be a graduate. The Staties couldn't be that desperate to use him to infiltrate the Fest.... Could they? If so, were we now the unlucky patsies who would act as his Trojan Horse as he wormed his way into town? We certainly were not about to light up and pass around a joint when he was there. And what made him even more intolerable was that he never shut up!! AHHHHHH! Maybe he was on speed or something.... or maybe, just pretending to be on speed. Hmmmm... clever. Actually, the only thing scarier than suspecting he was an undercover Narc was that he wasn't. What hath Hippiedom wroth? His blather spewed on. "It's sooooo cool. Everybody's just doing their own thing. Wow, man. It's all so incredibly beautiful." Once past mere utter disgust we entered the pre-nausea stage. His only salvation... his survival, rest in our polite, but totally insincere, desire not to directly offend him or just open the door and kick him out. Instead we fine-tuned a back channel of communication. He was such an absolute mind-blower that we could not resist insulting him as long it all went over his head. At times we bit our tongues and just ignored him... our answers to his mindless rhetorical questions rich with subtle sarcasm only the initiated would get. None of us really believed he was perceptive enough to get the hint, recognize himself for the loser he was, commit suicide, and save the world from further enduring his existence. We hoped he'd soon go away. He said he was from Bermuda or the Bahamas and was thumbing around the States. Mr.B said he met his hitchhiking partner, George, somewhere in New York. Ya, right... as if we'd fall for that lame cover story. Just how George put up with him was another question, one left for bigger brains than our own. Maybe they were queer. As we approached Gonkers the number of rock pilgrims walking the road to their musical Mecca steadily increased. Some were trying to hitch a ride from us, but we already had a full house. "Like I said, this is going to be another groovin' Woodstock." said Mr.B. Maybe on that sentiment we could agree. Obviously something Big was happening. Our hope, everybody's hope, for another Woodstock was never far away. We hadn't seen so much excitement in all our years. Who cared what horrors might await some of us back at home. <<<< BACK NEXT >>>>
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