ACT ONE
It’s a campground. There are tents everywhere; big ones that tower over my head and cover enough ground to house an entire family. They sit in clusters containing smaller tents capable of sheltering two people curled up together, and mosquito nets encasing portable grills, coolers full of the weekend’s liquid courage, and folding canvas chairs in every color imaginable, some even in rainbow swirls. Pickup trucks, rigged with campers built to provide as much home comfort as possible, dig their wheels into the dirty grass as we pull into our space.
At eleven in the morning it’s clear that last night’s events are just being shaken off. Yet no matter how hard the man standing at the sink next to the row of porta-potties brushes his teeth, he finds it difficult to erase the taste of beer, pot, and chicken fingers he coated his mouth with at the previous evening’s Dave Matthews Band concert; he keeps brushing.
Some aren’t even trying to erase the events from the previous two days. Most of them have been camped in this exact place, attending each of the three concerts the band will give this weekend. They opt for a morning beer instead of coffee, and proceed to weave between cars as they make their way around to the various tents, visiting new friends who gave them an extra Corona, or were playing their favorite song, “Lie in our Graves,” when they pulled up.
Each car is splattered in writing as if everyone is a newlywed. “DMB 4 Life.” Or the more common “Leroi Forever,” an homage to the recently deceased saxophonist of what is arguably America’s most popular band. With the mix of jazz, country, pop, and world music it’s a veritable melting pot of styles, but judging from the people surrounding me at the campground, the crowd is not nearly as diverse as the music. The closest thing I can find to comfort is a clan of men walking around in jean shorts that are the length of boxer-briefs. For a moment I feel like I’m at the gay pride parade; it’s a fleeting moment.
ACT TWO
It’s a beach. Or at least the closest you can get to a beach on the Columbia River. The sand that greets Garrett and me after the boat ride, which almost knocked me into the water several times, is fine, white, and scattered with beer cans. Those that aren’t mixed into the sand are in the hands of the tanned bodies of muscled men who chase half naked women around before emptying the contents of said beer into bongs that topple down into their throats. What doesn’t make it into their mouths runs down over their nipples, which are painted with stars and money signs. Am I in Washington or Cancun around spring break?
Now instead of RVs and tents all around me, there are boats. Huge boats with colored decals that look more like Mardi Gras floats than anything. All I can focus on are the six packs, both littered along the beach and on the bodies, but I worry that staring too long at some of them could result in trouble. I look as white as the sand in comparison to the other bodies; I would rather not do anything else to attract attention.
But I seem to be the only one. People flip down the sandy hill and propel themselves into the water in order to catch the various footballs flying through the air. Some are completely passed out on the back of boats, baking in the sun.
As the afternoon progresses we wander to the top of a sandy hill, and I look over to the other side where half naked men and women cavort, kegs being tossed around as carelessly as the hip-hop lyrics that blast from the speakers. With every boat playing it’s own choice of music, it’s impossible to decipher any one of them, but I think I hear a Dave Matthews song in there.
It’s clear that the couple next to Garrett and I doesn’t care what music there is – they are lost in each other. For a moment it looks like they actually might be in each other, but we do our best not to stare in disbelief; why I care about social graces at this moment is beyond me, obviously no one else does.
ACT THREE
It’s the concert. 20,000 people surround me, and just as many stars loom overhead. I can see the stars more clearly than the people, partly because I’m afraid to look around, but I’m not afraid to look up.
I wasn’t afraid when we filed in. I was excited. After years away from the band, I’ve spent the past few weeks reacquainting myself with the music that populated my high school make out sessions. But that excitement quickly waned as my tight jeans and t-shirt attracted looks that made me feel as out of place as a Rockette shopping for groceries. Whatever preconceptions I had about the band and the open, peaceful community that their music champions are out the window. The thing that I can’t seem to pinpoint is if we are really being judged or are just conditioned by society to think that we inevitably will be when in a situation like this.
I hear a thud and Garrett turns to tell me that someone just threw a full beer can at him. The night may as well be over because whether or not the beer can was intentionally thrown at us, the sad reality of this situation is that I don’t feel safe enough to enjoy the music in any capacity. Oddly enough I feel safest on the ground, where I am most susceptible to people stumbling over me, or almost crushing my head as they fall over drunk. It’s in this position that I can look up and see the vastness of the Washington sky, where the Big Dipper rests peacefully above the stage. I can’t see eyes judging me; I can just close mine and escape.
