FADE IN

Citi Field.  General Admission. Three rows back from the stage. The crowd dances, pulsates really, almost ready to explode.  We are midway through Franklin’s Tower.  A sea of faded first gen vintage tie dye, many time-stamped for authenticity, mixed with second and third generation variants, with fewer miles on them, and nowhere near the amount of water under the bridge.  Mayer dances with his guitar, lost in a trance, trying to find even more.  Bobby nods in approval.  The music seems to float and sound sort of hovers above, building layer upon layer, as the crowd starts to peak.

Me. Sober.  In constant motion.  Intensely aware…on, oh so, many levels.

Mid-Forties is on the verge of losing control, pushing up against me, more than once, just enough to engage.  She dances to my left: she’s a slightly worn version of the younger women to her left. Both are wearing short white dresses that almost match, but not quite.  They bob up and down to the beat, each with a tall boy in one hand, a joint passes between them.  They try to sing along but don’t know the words.  The younger version shines.  Mid-Forties less so.

To my right, a caricature whirls and twirls, Mid-Twenties, blond dreads piled high, double-fisting 40 ozs, joint tucked under his right ear, barely able to balance, yelling Bobby’s name every few minutes with no rhyme or reason.  He works around me and dances dangerously close to Mid-Forties.

Mid-Twenties shouts in the general direction of Mid-Forties:

“Right?  I mean, right?”

Mid-Forties weights her decision to engage, then in a heavy Queens accent, sharp and focused, she turns, half smiles and says with an edge:

“How old are you Bob Marley?”

Mid-Twenties slows for a brief second, taken back, but still moving:

“Whoa now.”

He pauses longer than he should trying to collect his thoughts then he smiles coyly, thinking himself clever:

“Do you mean in years or experience?”

Mid-Forties stops dancing and maneuvers her tall boy between them, spilling Miller High Life on his bare feet:

“Listen Sunshine, I have a few years on you so let me tell you something, I saw Jerry.  Live!”

 Mid-Twenties is slow to comprehend but knows enough to be impressed.  Taking the opening he leans in:

“Garcia?”

Mid-Forties:

“Yes, Garcia, you idiot.  What the fuck do you think we are doing here?”

He starts laughing and twirls around in circles.  She turns to the women next to her, hits the joint going down the line, then leans in to whisper.  They both start laughing hysterically.

Mid-Twenties comes full circle:

“Right?  I mean, right?”

Mid-Forties, rolls her eyes, hands him the joint, then takes a half step back as her younger version steps in to fill the void:

“Right, Dreads, right… by the way, say hello to my daughter.”

I drift out of the conversation and come back just in time to join the masses.  With hands in the air and voices raised the crowd cries out:

“If you get confused listen to the music play…”

FADE OUT

Onward ->