Tie-Die
by Don Bagley

   The crowd inside the vast Cow Palace arena was like a sea of bodies with currents of individuals floating toward restrooms and soda vendors. A susurration of indistinct voices rose up from the mob of long haired rock and roll fans jostling at one another for positions near the wooden stage front. New Years Eve, 1976, thought Dennis, and we're doing it right. He looked over at Steve, who was lighting up another joint. The cherry flared up as Steve drew hard on it. Dennis reached for it and took a toke. He'd been almost claustrophobic when they'd entered the place, but the weed was relaxing him, and they'd pre-rolled about thirty joints before leaving Sacramento two hours earlier.

   Someone was unrolling a twelve foot banner over the stage as the roadies set up the instruments. The banner, partly unfurled, seemed to read: Satan a. Dennis looked at it, thinking, what the hell? But then the banner shook out, and he could see that it really said Santana, the opening act. Relax, man, Dennis thought to himself; you're in San Francisco for the biggest party of the year, and what could be better? The air in the indoor arena was getting thick, blue and smoky, as many doobies were firing up. It smelled autumnal, like burning leaves. A murmur of expectation rippled through the crowd, and some people threw Frisbees across the wide hall.

   "Look," said Steve, pointing at some large balloons people were bouncing off their upraised hands. "This is going to be a party!"

   As the lights went down and Carlos Santana walked on to the stage, a large group of young Mexicans surged forward in the crowd. Santana, a bilingual guitarist with an amazingly fluid playing style, was popular with spanish-speaking rock fans. He tuned his electric guitar and started to whack out some power chords. The band, with no less than three drummers, came in hard and fast behind him. Steve lit up a fresh joint every third song or so, and Dennis could feel the pressure building behind his eyeballs. He was soon higher than a government budget deficit,
and waving away the joint when Steve offered it to him.

   Santana's music swirled and wailed for over an hour before the group bowed and walked off stage. The crowd screamed its disappointment, and the group returned for an extended encore, sweating and playing harder than ever. When the music stopped, Dennis heard a high pitched whining in his ears. He lit a cigarette to calm his frazzled nerves. People all around began murmuring and shoving past on the way to the restrooms or vendors again.

   "That was awesome, dude," Dennis told Steve.

   "Wait'll the Grateful Dead comes on," said Steve. "They'll do some jams that will unscrew the top of your head, man."

   "Hey guys," said a ragged stranger approaching the two.

   Dennis checked him out. The dude was tall and emaciated like he'd sworn off eating after Woodstock or something. He had a tie-dyed shirt hanging on his bony frame and the long and unwashed hair that marked him as a true deadhead -- the kind of people who didn't live anywhere, they just followed the band around with no visible means of support. To tell the truth, they kind of freaked Dennis out.

   "I'm looking for some weed," said the deadhead, swaying slightly as he spoke. "I'll trade you this." He held up a sandwich baggie with two fingers of dried mushrooms in it..

   "Shrooms," said Steve. "We'll give you ten joints for those."

   "I don't know," said Dennis. Already ripped, he felt dreamy, and he didn't know how much higher he wanted to be. But Steve reminded him that they were there to party, and his logic seemed unassailable, so Dennisrelented. The deal was made.

   "How much should we take?" he asked Steve.

   "I've never done these myself," said Steve. "I guess we split it." He shook out about half the shrooms. "Here."

   Dennis took his mushrooms and ate them. Surprisingly, they weren't too bad -- just a little on the dry side.

   A lot of Latino fans were fanning out from the stage area. On stage, roadies bustled about, hanging psychedelic flags and banners. Eventually, the members of the Grateful Dead strolled on to the stage and picked up guitars and drumsticks. Jerry Garcia stepped forward and started smacking out the opening chords to "Sugar Magnolia".

   The crowd swayed and surged like a tidal current. Dennis was starting to see colors. Bright, impossible neon hues of crimson and ultraviolet rippled and eddied at the edges of his peripheral view. The colors seemed to pulse out of the group's amplifiers, rolling and twisting with the music, as if sound and sight had become one blended sensation.
Dennis shook his head in a feeble attempt to restore clarity of thought. His mind raced through a series of disjointed impressions. The balloons going up and down with afterimages following them so they looked like colorful slinkies. Blue smoke hung like cumulus overhead. The band on stage, blurring and doubling so that two guitarists became four. He and Steve were surrounded by thin, shaggy-looking people in tie-dyed shirts. He nudged Steve, but the dude was oblivious.

   A moment later, Dennis felt an irresistible panic attack fall over him like a heavy shroud. He staggered under the burden of it, and his breathing became raspy and arrhythmic. Soon the gathering darkness closed in on him, and he collapsed to the floor like an un tethered marionette. When he came to, he turned his eyes with great effort to see Steve lying next to him on the concrete. Dissonant music echoed from above, and Steve's eyes looked up, unblinking. The whites were showing all around the pupils, as if he were scared shitless. Dennis tried to call to him, but his mouth wouldn't form the words.

   Around them, the deadheads were circling, like underfed carnivores closing on a kill.

©2003 Don Bagley

Previous stories featured in Anotherealm, Ten Thousand Monkeys
Upcoming in The Murder Hole