13. Reed

13

REED

“SOAK UP THE SUN” – SHERYL CROW

R ailfest is held at an old race track that’s been converted into a field used as a festival venue. We make the mile and a half or so walk there, and as we get to the venue, a huge, genuine smile comes over my face.

Dunn sees me grinning and smacks me in the chest. “Yep. This is what I’m talking about, Walker. One concert like this is worth six months of therapy.”

There are women everywhere wearing cutoff jean shorts, cowgirl boots, sunglasses, and cowgirl hats. Guys wear flannels and boots, too. Luna’s got on this short flowy skirt and a tank top, and I’m a little shocked at how attractive she is.

I mean, I’m not attracted to her, not really. I have a girlfriend. But I note her insane attractiveness. Objectively.

Okay, I am attracted to her. But like Dunn says, just because I’m glancing at the menu does not mean I’m eating anything.

We show our tickets to get in, and once we’re inside, we look around at the huge field with several stages. I hardly know what to do with myself.

“This is my favorite part,” Dunn says. “The anticipation. We’ve got the whole day ahead of us.”

Some music drifts over from one of the far stages where an early act of the day is playing.

“And first things first,” Dunn adds. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

We follow Dunn to the line of latrines, and then Luna and I wait together in the sun, while he waits in line. A couple of musicians walk by with guitars, grinning and chatting with each other, and I’m struck with a bout of envy.

I struggle to tamp it down. For all my seesawing, I do know what I want in life, really, and it’s pretty simple. If money was nothing, and I knew I could bend the world to my will, I’d want the artistic life. I’d be a spark of hope for people around me, showing that it really is possible to devote your life to an art and live that way.

Like these guys walking with their instruments. Who knows which band they play for? They could be bass players in one of the early bands. But still, in my eyes, they’ve made it .

Mostly, I just want to create more.

“You’re pensive,” Luna says, cocking her head. “What are you thinking about?”

“You really want to know?”

“I do.”

“I’m thinking about how there’s nothing like the feeling of making something—a song, a poem, a story—out of thin air, and seeing it move another person emotionally.”

Luna grins. She reaches out to put a hand on me, but hesitates. “I love that that’s what you’re thinking about. You are so not a normie.”

“Definitely not a normie.”

“Just keep going. Tell me more.”

“I’d love to wake up, drink coffee, make art, and not worry about money. But that’s not life, is it? That’s just not real.”

“Look around. All of these artists have achieved their dreams. They probably had the same doubts you did at some point. They just ignored them.”

“Well, that’s great for them. But it’s not in the cards for me.”

“Not if you think like that. You really don’t like your job, do you?”

“Do I hate it sometimes? Yes. But I’m good at it. And it’s a secure income.”

“But you sure spend a ton of time daydreaming about other things you could be doing.” She pokes my chest. “For a guy who wears a cross, you don’t have much faith in yourself—or in God’s plan for you—do you?”

“I’m happy, okay? I’ve got the girl. I’ve got the job. Stop it.”

She shakes her head. “Stop pointing out flaws in your thinking? You just said two seconds ago that you hate your job.”

I squint and shift my weight, switching my focus to the plethora of concertgoers who are filling up the field. “Who are you to tell me what I think?” I counter. “You don’t even give people your real name. Like you know what you’re doing. You’re on a trip with two random guys you met at a bar, blowing around like a butterfly in the wind. And you’re gonna stand there and critique me ?”

She pats my cheek. “Right. I am a butterfly in the wind. That’s beautiful, actually. I don’t know who I am or what I want right now. But at least I’m honest about it. I was in a situation before this where I realized how unhappy I was. I have faith that the universe will bring me to where I’m meant to be. At least I’m not lying to myself.”

“Oh, so I’m a liar now?”

“It’s more like a lack of self-awareness about the gap between your talent—who you could be—and who you are right now. You lie to yourself about what makes you happy.”

I feel my inner defenses coiling for a fight. “You don’t know a damn thing about what makes me happy. I’m secure. Secure job, secure girl. That counts for something.”

“You think? Because you sound as insecure as anyone I’ve ever met.”

Dunn saunters back over from the handwashing station. “It’s time for some fucking beers! What do y’all say to that?” He looks back and forth between the two of us. “I feel like I missed something.”

“Luna here was just telling me how to live my life. That’s all.”

She rolls her eyes. “I wasn’t telling him. I was challenging him to think more in depth about what makes him happy and consider whether he has faith in himself.”

“Guys.” Dunn slings his arms over both our shoulders. “It’s eighty degrees and sunny. We’ve got Sheryl Crow on stage two in under an hour. Weezer after that, Turnpike Troubadours, the Red Lemons as the appetizer, and then, of course, Zach Bryan as the main course. Let’s not get so riled up. Let’s just vibe. No more deep-chat time. Dance time. Fun time.”

A huge cheer goes up from one area of the crowd about a hundred yards away from us.

“That’s Sheryl Crow!” Someone says, pointing at the stage.

“My set starts in forty-five minutes, y’all. Who’s ready to soak up the sun?” Sheryl says into the microphone.

An even bigger cheer erupts from the masses.

Dunn pats me on the chest. “See? That’s what I’m talking about. Let’s get those six months of therapy packed in today. I need this. Once I get back, it’s going to be a reality check. My wife’s going to have a baby. This is not going to be part of my life. You all need this. I need this. So let’s make a deal. Can we just enjoy the afternoon?”

I nod. “Hell yeah.”

“Deal.” Luna smiles.

He removes his arms. “You guys big Sheryl Crow fans? I fucking love her.”

“Can we get some hot dogs first?” Luna asks. “They’re kind of a personal festival tradition.”

Cue the corny montage of us frolicking to the tune of “Soak Up the Sun”—specifically, the three of us ordering hot dogs and twelve-dollar beers without a care for inflation. We then hit all the different stages and take in as much music as three humans can.

Other scenes suitable for the montage of the next five hours of that sunny afternoon include:

Blasting our lungs out to Sheryl Crow

Playing bags/cornhole against some college kids who think they’re better’n us (they are)

Dunn getting roped into an arm-wrestling contest with a huge man in a sleeveless biker shirt and beating him

Getting sunburned while we bang our heads to Kip Moore

Some guy spilling an entire sixteen-ounce beer on all three of us

Drinking more and manifesting the perfect buzz

The vibes are immaculate indeed on this spectacular afternoon. Eventually the sun starts to sink in the sky, and finally the sweltering heat begins to dissipate, if only slightly. For what seems like the first time in way too long, my worries about work and about Sam fade away, relegated to a distant corner of my psyche.

We even run into CC, the Luke Combs’ cousin/lookalike from last night as Turnpike is in the middle of their set.

“You mothertruckers!” he yells angrily, pointing at us. He spits on the ground as he approaches, his posse behind him. “I’m gonna kill y’all!”

“Uh…what?” Luna asks. “Thought we were friends now?”

“Yeah. I’m gonna kill y’all…if you don’t let me order you a goddamn round of beers!” A huge grin sweeps across his face, like he just delivered the most killer joke in the history of comedy.

His crew eats it up, hooting and laughing.

“Mothertrucker!” Dunn yells. “Thought you were so blacked out you didn’t remember us!”

“Aww, hell naw,” he scoffs. “Come on. We got ten minutes before Turnpike hits their encore, and I sure as hell ain’t missin’ that. Les go.”

We follow him to the line for beer, and a few minutes later, all three of us have a Kona in our hands. And wouldn’t you know it, we make it back before Turnpike’s finished.

“Kona,” Luna says, looking into her almost empty cup. She turns to CC. “Interesting choice. Are you a Hawaiian beer guy?”

“Ah, hell yeah! I love Hawaii. Y’all ever been?”

I crush my cup and grab Dunn’s since he’s done, too. “Never, no.”

“Well, it’s the fucking shit. Where else can you swim with friggin’ dolphins?”

The three of us all laugh. Probably meanly. But there’s something about picturing this guy swimming with dolphins that’s naturally funny.

“Well, don’t worry, you’ll be swimming with dolphins soon enough.” He chuckles and winks.

Dunn and I share a look. This guy is fucking crazy .

“Oh? What do you mean?” Luna asks.

He wraps his arms around us from behind. “Congrats, y’all. You’re trippin’ on acid now. Have a great concert.”

My blood pressure spikes. “Uh, excuse me?” I retort. “What are you talking about?”

He belly laughs and slaps me on the back. “Yeah, I put a little treat in that beer for y’all. Hope you’re ready for the best fuggin’ night of your life! I fuggin’ love you guys! Wanted to make sure y’all never forget this weekend!”

“Ha. Funny joke.” I point at CC, fake laughing. “You almost had me going.”

He looks at his watch. “You’ve got, eh, maybe thirty minutes before it kicks in. This is a slow-acting batch.”

Dunn, Luna, and I all grip each other. There’s not an ounce of humor on the guy’s face.

“You laced our beer with LSD,” Dunn reiterates.

CC shakes his head. “You don’t remember talkin’ about this last night? Y’all said you wanted to try it. Especially you.” He points at me. “You gotta loosen up.”

“Me?!” I search my memory for any conversation where I said, “ please lace my beer with LSD.” I got nothin’, but I browned out last night, so it’s entirely possible.

“You feel anything?” Dunn asks me as the Turnpike Troubadours launch into what will probably be their last song.

“No, but I’m freaking out, man!” I yell.

“Aww, chicken legs, you gotta stop whining,” CC booms. “You’re ’bout to have the best night of your life. The Red Lemons and then Zach Bryan are comin’ up! Have fun trippin’, boys!”

Luna takes my arm. “Hey. It’s gonna be fine. Relax. Just ride the wave.”

“You’ve done it before?”

She nods. “In my EDM festival days, yeah. We’ll be fine. I prefer to dose myself, but…it can be fun.”

“Your EDM festival days?”

She smiles. “What’s that look?”

“There’s so much I don’t know about you.”

“Thanks, Captain Obvious. You feel anything yet?”

“Nope.”

I take some deep breaths and try to let go, not freak out that this crazy, bearded man just drugged me as Turnpike finishes their last song.

“Thank you, Lexington! Y’all rock! Have a great night. Who’s ready for Zach Bryan?”

The crowd whoops and hollers, and when I turn around again, our mothertrucker friend is nowhere to be found.

“Well,” Dunn says, “should be an interesting night. We’ll be fine. Just have to stick together.” Dunn bobs his head to the music, clearly lost in his own little world.

Luna pulls closer to me. “Hey. I’ve been meaning to tell you something. I need to tell you before I forget.”

“What’s that?” I ask.

“You know the only difference between these artists and you?”

“What?”

“You’re just as good as them. But they believed they could become something. And then they became it. And you know what else?”

My head is starting to feel a little light. “Hit me.”

“You think you’re so secure in your life. In everything. But nothing is as secure as you think it is. You should be following your bliss. That’s the only real security these days.” She moves close to my ear. “Stop worrying about what could go wrong. And start getting horny for all the ways life could go incredibly right.”

I crack up. “That’s one way to put it.”

“And for what it’s worth, I’m loving spending time with you guys. Your friendship gives me hope.”

“Hope for what?” I ask.

“That not all men suck. Now I see that I had to take this trip to understand that.”

“Did someone hurt you? Why do you keep saying that?”

She averts her eyes, and I think she might be skirting my question. But then I see where they’ve landed. It’s the hotel desk employee who checked us in, Randy.

Randy is wearing street clothes now, jeans and a ZB T-shirt, but there’s no mistaking his icy cold eyes.

“Is it the LSD, or is he staring at us?” I whisper to Luna.

“He sees us. He’s staring at us,” she says.

“Well, well, well,” Randy says as he approaches us with a haughty grin. “If it isn’t ‘the Red Lemons’.” He makes air quotes. “Shouldn’t you be backstage prepping for your set? Seven thirty, right? It’s almost seven.”

Dunn looks over, and even Charlie Dunn, king of the high school prank, seems caught off guard.

Oh shit . We’re in big trouble.

“The jig is up. Your asses are mine,” Randy says. His smirk is evil. Ugly. He holds up his phone. “I’m going to give the hotel a call and have them make sure you can’t get in your room. They should throw all of your things in the garbage. So you better hurry back and get all your stuff.”

My stomach does a tumble. My guitar is in the room.

Dunn growls in my ear. “I didn’t come this far just to throw in the towel. No way I’m missing my two favorite artists tonight.”

“What the hell are we going to do?” I whisper back.

“Double down,” he growls.

“Double down? What does that even mean in this situation?”

“We double down on the lie. We are the Red Lemons. You are Henry Cooney and Violet Benson.”

“Dunn, respectfully, what the fuck are you talking about?!”

Luna leans in. Randy seems momentarily absorbed by his beer. He drops his phone and has to scramble to find it on the ground.

“Go. Get on that stage. And fucking sing.” Dunn lifts his chin toward the third stage, where the Red Lemons are going to be playing in a little more than half an hour. “Just sing the first song. I’ll do the rest. Trust me.”

I’m already shaking my head. “There’s no way. We can’t pull this off. What are you even saying?”

Dunn shrugs. “I’ll make sure he’s watching the first song and only the first song. Then we’ll find some other stage or I’ll distract him. He’ll think you actually are the Red Lemons. They can give you a guest spot.”

“Dude. We don’t even know the Red Lemons. That’s fucking insane. You realize this is insane, right? There’s no way.”

“Just do it. Nike, bro,” Dunn says, grinning. He grips his head. “Holy shit, I think the acid is kicking in.”

“We can’t?—”

Luna nods confidently, cutting me off. “We got this.”

All of my insides are telling me to panic. To fold. To run home. That we’re in way over our heads. That Dunn is tripping.

“Walker,” Dunn says, slapping my back. “I believe in you.”

Yeah. He’s really tripping.

“All right, you knuckleheads.” Randy seems to have his shit back together. “I’m going to spray this all over social media. Good luck getting jobs after that. No one should associate with scum like you, stealing rooms from good people.”

Maybe the drugs are indeed kicking in. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m eight beers deep. Who knows? But I stand tall and give him the best poker face I’ve ever mustered. “We are the Red Lemons. What, we can’t enjoy a concert before we hit the stage? Get fucked, buddy.”

His eyes widen. “I’m gonna… I’m gonna…”

“We should probably go, though, we do need to get backstage,” Luna says. “You’re right about that. Enjoy the show.”

With that, she and I head toward stage three, with no plan whatsoever.

“So, how do we know when the drugs are kicking in?” I ask her.

“Oh, you’ll know.”

“Wait, do you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“Can you hear the sound of your own voice?”

Luna just about dies laughing. “Yep. They’re kicking in.”