04 March 2006

here's waldo!

September 2000

"Hi, can we clean up your campsite for you?" The misfit collection of young kids gathered at the edge of our campsite gave us all pause. Nevermind that it was about 7 in the morning, or that we were all drinking cheap beer and some of us having a joint for breakfast. They wanted our trash. "Y'see, if we bring in 3 bags of trash, we get a free CD!"

"Clean your way to free schwag! An excellent marketing scheme," Palmer declared. "Have at it!" They wandered into our strange little village, created with martha stewart bamboo poles, boat tarps, duct tape, and a shitload of psychotropic induced genius. It was a good thing! We'd occasionally lift our feet up off a cooler so they could meander through, collecting mostly-full bags of beer cans, empty cracker boxes and cheese wrappers, dirty cups, empty cigarette packs, god knows what else. When they were done they had about 3 bags of trash just from the 8 or so of us.

"Thanks!" They all sang, and the one kid, the tall one, in the black-framed glasses too round to be emo, with a toque on and a red and white striped shirt informed us, "Just remember, Waldo's here!" It took us all about two or three minutes to get it, and then we burst into collective giggles, long after they'd swooped in on another camp of hungover and half drunk hippies, their eyes gleaming with the thought of all the free CDs the could collect.

Fifteen or so minutes later, and when i say 'or so' it could well be like 2 hours, Andy wanders into camp and plops down in the empty camp chair next to me, pulls out his baggie, and starts rolling a joint as big as my thumb. "Good morning, sweetheart," he says to me as he rolls. I nod in reply, my grin slightly crooked due to the amount of alcohol still in my blood stream from the day before, and earlier in the morning. "Want to go for a walk? Get the blood pumping?" He'd finished rolling the joint, and stuffed the baggie back in his pocket. I nodded, and we stood, heading up the hill towards where the disco party had been the night before, and would be that night. he lit the joint as we walked, then twined his fingers with mine. He was a friend, nothing more, who I had met the day before. But that's just how it was with these people. once you met someone, once you clicked with them, bonded with them, got high with them, you were all close. Touching was integral, hugging required, and even sleeping together in the same tent, huddled for warmth. But I'll get to that eventually.

What we talked about, I'm not sure. I may have it written down somewhere, but up we walked to the scene of the disco party, hand in hand, joint being passed back and forth - puff puff give. The disco party looked sad in the grey morning light - a tarp awning stretched out from a caravan camper, disco ball twisting the smallest bit, dull and lifeless in the haze. We veered left, headed down to the big rocks where the drumcircle had lasted until nearly 4 am, and climbed up onto them, watching the campgrounds around us come to life as people awoke and crawled from their temporary dwellings. By the time andy put the joint out, it wouldn't even qualify as a roach. He didn't keep it, just tossed it on the ground after putting it out on our granite seats. We sat there a bit longer, talking, laughing, watching, then he walked me back to my camp. he gave me a hug, said goodbye, and walked off into the day. I watched him leave until I could see him no longer, lost in the maze of tents, tarps and poles.

"Whiskey?" Monty offered, handing me what was likely 1 part coke to 9 parts alcohol.

"Please," I nodded, accepted it, and took a sip, waiting for the day to begin.


gizmorox said...

Holy shit. I forgot all about Waldo. More than likely because I was involved in my breakfast of vodka and triscuits. You've captured the boys so well, Palmer with his excellent marketing scheme and Montz with his monosyllabic adorableness.

"The lad doesn't say much and when he does, he finds just the right words to crush my soul."

I want to tell you to stop this because you're going to make me cry, but I can't because it's fabulous. So keep telling stories I forgot about. Like my mother offering you Zoloft. Always there with a helping hand.

Tippy said...

yesss, helping hand indeed.

i don't know where to go from there. i mean, there's like, 50 stories from eden alone! that one! there were like 50 other shows! *headdesk*