Midsummer Dream House

 

Our Grateful Dead Story

Five teenagers find adventure, friendship and something even more extraordinary at a long-ago Grateful Dead concert.

Fiction by Kevin Mandel

Winner of the Summer 2024 Fiction Contest
 

1.

In the beginning there is terror.

That’s right—none of the good stuff waiting just round the bend (adventure, fun, friendship), nor the many other shades of darkness that will also visit along the way. Only terror.

There in the last row of the deepest corner of the furthest parking lot—if you look just right you can see it rising in waves, up along the sides of a parked Winnebago. Underneath which our four young men are presently convened; bodies sprawled and tangled, cheeks pressed against fractured pavement.

This for what feels like a thousand years (but is in fact minutes, about twenty-five). Until Len ventures out, comes back mumbling that those they’re hiding from are nowhere in sight.

So then Shlag is up and out too, shaking off mud as he talks about a way the evening can be salvaged. A simple plan, apparently, is all that’s needed. Something he, Shlag, just happens to have: nearby bar famous for not checking ID’s. Nachos that probably will not be disappointing. Hofstra girls, supposedly quite cool, and, like, extremely open-minded.

Len pays rapt attention, says, “So the concert—you don’t want to go?”

These words for Shlag a kind of punch—making him flinch, wobble, then hold out his fingernails and thereupon scan as if he were alone, without care, on the moon. And though this is partially explained by the mere fact that Len has taken him seriously, far more is the question itself, and a related proposition that to Shlag’s mind should not really be open for debate: this concert, and their attempt to be a part, is a total fucking fiasco. Evident too soon after they’d popped out of Sambursky’s mom’s van, slipped through the gate, hit the parking lot scene.

The parking lot scene. An ice cream sundae of a good time comprised of one scoop block party, one scoop open-air bazaar, one scoop Woodstock re-creation that together, all reports had indicated, just might be greater, madder, more momentous then the concert itself.

Yet was Shlag the only one? Pretending from the get-go that this is what was gotten? And so ignoring that between expectation and reality there had been certain holes? Holes so large and obvious as to be weirdly hard to notice?

Berger accused of stealing a bumper sticker, then tripping over an old dog as he backed away. Len mistaken for a narc—a narc!—then cursed and spat on even as it became clear that he was not a narc but instead a mountain-sized teenager wearing the wrong clothes, okay, sure, you got us, a suspiciously new tie-dye shirt, jeans, army jacket, all of which, no doubt, his mom, Mrs. Borax, had starched and ironed to near weapon-grade density… But a narc?

Then, turning a corner, and encountering a pack of guys lead by Chuck Piccolini—with this arguably deserving its own litany, a litany of far more serious shit because Chuck Piccolini is a psychopath and quite possibly a murderer who has beaten up half of Nassau county, including two guys he left with brain damage—and Chuck hates Sambursky. Why? Good question, and regarding which Sambursky himself is quite curious. Yet, despite multiple inquiries made through several back channels, no answer is forthcoming. Only a sentence. Sambursky gets a beating.

Len looks to Berger, who is also now out from hiding.

Berger at ease but also, Len can tell, ready to take some action, do something, anything. This analysis, however, largely horrendous. As in truth, while the two stand nodding, bobbing, ceremoniously spitting, Berger is compiling a ‘best of’ from the silent self-excoriation that’s been ongoing since this whole Piccolini thing began. And while Berger’s compilation, his ‘best of’ is rich in variety, there is to it but a single theme: that there are no limits, nor will there ever be, to the bad things his life can, will, must be.

Len squeezes Berger’s shoulder, walks up again to the Winnebago’s front bumper, looks out, sighs—as nothing he now sees strikes him as anything but okay, promising. The carpet of parked cars stretching out pretty much forever. Silver-blue twilight, with alluring stuff—Frisbees, balloons, kites—moving through it. And people too, mostly in groups, near but not too near, and all of whom upon closer scrutiny are grinning, cutting up, laughing, experiencing, there’s nothing else to call it, some kind of fun.

So now it’s with a measure of urgency that Len brings Berger together with Shlag and bids the latter to again share his vision to salvage the evening. With Shlag abiding. Indeed, doing so in a burst of spirit that makes his entire body tremble. And imbues too, it seems, the vision itself, as it now boasts a handful of undeniable upgrades: crazy-cheap kamikaze shots, near-definite New York Islanders and New York Jets player sightings, Space Invaders…

After, Len raises an eyebrow, “Pretty good, yeah?”

“Yeah,” says Berger, “but—”

“But?” says Shlag.

“I’m going home,”

“Come again,” says Len.

“Home. Me,” says Berger.

“Impossible,” says Shlag. “How the hell you gonna get there?”

Berger shrugs.

“You don’t know?” says Shlag. “You don’t know?!”

Berger nods.

“Right, okay,” says Shlag, suddenly pensive. “Hey, on second thought, I’m coming with you.”

“Whoa, hold on,” says Len. “I admit this is totally fucked, yet…”

“Yet?” repeats Shlag.

“Yeah,” says Berger, “yet what?”

All three then go quiet, and remain so much longer than typical, which in turn creates an environment that is pretty much ideal for something each tends to do anyway: let fly their imaginations. So conjure, for example, that the location they presently find themselves—a parking lot, wedged between an old Winnebago and rusted van—is also, at the same time, somewhere, something far different. The inner chamber, for instance, of a fantastical seashell—with an equally fantastical ambient roar, comprised of faraway voices, drumming, boom boxes, car stereos.

And what each further discovers is really how compelling such an environment can be. And so also how easy it is to do what each now does: go further. And so for forty, fifty seconds, avoiding eye contact and feigning nonchalance, stand and shuffle about. With this now amplifying each’s ability to perceive this or that smell or sound or trick of light, and also the way the feel and flow of these perceptions serves as a kind of crazy-beautiful soundtrack to the bits and pieces of thought floating in their heads…

All until from behind the Winnebago’s rear bumper Sambursky appears, ambles over, says, “So?”

“So what?”

“How come you dingle-berries don’t ask what I want to do?

“Okay,” says Len.

“The concert,” says Sambursky. “Let’s go.”

“You’re joking,” says Berger.

Sambursky lets this hang—then grimaces, blinks, takes out his purple porcelain pipe and, with fingers only slightly atremble, packs it with a pinch of pot; this before slowly, carefully, one by one, flicking out the seeds. All a means for Sambursky to buy a few more seconds: make one last wiggle against a grip he has now for weeks felt closing. This grip being a gambler’s grip, whose prevailing aspects—faith, illogic, intimations of cosmic glory—feel to Sambursky far too familiar, far too warm and cozy, for him to really want out of.

2.

Inside, the thought is mostly of escape.

Instantly, even while passing through the turnstile into the atom-smasher chaos of the arena’s outer ring, where the name of the game is dodging bodies barreling from all directions while also shooting the traffic’s flashing gaps. Yet where to? This the conundrum, as presently they find their attention occupied by a whole host of concerns. Examples: not encountering Chuck Piccolini; not losing their ticket stubs; not walking into anything or anybody; appearing more or less unbothered by the various shouts aimed at or near their faces.

Then, through a tunnel, something totally unexpected: a headlong encounter with a notable, even quite marvelous architectural work (something not all that common on Long Island): the massive vaulting chamber of a fifteen thousand seat arena. Tendering that in which their day-to-day lives are perhaps just a bit deficient—a most extraordinary scale. Of steel! Concrete! Civic pride! Engineering and construction chops! Not to mention enclosed open space—cubed acre after cubed acre. With all this coalescing with the Human—as the audience is more than half assembled—to create a wholly distinct ambiance. Ambiance, as compared to the arena’s outer ring, that could hardly be more different. Ambiance permeated by an overt sense of expansiveness, anticipation, muted glee, temporary community; and also, not least, a kind of high-frequency, mid-voltage, mad, happy, nutty, semi-peaceful thrum.

Regarding any of this, however, the four’s reaction is blah…

And as they trudge on each grows the distance between himself and the group. This until they reach their aisle, take seats, slink down as low as the laws of physics permit and scan the arena for Chuck Piccolini.

Then, not finding him, scan again, over and over, with this soon causing them to spot people they do recognize. Many, from school and town. And most of whom they’re not displeased to see. As most, in terms of currency, social currency, are in some way interesting. Further, this activity itself—the mere perusal of the audience without finding Chuck Piccolini—quickly reveals itself to be its own kind of fun. Then becomes a sport, the rules of which all somehow intuitively understand: Number one, spot someone you recognize. Number two, speak their name in a manner indicating you mostly don’t care. Hey there’s Wolf. Fox. Nan Silver. Nick Something. Vogelfry. Cindy Hurwitz. Zipper. Stone. Vic Rizzo. New Girl From Texas. Skinny Vinny. Adam Funk. Aardvark.

And they joke about Paul—goaded by the empty seat in their midst and also, in school, the Hollywood pose Paul struck while informing he’d make his own way to the arena. Yet also because Paul’s participation is not even their idea. That whereas the four of them can at least claim to have come together semi-normally—feeling each other out over months—Paul has been imposed from above. By McFarland, their English teacher, who in his inimitable half-hippie half-Nazi way made it clear that there would be consequences if an invitation were not extended to the new kid in town.

The jokes fly scattershot, though also, as if guided by some Junior High versions of themselves they can’t yet quite control, come to land on a single theme: the obscure, intricate, anatomically impossible, entirely imaginary sex acts in which Paul and McFarland are at this very instant engaged. And for this a group mind emerges, as each loses himself in a fury of riffing at once mean-spirited, creative, unconsciously arousing. With this phenomenon then fitfully exhausting itself, before halting altogether not four seconds before Paul appears, grinning, at the foot of the aisle.

Len and Berger stand, make inquiry as to where he’s been.

“All about.”

“Doing?” says Len.

“And your eyes,” says Berger, “what’s up there?”

“Whose question first?” says Paul.

Len and Berger shrug.

“Talking, walking, thinking—yeah, definitely,” says Paul. “…I’ve been just, you know, kicking my own tires…”

Paul then emits a sound—a sort of slow-building, richly baritone snicker; and while he gently rocks Len and Berger catch eyes, query one another—what the hell?

Then, an instant later, as Paul steps into the aisle, Len raises an arm. “Your eyes… what is up?”

“Psilocybin is what I think you’re referring to,” says Paul.

Len grimaces.

“The psychoactive element in mushrooms,” says Paul.

“So then, you’re on magic acid-mushrooms,” says Berger.

“What you just said,” says Paul, “are two different things.”

“Of course. But you’re on one of them?”

“I am.”

“What’s it like?”

“Can’t say yet.”

Len and Berger, ever slightly, pout.

“No, look, hey,” says Paul. “What I mean is, maybe really, they haven’t kicked in yet.”

“Why?”

“Well, for one thing, I might’ve botched the dose.”

“Dose?”

“Yeah.”

“Botched it?”

“Indeed.”

3.

Then, at once, the lights above extinguish and those of the assembled thousands not already standing and facing the stage do so, many raising lit matches or lighters as the musicians amble into view and with just a slight acknowledgment of the audience ready themselves and begin to play a song that cannot be well heard. That sounds, is, tinny, distant, hollow. Yet, shortly, as if some unseen switch has been flicked or socket plugged, bounds out fully, with an overwhelming amplitude, in a bouncy bluesy melody surprisingly mid-tempo for the opening song of a rock concert.

And Len, Shlag, Berger, Sambursky and Paul are with it—clapping, stomping, howling.

More even, each ventures an act that is among the most meaningful of his life. In that it represents a clean break with his past. Renders him a stone liar vis-a-vis something he has claimed he’d never do. And also, no less, will prompt a reassessment, and then the taking of the exact opposite position on one of the most divisive social issues of the day. Dancing. Right now, each is dancing.

Yet also, at the very same time—not one of them is truly with it.

That none is really dressed correctly, or knows the music, or is dancing naturally, or, by all appearances, even an iota as transported as everyone else in sight—these facts can’t help but get a little in the way. Then a lot in the way. Then, as facts sometimes can, animate and take to the air—dashing and darting before coming in close to whisper the same in each of their ears: Hey! You! Dipshit. This thing, their thing, cannot be your thing. It’s too nuanced. Too inside. Besides, are you joking? The Grateful Dead? In 1979?! The time to have climbed on the bus has long since passed by…

Still though, it’s easy enough to fake it. Which is what they do: nodding, grinning, bobbing, dancing very badly.

Each that is with the exception of Shlag.

Shlag, who now stands bug-eyed, catatonic. Staring into an oncoming apocalypse…

Parents! His, Ty and Dot, whom he hates and loves and hates—tonight are going to lower the boom. Fact. So much do they detest who and what they perceive him to be (drug user, drug-music lover, fading honor roll student), his current interests (drugs, drug-music, unfathomable depravities) and where it’s all most certainly heading (Creedmoor, Sing Sing, Mount Zion Cemetery) that tonight, without doubt, these two, fucking Ty and fucking Dot, will start to do things: call these guys’ parents; destroy his records (philistines!); make good even—I think they could—on the military school thing…

“Hey, Shlag, talk to me,” says Len, kindly, but also while staring at the stage. This though hardly mattering as already Shlag is lowering himself to the floor where, reaching it, he slaps his own face, then cups his hands over his eyes.

Yet now here is Paul, kneeling.

Paul, not with any particular plan, but indeed something of the opposite. Or, as he was just thinking of it, ‘a plans suck worldview’. But, perhaps that’s enough. As now it’s with sure hands, delicacy, even grace that Paul reaches out and guides Shlag’s cupped hands up and away from his eyes.

Shlag letting him, mostly because it’s something he’s about to do anyway, but also something else, having to do with this other kid, that about him, this Paul, beyond the nutty-bizzaro stuff—there’s something maybe okay.

After, Paul sits next to Shlag, begins to sway. Shlag just watching, not knowing how to act but not needing to as Paul tilts forward, whispers, “Hey man.”

Paul then leaning in, close, closer, closer still, smiling, stating with perfect matter-of-factness: “It’s too late.”

Fuck you! This Shlag’s first three thoughts, followed by I don’t know what you mean! Indeed, the last he actually begins to say, yet stops before finishing, because, well…

Shlag now stares deeply into his work boots, paws a patch of ink-stained leather, then lets himself tip forward so that his forehead hovers just above his ankles. Shlag remaining this way for many seconds until, on a sudden bolt, he whips back his torso and head and shouts up into the arena’s steel black firmament the same three words Paul said to him, only now in the form of a question.

“Yeah. Yeah.” Paul raves back.

“But!”

“What?!”

“Since when?

Paul shrugs.

“You don’t know?” says Shlag.

Paul bobs.

Shlag now suddenly outraged. “Come on, really, tell me the truth.”

Paul gives no reply.

“How can that be?! How can you not know…”

Paul smiles.

Shlag bewildered, but not for very long, as he also begins to smile.

The two then scooching this way and that, getting comfy on the floor, all so afterward they can more enjoyably lounge, banter, close their eyes, concentrate on the music, think inane, profound, inane thoughts. On and on they go, for minutes, lifetimes, minutes, until suddenly, with nary a nod of coordination, Shlag and Paul rise in perfect time and look out over the heads of the boys and girls dancing in front of them.

And what they encounter, everything, seems totally different.

And later, when this moment is analyzed, often Paul and Shlag will quibble over this or that detail; yet always, regarding what is most significant, they will only ever agree. Which is that suddenly, in this thumping, swinging, hurtling moment, to an extent neither had been previously able, both Paul and Shlag can see. So that here is the band, these almost-old sort-of-fragile six guys, the Grateful Dead—far away but also perfectly clear, playing some slow-going hooked-out happy-loser’s lament and appearing, if still not like normal rock performers, then at least as if they’re finally fully awake, totally engaged, and perhaps having a slightly better than average evening.

And the audience, here too is difference. As while the majority are still focused upon the band and every gesture they make, a goodly portion is not. Instead is roaming about the arena, congregating in tunnels, drinking, smoking, fooling around. Dancing still, of course, but also, as far as what they’re dancing to is concerned, treating its source as if it were some unseen, supersonic, providentially-supplied stereo system. So that now if a person were to slowly scan about this venue what they’d see would resemble nothing so much as a party, an enormous party over which absolutely no one—least of all the Grateful Dead—is in charge.

So Paul and Shlag jump in.

And in doing so find that Len, Berger, Sambursky are already there—dancing and stomping about as if their aisle were some inflatable kiddie pool. Yowling, scowling, smiling, and also, by way of movement, posture, glint of eye, making truest heart declarations as to that of which they’re presently afraid (nada), the earthly forces that could possibly stop them from doing what they’re right now doing (ibid), when exactly it is they’d expect this current state of being and also the sense of life and possibility it engenders to come to an end (hint: no time soon).

4.

Yet then the lights are up, and after a stilted ninety seconds, during which no one speaks nor looks at one another, the five file out of the row and begin to walk around. Walking with great urgency and purpose (although, of course, they have neither). And walking too with increasing speed, until, as they near completion of an entire revolution of the Coliseum’s outer ring, they come upon a gap in the interior wall. A cul-de-sac tightly packed with people they kind of, sort of, know.

Len, Sambursky, Paul rush right in, and so are vanished instantly by the churning crowd.

While Berger and Shlag abruptly break stride, halt, then fidget at the threshold, not quite believing what they see.

Chaos it is—but that of a stripe neither has ever before encountered: loose, spirited, unself-aware. Also, and no small detail: chaos wherein all social bounds have been as if magically filleted. How else to explain the present sight of Len, Sambursky and Paul? Their talking, smiling, laughing with person after person whom they most certainly don’t typically talk, smile, laugh. Kaleidoscopically then, in and out of Berger and Shlag’s narrow lines of vision, amped-up human after amped-up human pops in and out of view: Warren Wolf / Adam Funk / Nick Vogelfry / Zipperman / Fox / Nan Silver / Wendy Cohen / Martino / New Girl From Texas / Kozak / Debbie Horsley / Aardvark…

Oh, all this a reach away from someone leaning against a large tray rack, laughing, holding hands, making out with an old person (no joke, a woman who could easily be thirty years old), with this someone happening to be Chuck Piccolini.

The same.

Though perhaps not—as it’s this particular sight that proves to be just a bit too much. Suggesting the very real possibility that at present, what’s actually happening, is some kind of collective hallucination.

Can they too play along? Berger and Shlag catch eyes, shrug, grimace, sway. Yet, before any further deliberation can take place, all is rendered moot, as two people pop out of the crush, approach, say in near perfect harmony, “Don’t we know you?”

“Know us?” says Berger.

Cindy Hurwitz nods.

“Well, depends,” says Shlag, “what you mean by ‘know’. If you mean, have we been in the same schools, classes, buses, cafeterias and pretty much seen each other every day for the last eleven years—then yeah, sure, you know us.”

Nan Silver barely blinks, deadpans, “Of course, but not ‘know know’”.

Shlag falls in love, instantly and also for the rest of his life, and so launches three new riffs, simultaneously, all on topics not particularly clear. And while Nan Silver indulges, Cindy Hurwitz does not, instead whips her back at Shlag, looks at Berger, says, “Okay, definitely, your hair.”

Berger murmurs.

“The length—it’s… good. Majorly.”

“My hair?”

“Yes.”

“Its length?”

“Yup.”

“Majorly?”

“Correct.”

Berger looks about, interested if anyone can overhear.

“Very Bobby Weir,” says Cindy. “That’s how it looks.”

“…thanks.”

“And of course I remember you. From math.”

“Yeah?”

“You were one of the smart ones.”

“Bad thing?” says Berger.

“No, of course not,” says Cindy. “Well… maybe.”

Each holds down a grin as Cindy asks what number show this is for him.

“First. You?”

“Sixth.”

“Wow. That’s a lot.”

“Not really,” says Cindy, “I know a guy whose seen four hundred and eighty-six.”

“Okay, right—that’s a lot.”

“But wait—number one? You have to tell me, how was your first set?”

Berger now almost pleased—the way the conversation is maybe going, that he’s not yet stepped on this girl’s toes or forgotten to swallow. But then, more, by a thrill taking hold, knowing that he’s about to do something that before tonight was likely unthinkable—that is, reveal to Cindy, reveal to anyone, something of his soul.

“Want to know?” says Berger.

“I do.” says Cindy. “Definitely.”

Berger takes a breath, opens his mouth, yet before even the first syllable takes shape can’t but acknowledge the moment has passed. As somehow, the exact spot he and Cindy occupy has become some kind of unofficial rallying point. So that all around them are bodies—overpowering the air with scents of cigarettes, shampoo, sweat, essential oils, cologne, Bazooka bubble gum, youth. Bodies threshing and pressing and thereby creating a shared kinetic charge all the more potent because most of these people, by far the majority, still don’t really know each other. First comes Wolf and Fox and Wendy Cohen and Debbie Kirkovsky and Funk. Then: Nan Silver, Shlag, Paul, Len, Vogelfry. Then Zipperman, Rizzo, Kozak, Skinny Vinny, New Girl From Texas, Aardvark.

Surrender—this would seem Berger and Cindy’s only option. And hereafter, along with everyone else, they bumble about this randomly chosen patch of concrete floor. Until an instant arrives when as if by wolf pack telepathy this same assemblage steps back and re-configures into the shape of a near-perfect paisley, and thereafter remain glancing at one another at first with semi-concealed mirth and self-satisfaction but then, as seconds pass, a squirreliness and mounting unease. This until Fox looks toward Len and makes serious inquiry as to how later he plans on getting home.

“Shlag’s dad—why? Need a ride?” this from Sambursky, as he jogs into the paisley’s center.

Fox grunts.

“Cool, cause Shlag’s dad would love to give you one, right Shlag?”

Shlag goes still.

“See? That settles it. Just meet us at the flag poles after the concert.”

“How many can he fit?” says Kozak.

Sambursky ponders. “Twenty, thirty, it’s a clown car, so we’ll make it work.”

There’s laughter, thank you’s.

“No problem,” says Sambursky, hugging Shlag from behind, saying: “People! As we pile into the car there has to be like a totally concerted effort not to say the wrong thing. Got it? No like ‘Hey Mr. Hammershlag, do you mind if we get stoned?’ No ‘Yo, Mr. H., crank up the tunes.’ No, ‘Hey old fucking geezer, turn on some Grateful Dead!’”

5.

Is there more? Uh huh. Beyond what can be imagined or remembered.

Starting with the second set: how back at the seats, Paul, Shlag, Berger, Sambursky and Len are greeted with a suspicious degree of sincerity by some old hippie-types seated nearby (several of whom, over the decades, will become good friends). And also, not long after the band ambles back on stage and begins to play again, all five find themselves psychically undone by an extended interlude of extreme sonic weirdness. An assault, no, an ordeal, that feels like it will never end; but then, of course, does. Facilitated by the band and their deft transformation of the sonic weirdness into actual songs—a cathartic run of the soulful and/or danceable variety.

Then, afterward, outside the arena, as they approach the flag poles, Sambursky out front, howling, halting every so often to glad-hand passing strangers…

It’s a stealth attack and, in the context of Chuck Piccolini’s larger body of work, somewhat modest in scope. That is, it’s comprised of a single blow, and once delivered, instead of engaging in some kind of humiliation ritual (a common flourish), Chuck just turns and skips away.

Nonetheless, in the aftermath, Sambursky is on his ass, gazing up into a humongous crowd, with that which had recently been his nose resembling nothing so much as a hunk of raw chicken breast, with a narrow slit, gurgling blood. An injury that will not only curtail the rest of Sambursky’s evening but also cost him the rest of his life—in pain, appearance, surgeries. And yet, also an injury about which over the years Sambursky never complained. To the contrary, it was almost as if Sambursky came to feel his wound as largely something good. Good in the way it sealed his connection to the band, conferred upon it a kind of validity, even purity.

Also—the rendezvous is made, the one planned at intermission. Yet somehow now the number of kids has more than quadrupled and the prevailing spirit, that too has morphed. Example: presently the notion of getting into some parent’s car has to it a whiff of unspeakable heresy. As in this new epoch, this new way of being, now only seconds old, the one true option would seem to be that they walk home.

Which is what happens: a five hour trek, mostly along a highway, made by an initially large, unruly, ecstatic but steadily diminishing tribe. Including among Cindy Hurwitz and Berger, who share conversation and also for most of the five hours bump thighs, hands, shoulders until finally, at Cindy’s corner, they stop, face off, swallow carefully and inhabiting the very outer bounds of how close people can come to kissing without doing so, say, “see ya Monday”.

But these are mere facts.

And what this story cares most about dwells elsewhere, in a truth that on this evening, in the strange, inane, profound, violent, beautiful, funny, ultimately undefinable universe of the Grateful Dead, certain people appeared and came together. People now forever connected.

And this, our story, is part of something even larger. Something that is open, and alive, that has not, nor will ever be, captured.

And so, continues.