Might As Well Read online

  (Right, right. Six-fifteen-eighty-five in your geeky, alphanumeric Dead jargon… Unfortunately, Don Pardo must thank you for playing our game. However, you will take home a year’s supply of Rice-A-Roni.)

  (The San Francisco treat.)

  (Fitting, no? You see unless I’m reading this wrong and let’s be honest, I care so little about all of this that it could be the case, they opened their second set with ‘Morning Dew’ on the fourteenth. On the fifteenth they began the second set with ‘China Cat’ and then, no, wait, this is a serious question. Turn around and check this out. No, not you, Rez, you’re driving. What does this sideways arrow symbol mean?)

  “It means they played into the next song without taking a break. So they played ‘China Cat Sunflower’ into ‘I Know You Rider’ into ‘Lost Sailor’ into ‘Saint of Circumstance’ into ‘Terrapin’ and so on.”

  (Where’d you get this book anyhow?)

  “I sent away for it. DeadBase, it’s your standard Deadhead tool of the trade.”

  (Yeah well then I’ve got your tool in my hand, which seems more than a little inappropriate but—)

  “So anyhow a third…”

  (And you know what they say, a tool in the hand is worth two—)

  “April twenty-ninth, nineteen-seventy-one. The last Fillmore East show. I just listened to that a couple nights ago. There you go, three.”

  (Not bad, although you only got one perfectly. So this book has all the songs the Dead ever played?)

  “It has most of the setlists. The Base is a little shaky on the sixties stuff but after nineteen-sixty-nine it’s pretty much complete.”

  (And who wasted their time doing this—I mean who compiled this fine tome?)

  “Some guys in Hanover. I think they’re connected with Dartmouth.”

  (Well I hope they’re connected to something because they’re not tethered to reality so well. And what’s this in the back?)

  “JerryBase. It’s the same thing for the Jerry Garcia Band.”

  (And how about this?)

  “That’s where people voted for their favorite versions of certain songs. Here, give me the Base. Like here, see the best ‘Morning Dew’ according to these people was May eighth, nineteen-seventy-seven. The quintessence of ‘Dew,’ huh, Rez?”

  (Tommy, your brother is trying to bait me. He knows I’m partial to October 18, 1974. But as they say, rational Heads can disagree…)

  (And just what part of this is rational?)

  STELLA BLUE

  “Mommy, when are we going to get there?”

  (When would you like us to get there?)

  “Now.”

  (Why? Don’t you like our company? You’re hurting Aunt Jenny’s feelings.)

  (Alison!)

  “Mommeeee!”

  (Okay darling, soon.)

  “How soon Mommy? I want to be there.”

  (You are there. Wherever you go, there you are.)

  “Mommeeee!”

  (Stella, honey, why don’t you lie down, take a little rest, and by the time you wake up we’ll be there.)

  “Mommy, I don’t want to lie down.”

  (Aunt Jenny will sing to you.)

  “Well…”

  (Your mother’s right, honey. We’ll be there soon. Lie down…that’s it…now close your eyes.)

  (Not just one, close them both… Fine. Now Jennifer, oh dearest and most ancient friend of mine. Habitual fellow traveler. Regale my daughter and myself with song.)

  (Stella, tell your mom that twenty-five’s not ancient.)

  “Mommy, twenty-five’s not—”

  (I’m sorry honey, I was just kidding. How about ‘Cassidy,’ do you remember that one?)

  “Uh-huh.”

  (Okay then, here we go, honey. lie back down. Okay now close your eyes. Close ’em. Okay, here we go…)

  Pretty.

  RANDY

  “No freaking way.”

  (Sorry, Macho Man.)

  “No freaking way.”

  (That’s the best I can do for you, Macho.)

  “Man, is that necessary?”

  (The vehicle won’t run without a clutch, Macho. You’ll need a new one.)

  “It’s not my car but that Macho crap, consider my balls already busted by the broken-ass Chevette I can barely fit into that your guy towed here, which already cost me fifty bucks.”

  (I thought you said your name was Randy.)

  “Yeah?”

  (Well I figured you for a hero. You’re big enough to be a hero. Macho Man Randy Savage all the way.)

  “I don’t know anything about that.”

  (You don’t know if you’re a hero? Who are you, King Kong Bundy?)

  “I’m just a kid who’s late for work. My coach pulled a few strings and if I don’t make it on time, he’s going to be pissed. I’ll be cut during spring practice and never play next season.”

  (Where do you play?)

  “Morristown Tech.”

  (So are you a hero or a villain?)

  “Are you a hero or a villain?”

  (It’s impolite to answer a question with a question but I am clearly a hero. Not to brag but we’re talking superhero. You see this Citgo logo on my shirt? I’ve got pyramid power. What do you got?)

  “A dick friend who let me borrow his car.”

  (Well be a hero, Macho Man. Pony up the $500 for him.)

  “I’m not ponying jack.”

  (I’m Sal, not Jack. Where are you headed anyhow?)

  “I’m working in the lot over at the Grateful Dead show tonight.”

  (Security?)

  “Yeah.”

  (Then you are the villain.)

  “Nah, I’m just there to do whatever I’m told for a few days.”

  (Like keeping nitrous tanks out of the parking lot?)

  “If that’s what they ask me to do.”

  (Like I said, you are the villain. You know what my attitude is towards nitrous oxide? I follow Nancy Reagan’s campaign leadership and I just say NO. Get it, I just say N-O.)

  “I get it but NO is actually the chemical formula for nitric oxide. I believe you’re thinking of N20 which is the formula for nitrous oxide, laughing gas.”

  (Really?)

  “Not up for debate. It’s an oxide of nitrogen.”

  (No, do you really need to be such a prick? I was making a joke.)

  “What do you want from me, I’m a chemistry major.”

  (Ahhh, a six foot two inch science nerd.)

  “Six three. So you think nitrous tanks are heroic?”

  (What can I tell you, I like to laugh. I once saw Nancy Reagan on an episode of Different Strokes, although that didn’t make me laugh.)

  “And what’s all this with the heroes and villains?”

  (Don’t you watch the WWF? Everybody’s a hero or a villain.)

  “Nah. I’m just a kid on scholarship hoping to make his coach happy and earn a little scratch to take his girl out next weekend. I’m supposed to be there at five and the goddamn clock is ticking.”

  (I’ll tell you want, if you promise to act like a hero, I’ll give you a ride over there on my bike. I’m headed out in thirty minutes.)

  “I don’t have the five hundred dollars.”

  (Well make sure your buddy has it in the morning. And don’t Iron Sheik me over there if you see me enjoying a balloon or having a puff.)

  “Now why would I do that?”

  ZEB

  “Nice cold tasty imports two bucks, domestics a buck. That’s right I’ve got kind Bud-weisers and kind Beck’s.”

  And by the way:

  I NEED A MIRACLE

  But hey who doesn’t? Friday night. All of New York is out here trying to score a ticket. Not an easy night. Uneasy. Very uneasy.

  “
Nice cold tasty imports two bucks, domestics a single. And speaking of singles please sell me your extra ticket. Someone please sell me an extra.”

  Gotta say that. SELL me your ticket. Especially when you’re holding a miracle sign. Otherwise you scare ’em off. Some Heads think a miracle ticket is a free ticket—and don’t get me wrong, a free ticket is always a miracle. But to me it’s miracle enough just to get in and see the Boys. Even if I have to pay thirty bucks that’s still a miracle to me. But that’s where I draw the line. Nothing more than thirty. I’m willing to cover gas costs or whatever but anything more than thirty is not a miracle, it’s a crock of shit.

  It’s crazy what I’ve seen people pay for a ticket. Second night Greensboro some Head bought a ticket off a guy for eighty bucks. And the dude who sold it didn’t look so right on. He was standing there rolling a wooden egg back and forth in his hands. He might have been dosed or something but it was too obvious, like the dude was trying to pull something over on someone and he was using this freaked out look as a cover. So the Head forked over eighty bucks. And if it turned out to be counterfeit…

  Shit, Friday night Landover I bought a countie. Highly unkind. Twenty bucks for the bunk. The guy seemed cool enough. He had longish hair, knew his shit. Wasn’t wearing a dye. Nowadays that’s a good sign. With all the undercover cops and posers, one clue not to trust someone is that they’re wearing a dye. Crazy but true. People who want to pretend they’re part of the scene figure they can put on a dye and they’ll blend right in, which is sort of nuts if you really think about it. Narcs are pulling that crap too.

  Or that Guatemalan stuff. People who want to show everyone that they’re better than the Heads in the dyes wear those Guatemalan hoodies and caps. It’s pretty much people who go to a few shows, like a run at a city or two who come in wearing this stuff thinking that they are THE HEADS. And they get all uptight about it. Like they’re the perfect Heads because they’ve got the kindest Dead threads.

  One thing I learned real quickly—during my first tour way back in the spring of ‘88—was that some of the biggest Heads, the ones who have been to the most shows, don’t look like it. The short hair Heads. A lot of these dudes have been to 250 or 300 shows and they come to the arena wearing whatever they were wearing that day. They don’t think about their clothes because the music is their Guatemalan hoodie.

  At least that’s how I see it.

  My version differs from reality only in the details.

  STEVEN

  (Hey, Steven change the tape.)

  “Hmmmm?”

  (Change the tape.)

  “Right, sorry. I was zoning.”

  (Well try not to zone so much when you’re driving.)

  “Nate man, I’m not driving.”

  (Yeah, right. Okay, you can zone then but not until after you change the tape.)

  (And put it in the case or my brother will kill me.)

  “Okay, okay. So what do you want to hear?”

  (You’re up there, whatever looks good to you.)

  “Hey, Jason, what’s this show like? It looks pretty cool.”

  (Come on, Steven, you know you can’t tell a tape from the setlist.)

  Oh yeah, right.

  (No, that’s not necessarily true. Have you ever heard a bad ‘Dark Star?’)

  “Yeah, have you?”

  (Well okay, you may be right there. But you can’t tell with the other stuff. Besides, some of the ‘Stars’ are better than others.)

  “But they’re all basically good.”

  (None of them are basic, all of them are good.)

  (And how is that show Steven has in his hand?)

  (Hot.)

  (Well then what are you yapping about?)

  (I’m just keeping him on his toes.)

  “Well I’m sitting down in here so it won’t do me much good.”

  (Maybe I should direct my own foot to your ass and apply some force.)

  (If that’s what gets you off…)

  “Yeah, Jason, just ask. I can be permissive.”

  (Nice vocab. But you know what I don’t understand?)

  “Fractions?”

  (How to properly apply deodorant?)

  “The particulars of the baby-making process?”

  (What chicken tastes like?)

  “New Yorker cartoons?”

  (New Yorker cartoons, really? What is this, AP after-school strivers club?)

  (Hey, man, let Steven be Steven.)

  (Well that’s my point. I’m happy to let Steven be Steven as long as you can do the same, Nate. Stevie’s a big boy, you don’t have to chime in for him.)

  (I’m a lover, not a chimer. We’re in this together. You’re either on the bus or you’re off the bus and all of here are on the bus.)

  (Huh? What bus? This is a Volvo 240.)

  (Never mind, Zack, just drive.)

  TAPER TED

  (All right, here we go. Into the parking lot. Now the real freak show begins. You’re not going to buy a T-shirt out here, are you, big bro?)

  “I don’t think so. Why?”

  (I remember a couple of years ago when all you wore were those bootleg Dead T-shirts. You were buying all your clothes in parking lots. My vicarious embarrassment induced a mild case of aphasia.)

  “Well you’ll be happy to know those shirts don’t interest me much these days. Back then it meant something. Those shirts were made by kids trying to support their tours. Nowadays there are plenty of tie-dye corporations out here getting rich.”

  (If you say so.)

  “Consider it said.”

  (And what do they call they call the area with the makeshift little flea market where everyone rolls out their ratty little tapestries and sells kind veggie burritos laced with bacteria and other pathogens? It’s named after a song right? Shitstorm Street? Shitshow Street? I’m pretty sure the word shit is in there to reference the dysentery to follow.)

  “Shakedown Street. How many shows have you been to?”

  (I don’t know. Nine? Ten? You should know. You were the one who took me to all of them. Come on, you can remember how many times the Dead played ‘Hully Gully’ but you can’t recall how many times you’ve taken your only brother to see this band?)

  “Well they only pulled the ‘Hully Gully’ once. Netherlands ’81. Killer show. That night they also busted out ‘Lovelight’ and ‘Gloria.’ October sixteenth, nineteen-eighty-one. Bobby’s birthday. That’s the only reason I can think of why they broke out both of those. The tragic story of it all is that Rez and I had thought about hitting some of those Europe shows for a belated honeymoon but I lucked into a promotion and couldn’t leave…”

  (Right, right.)

  “Shame on me. The Europeans understand work-life balance. When you ask an American what he does, he talks about his job, while a European will talk about his hobbies, his passions. I could have spent two perfectly lovely weeks mesmerizing strangers with a spirited challenge to the endemic mislabeling of the ‘Mind Left Body Jam.’ Perhaps I’d open up the discussion to include ‘Spanish Jam’ although that’s a little on the nose for me… Tom? Tommy? You have nothing snide to say about any of that?”

  (Sorry, Ted, but as surprising as this sounds, I just wasn’t listening to you. I was distracted by this guy who was yelling ‘How much would you pay for an exotic animal? How much would you pay for an exotic animal?’ What the hell was that?)

  “I don’t know, he just does it.”

  (You know him?)

  (Ted and I have heard him do that before. Not this tour but last summer, I think.)

  (And what does he mean?)

  “Mean?”

  (Tommy, I don’t think he means anything. He’s just producing syllables, talking to hear himself talk.)

  (Talking to hear himself talk? About the strike price for an exotic animal? Di
d you ever check it out?)

  “Why should we?”

  (Why should you? I don’t know but if I were walking around a parking lot and someone asked me how much I’d pay for an exotic animal, at the very least I’d name my price. I’d do it right now it but I lost the guy. I had him in my sights and then he disappeared. I can’t hear him anymore, either. With every single car blasting a different Grateful Dead tape, it’s all cacophony.”

  “Cacophony?”

  (Hey, I have a college degree. It came fully equipped with vocabulary. So did my medical degree for that matter. My competence might well surprise you.)

  “That’s a matter of contention. As for the exotic animal guy, I’ve run into him and plenty of others like him who are on their own trip or are just doing it to get attention. I prefer to stay in my own lane and let them pass. Your problem, little brother, is you need to get in some more shows.”

  (Get in some more shows? Do you even hear yourself? Get in some more shows? You make it sound like it’s a chore or something. I mean, it is for me but you shouldn’t talk like that. As if there’s some intrinsic value to attending twenty or thirty more Grateful Dead concerts a year beyond just hanging a few more notches on your belt. Of course maybe that explains why you’re here, you could use a few more notches on your belt. Speaking as your doctor, that expanding waistline of your is a matter of concern—)

  “My future doctor.”

  (I wouldn’t be your future doctor if you gave me the proper time of day for a consultation.)

  “I’m not going to treat you as my doctor and I’m not going to refer to you my doctor until you complete your residency. In fact, I’m not going to call you doctor at all.”

  (That is a common faux pas. At this point in my medical career I have definitively earned the proper title of doctor.)

  “Is that true? I’m asking the Bloch-head next time I see him.”

  (Justin Bloch. I’m never quite sure how to take it when I’m reminded that the chairman of our department is a Deadhead.)

  “We are everywhere.”

  ROBIN

  “Here, tickie, tickie, tickie.”

  (Who’s got my ticket? Who’s got my ticket?)