After his no-show, I’d decided to never bring up Nick’s name again. “Johnny will make you one,” I said. “Just ask him.” I certainly wasn’t going to volunteer Leon.
“Give me anF!” the singer shouted from the stage. The audience, who had been unresponsive until then, echoed back with a loud “F.”
“Give me aU!” the singer shouted.
Everyone yelled, “U.”
“Give me aC!”
The echo happened again.
“Give me aK!”
“K.”
“What’s that spell?”
“Fuck.”
He asked the question three more times, and by then every person seated at Woodstock shouted “Fuck!” like a meadow full of mynah birds. Without missing a beat, the singer slid into a song about Vietnam. Glancing around, I was surprised to see everyone singing the chorus along with him. The guys, the girls, all of Woodstock knew the words. All except me.
“And it’s five, six, seven, open up the pearly gates. Whoopee! We’re all gonna die.”
Livy knew every word. So did Johnny and Leon.
“I don’t know how you expect to stop the war if you can’t sing any better than that,” the singer shouted. “There’s about three hundred thousand of you fuckers out there. I want you to start singing.”
“Be the first one on your block to have your boy come home in a box.” The Woodstockers sang the whole song along with him.
Everyone thought it was upbeat and fun—the highlight of the festival. Everyone except me. As the lyrics washed over me, all I could think about was Ron’s body coming home in a box. And that was not fun. If I hadn’t been such an idiot, he would be here, sitting next to me. Enjoying the festival. Not risking his life in a 110-degree jungle.
“What is this song?” I asked the group as soon as it was over, having to yell over the thunderous applause.
“‘Fixin’-to-Die Rag.’ Best protest song ever written,” said Johnny. “I saw Country Joe perform it last summer in Manhattan. Helluva show.”
“Do you like it?” I asked Leon. His brother was in Vietnam. I couldn’t imagine he’d think much of it.
With two comforting fingers under my chin, he lifted my head to meet his eyes. “It’s all in fun, Suzie. Try not to take it seriously.”
Just when I thought it was over, Chip Monck called Country Joe McDonald back to the stage for an encore, and he sang the whole song all over again.
The only way I could suffer through it was to muse over the last few hours. While Country Joe and everyone around me sang, I re-created the day, moment by moment: bumping into Naked Woolly Dude, chasing Leon for the hot dog, my singing debut, finding out he didn’t have a girlfriend, our kiss that almost happened. By the time I had rehashed every minute detail, the “Fixin’-to-Die Rag” encore had come to an end.
Country Joe disappeared for good, giving the audience a short break. I tapped Livy’s knee. “Guess where Leon and I were all morning?”
Her gaze wandered over to Leon. “Going all the way?” she asked, shimmying her shoulders. She leaned in close to my face. “Tell me he used a condom.”
“No! He didn’t. I mean,no, we didn’t go all the way. Jeez, Livy. We just met.”
“So? You’re at the biggest music festival ever. It’s the perfect place to lose your virginity.”
“Do you want to know where we were or not?”
“Of course I do,” she said, after a long sigh. “Sorry. I’m even madder at Nick today than I was yesterday. Where were you?”
“Singing! To a real audience.”
She sat up straight, wearing an authentic smile. “Seriously? Where?”
