Three Day Summer(58)

“Hi there.” I look up to see a guy in his early twenties with round glasses staring down at us. “My name is Greil. I write for the magazine Rolling Stone. Would you mind if I ask you some questions?”

“Um . . .” I look at Michael, who looks confused. “Sure.”

“Can I have a seat?” Greil asks, pointing to a spot on the blanket.

“Yeah,” I say, and scoot over.

He grabs a thin notebook and a pencil from his back pocket. “First, could you tell me your names and where you’re from?”

“Michael Michaelson. Somerville, Massachusetts.”

“I’m Cora Fletcher. I’m actually from here,” I say. “Bethel.”

“Really?” Greil says, looking interested. “So you live around here?”

“Less than a mile away,” I reply.

The reporter then starts to ask me all sorts of questions about the farm and the town, what it looked like before, and how I feel about the festival being here.

“I feel like the circus came to town,” I say truthfully. “It’s wonderful.”

When he goes on to start asking us about some of the things we’ve seen and done and our favorite acts, Michael finally interrupts him.

“I’m sorry. You said you write for Rolling Stone magazine?” he asks.

“That’s right,” Greil says.

“So you get to go to rock shows. And then write about it? And get paid?”

Greil chuckles. “Pretty much, yeah. Sounds like the life, right?”

“Sir, you will have to excuse my language, but f*ck, yeah,” Michael says.

Greil laughs. “That’s basically the right attitude.”

“How do you get into something like that?” Michael asks. His eyes are bright and he’s suddenly sitting upright. If he had a tail, it would be wagging.

“Well,” Greil says, “it’s not easy. But then again, if you really have the passion for something, there’s no way to stop you from getting to it, is there?” He looks at Michael thoughtfully for a minute.

“Tell you what,” he says as he gets up. “I’m on deadline with this piece.” He fumbles around in his pocket and emerges with a small rectangular card. “But this is my card. How about you give me a call sometime? If you’re really interested in talking about it?”

Michael scrambles to his feet and takes the card. “Yes, sir. Thank you. Thank you so much.” He shakes Greil’s hand.

“Michael Michaelson, right?” he says. “I’ll remember that. Sounds like I’ll be hearing from you soon?”

“Oh, you bet,” Michael says.

“Thanks to both of you for speaking to me,” Greil says pleasantly, before giving us a wave and sauntering off.

Michael slowly sinks down on the blanket again, staring at the business card like he can hardly believe it’s real.

“Looks like somebody may have just found some direction,” I say.

“Direction?” he says to me before pocketing the card. “I think that was my life calling.”





Monday, August 18





chapter 68


Michael


It’s past midnight when I ask Cora if I should roll out my sleeping bag. She nods her assent.

She lies down in it first, and then I arrange myself so that I’m curled around her, one arm over her waist. Neither of us says anything. My nose is in her thick dark hair. It smells like the sun.

Of course, then all I can think about is how much I must reek. Do lake baths really count? I didn’t even use soap in the one I reluctantly had yesterday.

I move my nose closer to my own armpit and try to do a discreet body-odor check. But all I can really smell is the mud, which, as we know, doesn’t smell too great to begin with.

Oh, well. Hopefully she’ll just chalk up any foul smells to nature or whatnot.

I hug her tighter and she shifts into me.

The stars twinkle above us and I remember staring up at them just a few days ago, certain that they were divining something monumental for me. I thought it was just the rock festival. Now I know it’s something infinitely greater.

I can’t believe she can stay the whole time. I can’t believe she’s here with me. I find that more incredible than anything else I’ve seen all weekend. I wish the reporter were here now, because that’s what I would tell him. That the best thing I’ve seen here is her, and it’s going to continue to be her, no matter what Jimi’s set is like.

The reporter. The music reporter. It’s brilliant. I have to call him when I get home. Somehow, I have to make this work. And in a way I’ve never been sure of anything before, I know I will.

Sometime during Blood, Sweat & Tears’s performance, I think both of us doze off. I’d never imagine sleeping during a rock concert, normally. But there’s something about Cora’s sun-scented hair, and the closeness of her body, and, I guess, just the fact that I need sleep at some point.

When I wake up, Crosby, Stills & Nash are on stage. It’s too dark to see, but I hear the announcement and I recognize the song because I just got their debut album a couple of months ago. They’re playing “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes.”

I shift a little bit and Cora turns around to show she’s awake too. She smiles at me.