Desultory Aftermath of the Festival of Wights (a haibun)

phishnye2013 (2018_03_24 00_14_54 UTC)

On the third day of the festival, the day it was over, they had no more drugs, everybody was sort of hungover and there no more money and nobody was playing any sort of music. A keen wind sprang up, rustling the weird vegetation of this oddball state, and Bobby said he heard police sirens (I heard none) coming out of Chanktown. It was noon but felt like 5:59. We looked into our various rucksacks and wallets, eyeballing old credit cards’ dates as we generally felt like shit and considered our options. Rank day for sure. An absence of dankness, people looking grim. There weren’t even those few late stragglers who generally sit buzzing happily on the hoods of their vehicles hammering out “Feelin’ Alright” on acoustic guitars, guys who look like they are never going to leave. The nitrous people from late last night are gone. Calm straight people in yellow-striped vests wandering the parking lot edges and festival grounds picking up trash with pointy sticks, dragging big plastic sacks of light rubbish. “Call Momma and tell her — ” “Tell her — ” ” — that we’re out of gas, no wait, I told her — ” “Call Robert.” “Nah. That fucker is tapped out” “Call Blake” “Goddamn it my phone’s dead.” “Tell them — tell them — anything. We need money” “Goddamn it — ”

all shows are final
excitement ceiling — uhoh
no shows are final

 

 

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