My weekend was Country USA Friday night followed by family pictures in the country town of Redgranite on Saturday morning. In order to deal with both, my goal was to become rowdy enough to get arrested at Country USA and miss family pictures for being in jail overnight.
A country music festival in Oshkosh, Wisconsin, is close to the last place I ever want to find myself on a Friday night. Redgranite, Wisconsin, however, is the last. So I chose the less offensive of the two and hitched a ride in my friend's suburban to CUSA. I put on a sundress and moccasins, hoping I wouldn't be mistaken for an actual country music fan.
It was my sister, the quintessential small-town girl-- Lutheran, an elementary school teacher, with a good Christian boy on her arm and a head start on her 401(k)-- who had begged me to join her. She went with a group of friends from high school to Country USA every year, and she loved to play the part-- lacy cowgirl hat, short jean skirt, and faux snakeskin boots. She lured me there this year with the promise of free admission and cheap beer. The opportunity to encourage my sister to break the law by sneaking me in without paying was too good to pass up.
We met her in an empty parking lot a few miles from the festival grounds, where she pulled out a ziplock bag filled with CUSA wristbands of all colors from the past seven years. Of course, they rotated colors with each year, but they chose from a small spectrum, apparently. She dug in to find bands that matched this year's color for my driver and me, sliced the sides, and slipped them onto our wrists. She super-glued them back together, so they looked as if they were snapped on as they should be. She accidentally glued my driver's wristband to his skin, but he's a tough construction worker from central Wisconsin, so he didn't even wince when she tore it away without warning.
I left my laptop and my journal in the car-- no sense in risking everything I've written at the hands of rowdy hicks. I tossed a hat and a sweater in my bag, packed a bowl, and tucked the pipe in the side pocket. Surely taking weed into a hick party was a good way to be arrested quickly. Hicks hate hippies.
We left the Suburban in the empty lot-- we'd have to pay for parking if we took it in-- and packed into my sister's tiny Saturn, a comical position for my driver, who was almost six and a half feet tall. We drove in to the campsite without a hitch, although my sister freaked out when the “guard” at the gates requested to see the snapped sides of our wristbands.
“What if they noticed the glue?” she asked later. “Then they wouldn't have let us in,” I answered. “Shit.” They hadn't even checked our bags, or the trunk. These hicks were probably all armed with shotguns, maybe compound bows; and they were never going to find my pot with such lax security.
We drove along the dirt road toward my sister's campsite, a slow drive with the hordes of drunks that occasionally swayed out in front of the car to mosey along aimlessly from campsite to campsite. I caught glimpses of Confederate flags, pickup trucks, and camouflage as we passed the other sites. I was in deep now.
We finally pulled in alongside her RV, and greeted the dudes lounging in lawn chairs next to it. Each was at least three-hundred pounds; one had a 36-ounce Country USA 2010 plastic travel mug full of Busch Light, and the other had a cowboy hat tilted to cover his eyes as he tried to nap in the chair.
“I have NEVER drank at 8 a.m. before,” he said to my sister. “And now I'm feeling it. I've got to be done for the night.” It was six o'clock in the evening.
“You just have to keep drinking to avoid the hangover,” I said to him. “You don't feel it until you stop.” I headed straight for the RV from the car, to the liquor cabinet, and pulled out a bottle of Captain Morgan. This place reminded me of high school.
I poured drinks for myself, my driver, and the hungover fat guy. “Are ya sure you don't want a little more rum in there?” my driver asked, pointing at my cup.
“Right now, I really need the caffeine from the Coke,” I answered, but took a small pull from the bottle to satisfy him before I set it down.
My sister ducked into the RV for the hors d'voures she had prepared for the weekend, and came out with an empty Tupperware dish in hand. The fat guys had eaten it all. “That was the second batch I made this week!” she scolded them.
“It's alright,” I said. “The coolers are still full of beer; we've got plenty of sustenance.”
My driver nodded as he sipped his Captain and Coke. “While you're over there, grab me one o' them Busch Lights, will ya?”
My sister obliged and took a Miller Light for herself, and we settled into our lawn chairs to down these first drinks. Soon the rest of the crew came wandering back from swimming in a nearby lake, a few girls my sister had gone to high school with and some guys I vaguely recognized as graduating a few years behind me. I carried my half-empty drink to the table and topped it off with Captain. Drunk and giddy high school acquaintances could not be tolerated on one weak drink and some caffeine.
The girls put on cut-off jeans over their wet suits and patted their hair dry with towels from the RV, while the guys started to stack cups on the table for a game of beer pong.
Two nineteen-year old girls I didn't recognize at all stepped behind the RV in their bathing suits and ran bottled water through their hair to wash out the muck of the lake.
“Let us know if you need any help over there, girls!” my driver shouted to them. He was at least twenty years older than the rest of us, but his wife was a nagging bitch who had stopped speaking to him two weeks before when he was at the bars until 2 am without calling her after work. She had been sleeping on the couch and had left town for the weekend to stay at her sister's place farther north. He was a decent guy who would likely never touch these girls, but he was ready to drink some cheap beer and enjoy whatever show was going to be put on for him tonight.
The girls giggled in that virginal, nineteen-year-old tone that says I'm not gonna say no, but I shouldn't say yes.
Someone turned on a portable radio and tuned it to the local country music station. Between cheap and shallow songs was live coverage of the festival we were at, radio DJs encouraging everyone listening to “come on out” to the Copenhagen tent, etc. Between this hawking, they played commercials. Once everyone was gathered near the beer pong table, I walked over and tuned the radio until I heard Pink Floyd. I sat back down. No one seemed to notice. One of the nineteen-year-old girls was calling for a partner, and she grabbed my driver's hand and dragged him to the table.
I was ready to wander. I could see a game of beer pong any day of the week in Madison; I wanted to go find some freaks. I knew they were out there. I stole my sister's giant plastic novelty mug and filled it with three cans of beer. I screwed on the top and tried a sip through the thick plastic straw. This was going to be a classy night. I told my sister I was leaving to wander and to let my driver know. He was busy in his third game of the beer-pong tournament, easily crushing these kids with years of drinking under his belt and not a bit of help from the drunken giggling girl at his side. My sister glanced over at him and rolled her eyes.
“How are you guys getting home?”
I shrugged and waved a hand at her. “Looks like he's winning, so we should be alright.” I smiled and patted her on the shoulder as she shook her head and raised a skeptical eyebrow.
As I left the campsite, James, my sister's boyfriend, called to me “Where you headed?”
“Out to wander! I want to find some freaks to write about!”
He glanced to the beer pong tournament, then to the sleeping fat guys, and back to me. He scrambled out of his chair and followed me as I hit the dirt road. A simple country boy, but he was quite a few degrees above most of them in intelligence. And he was a former Marine, once a personal guard to George W Bush; he would be good to have around if any of the hicks got out of hand.
I started to count the Confederate flags as we walked. Four in the first six campsites we passed. Also, fourteen American flags, three American-flag T-shirts, and one American-flag bandana.
As we rounded the corner to the next dirt path lined with campsites, I heard “Incoming!” and turned to see a jello shot in a plastic cup flying my way. I caught it and looked farther back, to the guy sitting on the tailgate of his truck who had tossed it to me.
“Jello shots!” he shouted, and tossed one to James.
“Thanks!” I shouted back, removed the lid of the cup, slid my pinky around the edge, toasted James, and sucked the jello out. It was a huge shot, about 4 ounces, so I was prepared for it to hit me pretty hard. But it just tasted like blue jello. For those people who want to drink but don't like to taste their liquor-- for the girls. It was a lot of blue jello to consume without the burn of cheap vodka to cut through the sweetness, and it made no dent toward my drunkenness. I was never going to get arrested this sober.
Down this path, I counted twelve more Confederate flags and thirteen American flags, and walked past an old man sporting a yellow thong and an American-flag bandana. I shivered and held in my chuckle until we had passed him. Curly gray chest hair, scraggly beard, and burnt-out drunken eyes. This was the kind of man who gives drugs a bad rap, the kind of man Squares picture when they hear the word “hippie”: old, worn, burnt-out from decades of uneducated experimentation. The kind of drug user that existed before the internet.
I was surprised when I saw hot tubs-- multiple people had brought hot tubs and set them into makeshift decks at their campsites, and the bot tubs were now filled with groups of middle-aged country folks. Smart people, drinking and relaxing and keeping away from the chaos and filth all around them.
People who believe in Hell are the freakiest kind of sinners. The fear of God forces them to repress all desires throughout most of the year, only to break free and let them fly out in chaotic bursts of lewd drunkenness on special events like this, where it is “allowed”. They could walk around in thongs and bathing suits, drink shots from strangers, and hit on passersby-- all the things they would never be allowed to do come Monday. All of these, in their minds, were grouped with sexual harassment, racist insults, and drunken violence; so, unfortunately, these came out in the chaotic burst as well, making these parties a slimy stew of dark desires and despicable sin.
“Show us your boobs for a beer!” came another shout as we ambled down the path. It was a general call to all passersby; a group of younger girls in bathing suits walking the opposite direction giggled and waved at the campsite as they passed by. I checked my mug; it was getting light, so I decided to investigate the offer.
Six guys of various ages were gathered around a wooden sign hand-painted with the words “Boob-o-meter”. Below the title were pairs of circles cut out of the wood, gradually growing in size along the plank. I approached, and one of the younger guys grinned at me.
“The bigger the boobs, the bigger the beer, sweetheart. Wanna show us what you got?”
I smiled back at him, then glanced back to where I'd left James. He had turned away and started to chat with a random camper down the path. Nice, decent Christian boy, sister.
“What's the deal?” I asked.
Another of the guys set three plastic cups on the top of the Boob-o-meter plank, three sizes, growing larger along with the cut-out circles below. The bigger the boobs, the bigger the beer. I looked down at my own chest; I didn't even need a bra with this sundress. This would probably not refill my mug. I laughed and approached the larger end of the sign as another guy poured beer into the cups.
“What do you think?” I said, stepping side to side along the holes.
The guys shrugged and grinned. I don't think too many women were actually taking advantage of their deal, so they were pretty intrigued. I paused in front of the largest beer and raised an eyebrow at the old guy standing behind it.
I glanced back again and saw a golf cart coming down the path, carrying four festival guards and a city cop. I pointed them out to the guys.
“Damn,” I said. “I probably shouldn't do this in front of the cops!” I giggled with the most modesty I could fake to convince them of my innocence. “I'll have to catch you on my way back through.” I smiled and shrugged at their protests and drunken reassurances.
I was interested in getting arrested that night, but I definitely didn't want to show these bastards my tits. As I turned to leave and the guys turned back to their campsite, I grabbed the largest cup of beer from the sign and popped the lid of my mug. I filled the mug with the beer as I caught up with James down the path.
“That's a big beer,” he said skeptically, and we both laughed. “I'm a good negotiator,” I replied.
Around the next corner, a group had set up a full-service bar under a tent that spanned four campsites and were handing out free tequila shots. The sign posted next to their tent read “Tequila makes her clothes fall off”, which, I later learned, is the title of a Joe Nichols song. This country music artist also sings a song called “If Nobody Believed in You”, which includes the line “What if God quit tryin'?” Classy, freaky sinners. James and I drank free tequila shots, and I was asked but not required to make my clothes fall off, and we kept walking.
The sun was just starting to go down, and the music was going to start soon, so we started to make our way back to my sister's campsite. The beer-pong tournament was finished; my sister was wiping the splashed beer from the table, and most of the crew around had dispersed to other campsites or toward the main stage. The nineteen-year-old chick was passed out in her bathing suit in the RV. My driver was drunk now and singing along with the country music on the radio.
“Gettin' ready for Toby Keith!” he said, pointing a stern finger at me as I approached.
I fucking hate Toby Keith, who was headlining that night; but the driver and I hadn't partied together in months, and he was having a good time, so I was willing to put up with the soulless, corporate-cock-sucking singer for one night. I had weed, and tequila always mollified me.
The four of us headed toward the main festival gate with a can of beer each. We'd have to finish them before reaching the gate or they would be dumped out, my sister warned us. I grabbed an extra to tuck under my dress as we went in. If they saw me with it , maybe they would at least kick me out before the show started. My driver finished his beer as we passed another golf cart of cops, and he leaned over to say hello to one of them, patted him on the back and asked how his night was going. As we walked away, I asked how he knew the guy.
“I don't,” he answered. “I just wanted to toss my empty can in the back of their rig.”
As we entered the festival grounds, he actually did know one of the gatekeepers who was snapping on our second set of wristbands, ever the small-town man. As they caught up on the twenty years since high school, my sister and I were able to walk in with our half-full cans of beer unmolested. I didn't even bother hiding the second one, and no one stopped us. I resigned myself to watching Toby Keith play.
The roped-off area for the audience around the main stage was already full by the time we arrived, and the crowd had spilled out to the sides. Festival guards were patrolling the area, pushing the crowd to condense toward the ropes to keep us from spilling out and overwhelming the festival grounds. Why it was important to keep the crowd that was here for the show from blocking the cotton candy tent, I'm not sure, but we stepped to the side and crammed in next to the ropes with the rest of the latecomers.
I'll admit that, as the string of opening musicians played through the first hour and a half, I threw an arm around my sister and side-stepped, line-danced and maybe even do-se-do'ed a step or two, toasting my driver with my giant travel mug of beer. And I thought I was prepared to keep dancing even for Toby Keith, feeling drunk and high enough to swallow my rage. But while the rest of the crowd cheered as he came on stage in a Ford pick-up truck in front of a giant American flag singing the words “We'll put a boot in your ass; it's the Amuurican way!”, tears welled in my eyes and I stopped dancing. Jesus Christ! Fucking freaky fucked-up sinners.
At midnight, a torrential downpour struck the state of Wisconsin, and we were all instantly soaked. Summer rain, though, you can survive, especially with enough alcohol to numb your senses; so we stayed until the end of the show. Toby Keith had fireworks shooting up from the stage behind him, and the sky was streaked with lightening above us, and the crowd went wild as thunder clapped and added unplanned intensity to the stage show. The jumbo screens were streaked with the rain, and water flew from the hair of dancers crammed in next to me, and pooled into mud at our feet.
My sister stayed sober somehow and insisted on driving us home, dashing my last hope of getting arrested that night. As we pulled out of the campground in her Saturn, my driver rolled his window down and stuck his head out in the rain, letting the downpour splash in at me in the seat behind him. As we drove past the other soaked concert-goers heading to their campsites, he wiggled his fingers in the air, dancing as best he could in the tiny car, and sang.
"Hey!” he pointed back at me in the rear-view mirror. “Thanks for coming out tonight. Even though your mother is gonna be pissed to see you hungover in her pictures tomorrow.”
"No worries," I replied, watching the hordes of soaked drunks in bikinis and cowboy boots stumble across our path. "Hey, I could've been in Redgranite tonight."
"No worries," I replied, watching the hordes of soaked drunks in bikinis and cowboy boots stumble across our path. "Hey, I could've been in Redgranite tonight."
