Grateful Dead

  I danced with Elvis! On the cold snowy New Year’s Eve of the 1962, I indulged in my first musical intercourse with an American- made tape. Through the impossible to resist Elvis’s beat I could hear the diabolical roar of dancing audience! Elvis, o, sweet Elvis, at this moment I could walk to you from Russia barefoot on the new snow. Thank God for small favors, I could grew up in the blessed USA and become a groupie!   

    Instead, now twenty-five years later, I seriously considered should or should not we accept an invitation from our sons to a Grateful Dead concert. It was no secret that this invitation carried with it, as a part of the deal, extensive financial obligations.  Kids, of course, could survive without us at the concert, but on the other hand, who was going to rent for them and their friends this much-needed van to drive to Maine on the false pretense that they are deadheads? And who was going to buy for them these necessary tie-dye uniforms? So much for an unconditional love!

   I was about to decline well plotted invitation, as on the background of my memory rose, caught on the tape of my youth, tremendous beat of the raving crowds at all those missed by us concerts. And cheated out I will be not!

   So on this hot July day, we found ourselves in the long line of cars trying to park in a God forsaken place in Maine where the old racetrack was the epicenter of civilization and culture.

  Our new silver Volvo was definitely an overdressed outsider among beat up pickups, dying Chevys and motorcycles. However, we made it! I mean, we did make it to the track, even though the nearest available parking was 2 miles away. As we walk to the stadium, Felix complained of how we were the oldest couple in this crowd, how far we had to park and how thirsty he was. Next, he hardly survived gesture of friendliness by woman-biker in a sweaty and worn-out bandana who wanted to share with him her half-empty can of beer.

  He was right: we were well above age limit for this concert. It was not funny to be an ancient relic at forty-five! All those young wide-open eyes were looking at us! We felt as the oldest spectators in the crowd of sixty thousands, but everything was new and unknown to us!

   We had never been to the concert like this. We wanted to absorb the reality with all our senses to make up for the losses of our youth when the Soviets cheated us out of freedom and fun. We wanted to remember every face, every sound, every move. This was so much not as the concerts we knew in the old country, filled with all washed up, ironed shirts and haircuts of the  well-behaved crowd, it was surreal.

   Light Maine wind spread air impregnated with smoke above the racetrack. I was incredibly happy! Kind of light and fluffy. I had never felt this way before. I was eighteen again and danced with Elvis! Twenty-five years later that was my second intercourse with American music!

   Men! Why men are never happy! I think being happy is against their believes. Emotions, affections and delights are mortal sins in their religion. After horrible traffic with hours of driving, 2 mile walk and politely declined beer my husband was thirsty, hungry, unhappy and grouchy. He accused me of being “high” just breathing the air filled with marijuana smoke.

   We had never smelled marijuana before (partly by growing in the fifties and partly by growing in the Soviet Union), how did he know what was in the air? Along with my kids and their friends, I was dancing on the bench and wanted him to join in the fun. Felix would not cave in: “I did not eat all day and music is way too loud! I lost my last pack of cigarettes and we are too old for all of this!”

  With mischievous smile on my face I suggested “May be you should try marijuana, it would take you right back to the sixties and would improve your experience”. I think he felt guilty spoiling my fun. He followed my advice and, trying to please me, took two puffs from the pipe offered by his neighbor on the right, young man clad in tie-dye and the leather jacket.

   Change came right away, Felix smiled and joined me in dancing on the bench, but it did not last. He sat down and clutched his fists to his chest. He looked rather miserable and pale.

   God, I was happy to remember that last week he passed his stress test with flying colors. “Roger Staubach is less fit than you,” said Cardiologist at the end of the test.

  In spite of the verdict of “low probability for the presence of coronary artery disease” Felix became pale green and promptly fainted into the lap of our younger son, who was sitting right behind him scared to death and equally pale.

  Thanking the fortune that I did not grew up as an Elvis’s groupie, but became a well trained in life support internist instead , I tried to find carotid pulse on my poor husband’s neck.

Music was glaring, racetrack was shaking with rhythmical “woo” of the raging audience. Never mind carotid pulse, I could not even determine if he was still breathing!

 “All normal husbands are dying in their beds, and mine… mine is dead at the Grateful Dead concert!” was the only one bitter thought in my head. Of course, at this moment I could not remember any of the very effective techniques of cardiopulmonary resuscitation.

 Young leather clad owner of the pipe dashed downstairs with the scream “I am for the rescue” and disappeared. My right hand acting exclusively on reflexes made a wide swing and planted a few loud slaps on Felix’s cheeks.

 “Mom! What, the hell, are you doing?” screamed my two sons in rare unison. “He is sick! Stop slapping him!”

 However, all this screaming and beating had a positive effect on my husband, who woke up, looked startled and still green, but not missing a beat, jumped on the bench and started to dance. I was in pieces, just about to faint myself!

 To our surprise rescue team arrived immediately. They were looking for the body and missed Felix, who was now dancing like a lunatic.

Eventually, they found him, but he refused medical attention for a number of reasons. First, he had his own doctor on site and second, it was not a good idea to jeopardize his security clearance for designing “Patriot” missiles and to lose his job. It would not be a good idea at all.

  We left during intermission. After all these planning, preparations and a long drive, we left after only half of the concert! Never mind, I was happy; my husband did not die at the Grateful Dead concert! We had survived all the excitement and were heading to the Hotel.

   I was so wrong: night was still very young!

  On our way to the car, Felix stopped at the ice cream booth. “You do not like ice cream,” I reminded him gently. Usually, Ben and Jerry, Steve and Haagen Daz had no sacred meaning for my husband who just bought six ice popsicles. Their poisonous pink color could flatter any tie-dye.     

   The sun was still up when I started the car with Felix enjoying his ice on the passenger seat. I turned the lights on but there was no lights inside the car. We serviced our new Volvo before the trip, however, obviously, something was wrong. Night was falling fast and, in spite of working fine outside lights, I could not see any indicators in the car. I stopped at the gas station and asked for help, but nobody could help me there. I got gas and Felix went to pay as I waited in the car.

  I counted first twenty minutes for the line at cashier, crowded man’s room and long hand washing. Second twenty minutes I tried to convince station manager to escort me to the man’s room. In the heat of the argument, I noticed Felix devouring two bags of potato chips in the dark corner of the station. He was very quiet and agitated simultaneously, like the bomb just waiting to explode. Back in the car, he continued to empty his bags with incredible concentration. 

  Bored, I put on radio only to catch the end of the concert we had just left. Long waling scream tore through the car. Astonished, I lost control and almost drove into the side rail “What? What happened?” I screamed startled.

“It is so-o-o beautiful” continue to wail my husband with tears of tenderness on his face. “I love this music!”

  I did not know that it takes two puffs of marijuana, fainting and two bags of potato chips to wake up emotions in a real man. Add six ice popsicles and what a lethal cocktail you will have!                                                

  Two hours later, we safely checked into sleepy Portland Hotel. It was close to midnight, but we went to the deserted Bar downstairs, where we ordered drinks determined to get some munches. However, martini with two olives was all bartender could offer.  Now both of us were tired and hungry. Slowly we were walking a long hallway to our room on the sixth floor. 

 Suddenly Felix disappeared! Familiar panic overtook me; I was too exhausted to look for him now. A dark shadow moved ahead of me on the floor of the hallway. Still alarmed I found Felix hovering over the tray put out for the room service. A few lonely cheese cubes were on a dirty plate under the used napkin.

  As a hungry hock, Felix grabbed the cheese. Losing all my composure and dignity, I whispered “I am hungry too!” It was too late; cheese already disappeared in his mouth.

   In our room old Elvis’s movie played on glowing TV. We looked at each other and laughed in relief. Finally, our day was over. My husband extracted two small cubes of cheese from his pocket and fed me- two precious tidbits, leftovers of somebody’s fiesta.

   Grateful, I hugged him and we made a few passes on the shiny parquet of the room. I danced with Elvis again! Even better, I danced with my husband who survived his first encounter with marijuana, big American concert and all the unfulfilled dreams of our youth. We were grateful he was not dead!