Thunderstruck

Having never experienced a hypnotic trance, you cannot claim to know what it’s like, but it’s probably not unlike the swaying detachment that comes from gazing out the window on a long car trip. Or so you imagine, as you carry out the aforementioned activity with all its melancholy, cinematic associations. Oh, and the rain, don’t forget the rain. You lean your head against the buzzing glass pane and observe the brief, interconnected life of raindrops on its surface, superimposing a lens flare and a pop-rock soundtrack to complement the beginning credits you envision for the movie of your life. For the fourth time (this minute), you think about how wrong the weather forecast had been.

***

The problem with memories is that they’re technically always wrong. You remember (ha!) learning in psychology class that, whenever you remember something, you’re actually just recalling the last time you remembered it. It’s like DNA replication; you work with a copy of a copy of a copy, ad infinitum, and something is bound to go wrong. Ever since that class, you’ve been able to sense the gradual degradation of all the moments you’ve ever lived happening inside your head. It’s like looking at a painting, starting at a comfortable distance, but then every time you blink, you take a step back and, before you know it, that distant speck of color could be anything. So, you scramble to replace those memories with new ones that the acid of time can’t yet reach. That’s what today was supposed to be.

And then it rained.

“Aw c’mon, Sammy, it’s not so bad,” Cal says from the driver’s seat, even as you watch him flip the windshield wipers to a higher setting. “They only cancel these things for, like, natural disasters. Tornadoes. Hurricanes. Not a little bit of rain.” Privately, you decide to name this “little bit of rain” Hurricane Cal in his honor.

In the backseat, TJ and Ruby are playing one of those Scrabble-style word games back and forth on their phones. As is their custom, the pair don’t exactly play for points, preferring the challenge of who can keep the longest streak of exclusively dirty words.

“Ha! You’re out!” TJ shouts, thumping the back of your headrest to celebrate his purported victory.

“No! Rantallion is definitely a dirty word!” Without even looking, you can picture the way Ruby has her arms crossed, tossing her head and just daring TJ to challenge her.

“What do you mean? It’s not even a word at all!”

“Of course, it is! It’s Victorian in origin, circa 18^th century and it means—“

“Fine, fine. Cut it out, O.E.D.”

“I’m just saying, look it up if you don’t believe me—“

“Guys,” Cal cuts in, “look!”

The suggestive Scrabble debate temporarily forgotten, TJ and Ruby smush themselves between the two front seats, straining for a glimpse out the windshield. Unwilling to totally abandon your dejection, you settle for just shifting your eyes forward and, sure enough, there’s a line of cars leading to a dripping banner that reads “Thunderstruck!” in art-deco lettering. The name probably wasn’t intended to be quite so literal.

The short version: Thunderstruck is a music festival. Of course, it isn’t just a music festival, it’s a tradition. Not Thunderstruck itself, but this: packing up Cal’s mom’s car and taking the last week of summer to search out the best (affordable) music in the Midwest, TJ and Ruby perpetually arguing about something, Cal knowing just when to break in to prevent a slap-fight. It’s all another link in the long chain of moments that lead to right now, like the fifth-year bead on your summer camp necklace or the quarter note tattoo on your left ankle that you still haven’t worked up the courage to tell your mom about. Four quarter notes—TJ, Ruby, Cal, and you—to a whole note.

And part of you—most of you—knows that one more moment wasn’t going to make this friendship, this tradition, this chapter of your life any more permanent than eight years and honest-to-God ink injected into your dermis already has, but what if it did? What if, someday, all you can remember about that quarter note on your ankle is the day that it wasn’t supposed to rain? Then, Cal hits the brakes harder than he has since driver’s ed class and you’re weightless for a moment before the seatbelt catches you.

“Man, what the hell?” Ruby yelps from the back seat, but you already know. The car in front of you is stopped and so is the car in front of it. The road ahead has been reduced to a line of brake-lights, shining through the rainy haze like the eyes of sneaky, concert-ruining demons. And at the end, the Thunderstruck sign is no longer even visible. You go back to staring out the window, Cal drums his fingers on the steering wheel, and TJ starts asking Ruby about the versatility of her Victorian vulgarity.

***

Twenty minutes of absolutely no forward progress pass before a soggy security guard raps on the window.

“Hey kids,” he starts and you can sense Ruby gearing up for a forthcoming rant about generational dynamics in America and how you’re not kids anymore, damn it. “Listen, there was some unexpected water damage up by the gate. Busted drainage caused some minor flooding up the road here. The venue is on higher ground, so they’re going ahead with the lineup, but you’ll have to walk the rest of the way. Just pull off if you’re staying, so we can work on getting the rest of these cars out, yeah?” He doesn’t actually wait for a response, just swipes the rainwater out of his eyes and trudges on to the next vehicle. You don’t really blame him, but you do wonder what, exactly, would qualify as expected water damage...

By silent agreement, everyone waits patiently while Cal maneuvers the car off to the side of the road, muttering about mud and the cost of hypothetical tow trucks. You complete a mental inventory and note that there are no umbrellas in the car but decide not to say anything.

***

The walk to where the entrance used to be is longer than it looked from the warm interior of a parked vehicle half an hour ago. The quilted jacket that you layered over your cardigan has soaked up enough water to fill a decent-sized fishbowl and TJ, who refused to borrow Ruby’s spare hoodie on the grounds that it has rhinestones, could probably win a wet T-shirt contest at this point. Then, you see the “minor flooding.”

“Sam,” Ruby whines looking down at her unfortunately chosen (and already sopping) espadrilles, “I thought you said it wasn’t supposed to rain.”

***

After trekking to the gate, wading across the flooded stretch of pavement, and enduring the eventual—though ineffectual—stamping of four wet hands with a black-ink storm cloud and the tagline “Get Thunderstruck!,” your journey culminates in scaling a slick, grassy bluff. As you crest this relatively minor hill with Sisyphean-level exhaustion and chattering teeth, you are finally able to behold the festival itself. And what you see is this: an athletics field that presumably belongs to the Catholic school you passed on the drive in, several small stages erected at the ends of the muddy paths that extend out from the field, a row of food trucks and merchandise stands off to one side and, directly across from you, the main-stage. This moment was supposed to be euphoric, an immersion of your musical souls with other musical souls under the last best day of summer sun. Instead, the four of you join a decidedly non-euphoric stream of festival-goers heading for the food trucks and, you must admit, a hot drink sounds like a good idea right about now.

“I’m gonna head over to merch and grab myself a real jacket,” TJ says, bumping his shoulder against yours, “Get me a tea or a coffee. Anything warm.” Automatically, Ruby follows him. And when, exactly, did that become the expectation? It must be lost in that self-eroding sequence of remember-remember-remember. Or maybe you just never bothered to notice before.

“You okay, Sam?” Cal asks, shuffling forward a half-step to keep up with the line you’ve apparently joined. You shrug.

The effort of articulating the wrongness of this day is more than daunting, but, knowing Cal won’t let it go that easily, you add, “Of course. I’m just gonna miss you guys, that’s all.” It’s halfway true. Or, rather, completely true but only half the problem.

Cal makes a face like he knows more than you’re telling, as he always does. You expect him to push it, but he doesn’t. Instead, he starts grumbling about his Spanish placement test, which is scheduled for next Tuesday at the “ungodly hour” of 8:20am. Cal’s war on mornings prompts a reluctant smile and memories of countless high school days starting with Cal in silent—or, often, less than silent—protest of the American education system’s persistent need to start the school day “in accordance with archaic farming practices” and “in direct conflict with our adolescent systems’ natural tendencies.”

“And who schedules an exam at 8:20?” he continues, stressing the “twenty” in order to highlight just how much this display of unconventional timekeeping somehow offends his own unconventional sensibilities. Your friend’s familiar idiosyncrasies do more for your mood than the tray of warm beverages you come away with ever could. Nonetheless, you clutch your extra-large hot chocolate to your chest and actively resist the urge to mutter “preciousss…” under your breath. Cal smirks at you, with just a hint of self-satisfaction, over the rim of his green tea—blech!—like cheering you up was some kind of sneaky victory. You open your mouth to insist that, really, nothing was even wrong, but are interrupted by the return of TJ and Ruby carrying what appears to be the wares an entire merchandise cart between them.

“What—“ Cal starts to object, but Ruby cuts him off.

“Calvin J. Carter, so help me, don’t even say a word unless it’s ‘Thank you, Ruby, for your boundless beneficence and foresight! You should be crowned queen of all creation, Amen!’” This is, of course, done in a rather convincing imitation of Cal’s voice and, to your surprise as much as everyone else’s, you break out laughing. Once you’ve started, it’s a lost cause; the ensuing trade of soothing beverages for newly purchased jackets—as well as pins, t-shirts, dry socks, drawstring bags, commemorative shot glasses, picnic blankets, and, blessedly, rain-ponchos—is halted several times by fits of giggles from its participants, none of whom seem to mind in the least.

***

Dressed like festival fanatics—but measurably warmer and dryer—the four of you make your rounds at the various mini-stages throughout the afternoon, enjoying the musical stylings of several artists who will undoubtedly make it big one day and at least twice as many who, according to TJ, might want to consider other career options. Sometime around Cal’s third refrain of, “It’s like watching Arcade Fire at Lollapalooza in ‘05,” the rain all but dies down.

Your favorite part of the afternoon comes when you discover a huge chalkboard in the shadow of the main-stage with the words “Before I Die I Want to...” painted in white block letters at the top. There are buckets of mostly dry chalk at the base and festival-goers have been using them to add their ambitions to the board. You each take turns reading a few.

“Skydive,” “Meet Stevie Nicks,” “See Jamaica.”

“Make up with my father,” “Write music.”

“Fall in love,” “Be positive. ”

“Create something bigger than myself. ”

“Live.”

Then, you each take a stick of chalk and add your own little dreams to the mix. You promise yourself you won’t keep track of where the others go and focus only on yourself. The chalk you picked is electric green and even though you hate the way it makes your skin feel, there’s something thrilling about declaring your intentions to the world. In small, neat letters, you write: “Have a life worth remembering.”

When you step back, everyone seems to be done except Ruby, who is adding outlines to her declaration in extra colors. You don’t mind waiting.

“What did you write?” Cal asks.

“I can’t say or it might not come true.”

“It’s not a wish, Sam. It’s a dream.”

“Same thing,” you say. But it isn’t.

***

The evening proceeds much the same as the rest of the day had done, a relatively uninterrupted flow of mediocre music, good food, and excellent company. As dark starts to fall over the festival, you hear over the loudspeaker that Monkey Friendly will be on the main-stage in 30 minutes, the last act of the night. Cal turns to you, eyes wide.

“Monkey Friendly?!” he exclaims. In all the commotion surrounding your arrival, you’d almost forgotten Monkey Friendly was playing tonight. They are Cal’s favorite group and hardly ever tour. This was supposed to be a surprise, a perfect farewell. TJ raises an eyebrow at you, and Ruby joins Cal in gathering everyone’s belongings to go scope out the perfect spot.

“Guess that explains why you were so against switching to the Ivy Garden festival,” TJ remarks, glancing over his shoulder before hurrying to follow Ruby and Cal. You just shrug. Nothing could possibly ruin this night.

***

Rain. Rain could ruin this night. Again. Half an hour is, of course, plenty of time for good ol’ Indiana to kick up a world-class rainstorm. And the sequel is, by design, always worse than the original.

There are still roadies on the stage, uncertainly sound-checking and testing equipment and mostly waiting for someone to call the whole thing off. Cal is pacing the perimeter of the picnic blanket, his sneakers squelching rhythmically. At every corner, he flicks his eyes to yours, just for a moment, as if to assure you that this isn’t your fault. But it is. Or it feels that way, at least, getting his hopes up like this.

“They’ll still go on. Of course, they will. They have to. They hardly ever tour, so they just have to,” Ruby keeps saying in a naive attempt to comfort Cal. You don’t have the heart to shush her, even though you know chatter only winds Cal up in situations like this. You don’t have the right to shush her; this is all your fault. That memory-eating disease is spreading into the present, washing out moments like light-ruined film right before your eyes.

Somewhere, you hear the telltale swoosh of wind whipping though trees and the rain starts coming harder. Great.

Bump. Bump. Bump.

At first, you figure someone forgot to disconnect a mic before starting to pack it away. Thunder rumbles and then, another three thumps. No, taps.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Are you ready, Indiana?” Cheering.

Four rimshots and then, music. You might as well be watching the creation of the universe, judging from Cal’s euphoria. And it’s a bit like that, isn’t it? In the beginning, blackness, nothing. Then, everything.

Drumbeats in your bones and guitar in your heart. The lead singer crooning the opener like it’s nothing, even as thunder burbles up over the melody. The stage lights come up and the crowd, small and soaking again, drowns out the storm. For the first time, an advantage of this arrangement occurs to you. Everybody left, everyone that bothered to stick it out, loves music like they love air. They’re all in.

The first song ends.

“Alright, Thunderstruck! I know this isn’t what any of us had in mind, but we spent years suffering for our art. Now, it’s your turn to join us,” the singer jokes. “What do you think, are you up to the challenge?” The crowd cheers in what must be an affirmative because the band picks up again. You glance over at TJ and Ruby and find them hopping in the puddle that has formed in the middle of the sodden blanket, not even on the beat. You take in the mass of people in raincoats and ponchos (a few fools even trying to hold onto umbrellas), arms waving like they’re just daring lightning to strike them right now. You look at the band onstage, the lead singer’s mascara visibly running and her wide, wide smile.

You peek at Cal and realize he isn’t watching the band. He’s looking at you. Okay, all in. All in.

You cross the tiny blanket, dodging TJ’s wild flailing and end up toe to toe with Cal. He’s got his plastic poncho hood pulled up, dripping rain right into his eyes.

“Is it everything you hoped it would be?” you ask, meaning the music.

“Even better,” he says, not talking about the music at all. “Wanna dance?”

A dozen excuses spring to your tongue: You’ll get mud on your shoes. It’s too crowded. You don’t really know how to dance. He’s leaving for school in New York in two weeks. Your memories are dissolving.

What you say is: “It’s raining.”

And he says: “So what?”

So, you dance. In the purple aurora of stage lights, to the beat of the drums—or is it the thunder?—you dance. So what?

And when it’s all over, all just a memory, the four of you walk, with arms linked, past the board where you declared your dreams just hours earlier. All of the chalk has blended together and run down in a Pollock-style flood of color. You think of your memories, melting like cotton candy and wet-chalk dreams, and say to the best friends you’ll ever have: “Remember this.”