Butterman (Time) Travel, Inc. Read online

  Garbage is everywhere. Not just a few pieces of litter, but ankle-deep debris—clutter cast off from the masses without a care in the world.

  My clapping stops and I call out to Tristan over the loud music, “Thought these were supposed to be nature-loving hippies.”

  He shrugs from in front of me, his bare feet trampling all sorts of refuse as we push our way further in. A discarded ketchup stained napkin sticks to his left toe. Ugh.

  “Where there’s people, there’s trash,” he says loudly. “And there’s a shitload of people here.”

  “Disgusting.” A muddy paper cup crumples under my boot. Feeling especially glad I kept my shoes on, unlike Golden Boy, who wanted to be free from the confines of foot shields.

  Tristan leans back so we’re shoulder to shoulder. “Can’t dwell on that part of it. Like the negative to every positive theory. Keep your consciousness on the bigger scene here. Enjoy the landscape in the distance; the music at your ears, you know what I mean?”

  I glance at the horizon. “You call this a landscape?”

  When you’re from Alaska, calling a few trees and hills a landscape is like bragging to a millionaire you just made a hundred bucks.

  “Just wait til you hear Jimi,” Tristan says.

  I glance at my watch. “Yeah, well, it better be soon ‘cause the clock is ticking.”

  I really would hate for him to miss it, but I doubt he’s thinking rationally about our situation either. He can rebook a visit to this time string later. I mean, I’m all for appreciating great music, and I’ll effin’ love Frozen Solstice til the day I die, but his infatuation with this Jimi Hendrix character is over the top. The guy is ancient.

  The music from on stage is faster now, livelier—a man’s voice, with a woman’s mingling into it like harmonic threads. Folky and trippy at the same time. With my hand beside my mouth, I lean in toward Tristan’s ear and invade his personal space, creating a cone of conversational acoustics between us. “Did you happen to find out when Hendrix’s set is?”

  “Should be soon.” He clicks his teeth, gaze wandering the vicinity with fascination.

  I study him a minute. “So I don’t get it—why him? What’s so great about this particular dead rockstar?”

  Tristan half shrugs, not looking at me, but sliding himself closer, his chin above my ear. “Hard to explain. Certain people you just … understand, you know? My dad was into pre-millennium oldies, used to listen to ’em when I was a kid, working in our garage. Exposed me to a lot of artists I’d never know of otherwise. Jimi Hendrix was just a voice to me back then. A sublime voice. Couple years ago, when U-Turn was new to the scene and our first single was climbing the charts, I got a call my dad died.” He pauses, swallows hard so his voice hitches slightly when he continues. “He’d split from my mom when I was twelve, moved to San Fran. I hadn’t seen him in a few years, and man, that call gave me such a rush of guilt. Pain like I’d never felt. Pain I didn’t know was there.”

  A pang hits my chest, almost as if I absorbed some of his loss. I nod, avoiding a direct stare at the vulnerability now washing over his face. Afraid of disturbing the intimacy of the moment—right here in the middle of this music-hungry swarm.

  He continues, “I needed something to tie me back to my dad. I was nothing but an empty shell of a person then, so I streamed all these old Hendrix songs—he was the first one to pop in my mind. Ended up digging deeper, found a vault of old Web videos. Started watching them—all of them. Footage that blew my mind … of Jimi performing live, and him in these stellar musical zones, full of charisma. That stuff can’t be imitated, you know? It’s natural. And I couldn’t get enough of it.” His attention drifts a few seconds, as if remembering the exact moment.

  For some reason, I’m overwhelmed with the urge to embrace him. But I resist.

  “Funny thing, though,” he goes on, “he became more than a voice to me afterwards. He was this amazing person with so much fucking talent, but still a regular guy with hopes and fears. His entire existence gave me a connection to my dad that … I can’t explain.” A long sigh. “Since then, I’ve found motivation from tons of old artists, but Jimi’s the best. Something about him makes total sense to me.”

  I’m speechless for a minute, because he shared this with me, and because of the irony that now makes my throat constrict. Tristan was just a voice to me at one time too—a voice I didn’t much care for, but a voice all the same. Plastic, disposable. But each and every hour that passes, he’s becoming more.

  “You’ll always have that connection to your dad because of him,” I say finally.

  He meets my eyes for a longer time than usual. “Yeah. Guess my dad had the same sublime taste.” A bright smile stretches across his face now.

  Then, as if he suddenly remembers where we are, he checks our surroundings and grabs the arm of a nearby guy with a grizzly beard and long wavy hair. “Who’s playing right now?”

  “Jefferson Airplane, brother. Killing it.” The guy mock-plays an air guitar with a strained grin.

  I chuckle to myself.

  I have to say, historical though it may be, I’m finding this whole scene hilarious—all these dirty hippies so wrapped up in the tunes of the day, loving each other like nothing else in the world exists … and I guess for these few hours and days, it is the only thing. Guess I’m baffled by how easy it is for them to toss aside responsibility, obligation, surrender everything.

  I could never totally let go like that.

  Oblivious to their proximity, two girls with long loose hair and hip-hugger corduroys close in on me, their arms grazing mine. Their eyes are closed, their hands threatening the air with invisible drumsticks. Necks and mid-drifts glisten with sweat beneath cut off tee shirts.

  I step back, watching for a minute. They’re riding a wave I can’t see. A sound wave. More dancers move in to their circle, hop on the same wave. They’re probably all strangers, but sharing this music, this instant, with unspoken understanding. Preserved in song. So impossibly fitting, I can almost taste the moment: sticky and raw, juicy and flavorful. Ripe apples dipped in caramel.

  Something stirs deep inside me—an irrepressible urge to join in.

  A voice comes over the speaker in rattling wails. My attention jerks forward. Wish I could see over this basin of bobbing heads.

  Tristan tugs me forward. “Stay close, Butterman. You know how easy it is to get lost in this?”

  I hadn’t realized he wasn’t right beside me. So much is going on, I let myself get distracted. I’m supposed to be in command here. I have to admit, I didn’t expect Tristan to be so proactive either, which in all honesty, is kind of turning me on right now.

  I cling a bit closer to him, hesitant to take his arm and hold onto it. I want to. But I just can’t. Must stay focused.

  We move on, prodding our way through more bodies, inching our way through the littered mud toward the stage, the music growing louder the closer we get. I get whiffs of everything from campfires to dirty diapers, mixed with plenty of sweaty body odor and reefer. No one seems to care, though. They all just keep smiling and singing and dancing like it’s their life’s purpose, and it occurs to me, they have no idea how historical these few days will become.

  The thought of sharing such an iconic event in time compels me to reach out and grab Tristan’s arm, but he’s not beside me anymore. I do a 360, scan the area and people. My heart drops. He’s nowhere. Bodies start closing in on me, clammy limbs grazing my bare skin. I don’t even know how to get back to the time-craft. I’m sure I can find it, and I’ve got my watch on, but …

  My shoulder’s juddered backward. Tristan’s there, with a petite girl who’s wearing a wide flowered headband over honey-blond hair. “Hey, this is Nancy,” he says.

  Come on, no one has hair that perfect. Loose, spiral curls that look like she just stepped out of a salon? No way. Not in this muggy mess. I laugh through my introduction.

  “Hi, Bianca.” Her pretty face beams when she talks. “
Far out name.”

  “Thanks.” I glance at Tristan, who’s Mr. Laid-back now, cocky half-smile on his face. He leans down and whispers something in Nancy’s ear. I can’t make out what he says since some anti-war ditty is commanding the sound waves right now, but he’s acting like he’s known her forever.

  Someone bumps into me from behind. I stumble forward, land on my knees. My hands splatter into the grimy mud.

  “You all right?” A guy asks, helping me to my feet.

  My knees and hands are doused in dirt. I start to wipe my hair from my face, when mud splashes onto my lips, in my eyes. Great. Genius move.

  Tristan laughs. I’m about to fling mud at him, when I notice Nancy chuckling too, her wholesome face without a speck of contempt. I pause, look around. No one here is angry, or bitter or frustrated. They’re all having the time of their lives, doing their own thing.

  With concerted effort, I let my shoulders relax. Something like a cross between a sigh and a snort escapes my lips. Holy hell, I can just imagine the grief I’d get back home for interrupting the time string with a mud fight during Woodstock.

  Tristan slaps me on the shoulder in a buddy-buddy kinda way. “Right on, Butterman. Easy like Sunday morning. Come on, Nancy said she can get us in to see Jimi before he performs. Let’s go.”

  I check my watch, about to announce the time, when Tristan wraps his arm around Nancy’s shoulders. She threads her fingers through his and they turn to lead the way, her other arm draped at his waist behind his back.

  My easiness disintegrates, leaving me with a burning itch in my chest and sour taste in my mouth. Did I black out at some point or something? How the hell did Tristan find this girl in the middle of this cluster? After only meeting her once at the lake? I’m dumbfounded, trailing behind them, past more sweaty hippies. I have this unyielding desire to grab him, ask how he thinks it’s fair to lead some chick on just so he can meet his rock god?

  But I resist, in awe of the magic Tristan Helms casts over people—even here where he’s unknown. What was I thinking earlier? I mean, back at the lake, on the ground, I actually felt like I could … well, forget it. This is a professional arrangement, nothing more. And if I lose sight of that, I’m destined for humiliation.

  * * *

  By the time we reach the stage, we have about forty minutes left of our original two-hour excursion, which will get us back to Essence with a full hour remaining before departure. The area behind the stage is blocked off by ropes, and makeshift security guards in yellow tee shirts parole the grounds with smiles and bobbing heads, as laid-back as any other hippie here. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen a brawl or angry outburst yet. Flash forward a hundred years to my millennium and this place would be crawling with armed droid-cops.

  Then, as if on cue, a heavy whiff of reefer reminds me why everyone’s getting along. They’re all sedated. Joints and pipes are everywhere, along with foul cigarettes, both of them permeating the air. And who knows what else is going around.

  Nancy’s still tucked inside Tristan’s arm, her own draped at his waist. Makes me feel separated, cut off, and I don’t know how to take it. Too awkward. Part of me wants that connection to Tristan again—the one I was starting to feel before she came along. And as much as I’d love to sever that tie completely, the memory of it haunts me. Maybe he is only using her, but how far is he willing to go? Maybe he’s not the same guy I was starting to believe he was. The thought makes me cringe.

  We hang at the rope adjacent the stage and Nancy steps away, leaving Tristan’s fingers with a delayed sweep of her hand. She’s looking for someone.

  “Time check,” I call out. “You know we’ve got about thirty-five minutes for this, right?”

  He half nods, scratching his chin with anticipation.

  “I’ve been thinking, I’m gonna go ahead and turn myself in.” It’s a lie. The idea only popped into my head this moment. But saying it out loud lets me heave a sigh of relief. A smart player knows when to accept defeat.

  Tristan moves in closer, eyes wide. “What? No, you can’t. Not now.”

  I’m sure he’s more concerned about leaving Woodstock early than what happens to me. “Nothing else makes sense. My parents’ll know what to do, and I hate that I’ve disappointed them.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Butterman. You’re eighteen, not forty. You did what you thought was best.” He frowns, the creases around his mouth deepening. “But I won’t let you take the heat alone. I’ll speak on your behalf, however you need. Whatever fine they hit you with, I’ll pay. It was my fault too. But don’t give up.”

  I carve out a little divot in the earth with the toe of my boot. “I thought I could fix what went wrong, but I can’t avoid the consequences. I should’ve known better—it was crazy for me to bring you here.”

  “Yeah, but I’m paying, remember? It’s an excursion like you said. Tell them it was a last minute request and you didn’t trust the special agent showing up in the middle of a trip.” He takes a deep breath, inhaling the drenching aroma with his eyes closed.

  Maybe he’s right. It is my first solo time trip. I could play up the ignorance angle, convince my parents’ attorney I didn’t know any better and that the customer is always right. Even though the certification exam goes over DOT evasion in full detail.

  Watching a lazy smile form on Tristan’s lips, it occurs to me how inappropriate this situation is. He’s surrounded by drugs. This is really bad for him. What if he relapses? Or worse? We really need to get out of here.

  “Tristan, you shouldn’t be around all this—”

  “No, it’s cool.” He winks. “Don’t be a Butter—”

  “Don’t say it.” I snap. “I’m serious. What about your rehab?”

  “I’m not using,” he’s quick to retort. “People around me are, and that can’t be helped.”

  He’s right, but it’s not a great scenario. Even so, I’m not the drug police either. Hovering over his every move wouldn’t do any good, probably make him more likely to use. He’s a big boy.

  So I bite my tongue, let him make his own choices.

  Nancy returns, slides in beside Tristan and slips a hand in the edge of his front pocket.

  “LeeAnn’ll be here any minute.” Her voice is so mellow, it’s sing-songy to a point of exaggeration. She pulls Tristan in close and rests her chin against his shoulder.

  I avert my eyes.

  The boogie music on stage stops, and with it, the crowd slows to a lazy calm. A couple of guys in yellow tee shirts push past us with polite murmurs of “Excuse me.”

  To our right, on stage, a group of tie-dye-clad people move in. From this corner, we can see everything happening behind stage, as well as the front. The front of the audience is partially blocked from our view by the sound equipment. Enormous speakers mounted on makeshift towers protrude from the stage, and must be the main sound source supplying the show. Back in my millennium, when people want to see a live concert, we use a holographic live album app. Cheaper, safer, and accessible from anywhere. I admit, though, there’s something so authentically thrilling about a truly live concert.

  “Janis Joplin. Right on!” Nancy says, wiggling away from Tristan for a better look.

  Up on center stage, the woman who must be Janis in a tie-dyed pantsuit, long dirty-blond hair hanging down her back, takes the mike. The emcee calls out her name and the crowd roars with applause. No idea who this chick is, but from the sounds of the cheers, I must be the only one. Once the music invades the speakers, she croons into the mike. Gentle, easy lyrics. Leaves me with a feeling of denied gratification, after the way the crowd’s show of support suggested a magical performance.

  Tristan grabs my arm and I turn.

  Nancy’s got her arm linked into the arm of some chick with a pink hat on, and they’re leading us backstage, behind the roped area to a circle of white trailers.

  “I’m so stoked, Butterman,” Tristan says to me. “This is it. Unfuckingbelievable.”

&nbs
p; I feel a humph rise from my throat. “Actually, I do find it believable you’d lead that poor girl on to get what you want.”

  Just stoking the fire to see where he takes it.

  He hears me, but makes no acknowledgement, simply glances around at the white trailers. “Great set up. U-Turn did an outdoor concert once in Rockefeller. So different, though. Surrounded by buildings.” He breathes in the reefer-laced air. “Nothing like this. Out in the open. Nature everywhere. How it should be.”

  Hate to burst his bubble, but he needs a reality check in a big way, and I’m in the perfect mood to give it to him. “Has it occurred to you that we’re flirting with disaster right now? I will not miss our time window for you, or anyone.”

  He meets my eyes now, squinting as if sizing me up. He’s still bare-chested and I try not to be distracted with it. Of all the golden man muscles here, I keep reverting back to his and it’s annoying.

  “You just can’t do it, can you?” he asks, averting his eyes to the ground, his fingers twirling a half-trampled daisy.

  Not sure what to say, I fold my arms over my dirty shirtdress. The music allows no silence, nor any time for a clear thought.

  He glances up at me, his eyes glittering with amusement. “Two full hours, Butterman. That’s it. You couldn’t relax for even one.”

  “What difference does it make? And your time is almost up.” Why am I getting so hotheaded over this? Feels like my brain is about to erupt.

  “Tomorrow these fields will be empty. Biggest music-fest in the history of the world will be over, then we’ll go back to the lives we’re stuck with. Meanwhile, you’re missing it ‘cause you’re so wrapped up in rules and regulation and rehab.”

  The pulse at my temple throbs. I’d give anything to be able to live in the moment like him with no worries. I wanted to—I tried. I’m just not cut out that way. I’m a time traveler, and time travelers can’t get sidetracked with pleasure when there’s a job to do.