Sequel: Wish You Were Here. ›
Band on the Run.
One Night.
That night Tom decided to build a big bonfire, while he was doing that Cheryl and I ran to the closest liquor store and stocked up on wine, whiskey, and tequila (which we also bought some lime and salt to go with.) When we got back Tom had this huge fire going and about fifteen people were sitting around it with them, one of the guys had a guitar. He was playing some folk songs by Woody Guthrie and Bob Dylan while a joint was being passed around. Cheryl and I set the brown, paper sacks that contained our booze in the tent.
"I don't mind you sitting around our fire, but I hope you have your own booze," Tom says playfully and pulls a bottle of whiskey out of the brown paper sack.
"Honestly, Cheryl and I bought enough to share a little bit," I say to him, he looks at me puzzled but passes the whiskey around anyway. We had spoken earlier about trying not to share too much of our stuff with people, but I didn't see the point in gathering with a bunch of people like this if you weren't going to let yourself truly let yourself become one with the crowd and the music.
"You guys have such cool accents, like The Beatles," a girl says to Cheryl and I. She had a very soft voice with the smallest trace of a southern accent. I thought her voice was beautiful too, she sounded so kind and feminine.
"Thank you so much," I wasn't sure how to express my liking for her accent without seeming odd so I didn't. I found out later that seeming odd wasn't a problem here, I guess America had changed a lot since I was a little kid before we moved to England. Or perhaps I had changed.
"Where did you all come here from?" A guy, with a big smile, says directly to me.
"London," I say while smiling back at him. He had one of those smiles that was just so beautiful that it was contagious.
"Ah, I came here from Manhattan! I came here just to see The Who and Jimi Hendrix, I really don't dig many of the other performers. Maybe I'll change my mind by the end of the festival though," he shrugs.
"Honestly, I don't even know a lot of them. Maybe they're more popular here then in England."
While we engage in a long conversation about music and art, Tom stares across the fire at us. We talked for a long time before the guy, who I found out was named Keith, stopped and looked at me curiously.
"Say, are you seeing anyone?" Keith asked slyly.
"Yeah, she's my girl," Tom says protectively.
I was halfway expecting Keith to do something awful like Roger would, but he didn't. he just shrugs and says, "I guess all the cool girls are taken."
I blush a little bit, but I don't say anything because Tom is beside me with his arm around me offering me a joint before I can.
A few minutes go by, all the sudden four English accents are heard cutting through the darkness. For a moment I thought maybe the weed was laced and I was having a hallucination, but I was proven wrong when The Who were standing behind out fire asking us if we knew where they should be.
"I don't mind you sitting around our fire, but I hope you have your own booze," Tom says playfully and pulls a bottle of whiskey out of the brown paper sack.
"Honestly, Cheryl and I bought enough to share a little bit," I say to him, he looks at me puzzled but passes the whiskey around anyway. We had spoken earlier about trying not to share too much of our stuff with people, but I didn't see the point in gathering with a bunch of people like this if you weren't going to let yourself truly let yourself become one with the crowd and the music.
"You guys have such cool accents, like The Beatles," a girl says to Cheryl and I. She had a very soft voice with the smallest trace of a southern accent. I thought her voice was beautiful too, she sounded so kind and feminine.
"Thank you so much," I wasn't sure how to express my liking for her accent without seeming odd so I didn't. I found out later that seeming odd wasn't a problem here, I guess America had changed a lot since I was a little kid before we moved to England. Or perhaps I had changed.
"Where did you all come here from?" A guy, with a big smile, says directly to me.
"London," I say while smiling back at him. He had one of those smiles that was just so beautiful that it was contagious.
"Ah, I came here from Manhattan! I came here just to see The Who and Jimi Hendrix, I really don't dig many of the other performers. Maybe I'll change my mind by the end of the festival though," he shrugs.
"Honestly, I don't even know a lot of them. Maybe they're more popular here then in England."
While we engage in a long conversation about music and art, Tom stares across the fire at us. We talked for a long time before the guy, who I found out was named Keith, stopped and looked at me curiously.
"Say, are you seeing anyone?" Keith asked slyly.
"Yeah, she's my girl," Tom says protectively.
I was halfway expecting Keith to do something awful like Roger would, but he didn't. he just shrugs and says, "I guess all the cool girls are taken."
I blush a little bit, but I don't say anything because Tom is beside me with his arm around me offering me a joint before I can.
A few minutes go by, all the sudden four English accents are heard cutting through the darkness. For a moment I thought maybe the weed was laced and I was having a hallucination, but I was proven wrong when The Who were standing behind out fire asking us if we knew where they should be.