This is the final installment in a series exploring Willie Nelson’s 1975 Fourth of July Picnic through the eyes of an attendee. To start at the beginning, click here .
I woke with a beam of sunshine streaming through a hole in the tarp into my face. I blinked my eyes a few times and silently went through some multiplication tables. That success gave me confidence to face the day. It was eerily quiet as I backed out of the tent. I stood up, stretched, and looked around. I imagined Victor Hugo could have used this pasture as a basis for his description of the battlefield on the day after Waterloo.
The great army was gone. The field was littered with garbage, abandoned supplies, and broken equipment. The survivors were packing up to leave or assisting their wounded. Scavengers were picking through the detritus, looking for anything of value. The soldiers of the stage crew were already packing equipment, loading trucks, and breaking down the stage.
Although the morning was bright, it appeared a familiar figure was approaching me as if in a haze. They were carrying a large chest, and they seemed to be dressed in ghost-like fashion. As they got closer, I realized the apparition was Mike, so loaded down with items he had claimed from the field that he had also begun to put on layers of sundry clothing.
“Look at all this great shit I picked up. People just went off and left this stuff. Can you believe it?” he exclaimed.
“Maybe they didn’t,” I said. “Look at that guy over there going through that camp. Maybe someone right now is going through his camp and picking things out. Maybe you are all stealing from each other.”
He looked at me a moment and considered, then said, “Nah. There’s more stuff than people.”
Knowing he wouldn’t be reasoned with, I joined him in going through his prizes. At this point, I was mostly concerned with food. “Did you find anything to eat?” I asked.
“In the cooler,” he said. “That cooler is great, by the way. It’s a brand-new Coleman. All aluminum with metal handles and matching bottle openers on each end. It still has ice that hasn’t melted. This might be the best ice chest ever made.”
“That’s an ice chest you can grow old and raise a family with,” I agreed as I sorted through the food and found some Twinkies that weren’t too badly crushed.
“Don’t make fun of the chest,” he said. “I will keep it and take care of it forever. I’ll never get tired of this green and white paint job.”
“Enough about the ice chest. You’re starting to scare me, and don’t even think about keeping it. That sheriff was looking for you last night, and there is nothing he’d like better than to catch you with stolen merchandise. That ice chest is probably valuable enough to get you a felony theft charge. Where’d you go last night anyway?” I asked.
“That group finally noticed me and asked what I was doing. I told them about the cop being after me and that I was hiding. Turns out they were Jesus Freaks, and taking care of the oppressed was their responsibility. We all laid low in their camp and smoked some pretty good pot. I slept there, and when I woke up this morning, they had already packed up and left. I guess they decided giving me refuge for the night satisfied their obligation and that it was best not to get caught with a refugee,” Mike explained.
“So he really was looking for me? That wasn’t just paranoia?” Mike asked.
“He was looking for you specifically; threatened me too if he found us together. I’m thinking there were so many of us yesterday the sheriff wanted to save his cells in case he needed them for any real bad people. Since it turned out to be a pretty peaceful day, he must have given the green light to make some arrests last night,” I theorized. “Anyway, let’s pack up and get out of here.”
“Are you serious that I can’t take the ice chest?” Mike asked with a downcast face.
“Leave it,” I said. “And get rid of all those clothes you’re wearing. It attracts attention to you. Let’s take out only what we came in with—except for these Twinkies.”
Mike finally agreed, and we made a pile of everything he had carried to our camp. Then, we neatly packed our own belongings. With Mike wearing his new Lone Stone State t-shirt, which was now torn, muddied, and bloodied, we carried our gear between us and joined a few stragglers heading to the exit.
When we got to the gate, we both came to an abrupt stop. Simultaneously, we spotted our nemesis in the exact spot we had first encountered him. He too was exhausted, his chin was on his chest, and he was breathing deeply with his eyes closed. We watched him for a while, considering our next move. Then Mike, with a sly grin on his face, motioned us forward.
When we got to the gate, we gently laid our burden down. Mike pulled the t-shirt over his head and quietly approached the deputy. He placed the t-shirt softly on the deputy’s lap and slowly backed away. Returning to me, we quickly picked up our gear and continued out the gate. Once on the road, the driver of an equipment truck that had observed Mike’s ceremony stopped and offered us a ride. We threw in our gear and climbed into the back of the truck, laughing as we rolled away.
The End.
