THE SEASONAL FESTIVAL
by Stewart Berg
The story of a family’s time at a music festival, as experienced by their young son and centered around a performance by their favorite band.
They had been camping for an estimated eighty episodes. This count was known to him because his mother had just informed him of it, and the additional fact of the tens place having just ticked a notch higher made the last half-hour seem retroactively momentous. He was, at that moment, in the process of looking about the inside of the small tent for any signs of this significance.
“Mom,” he asked, “what’s flatable?”
“Where are you seeing that, sweetie?”
“It’s on the box,” he pointed.
“It says inflatable, sweetie. That’s the mattress you slept on last night.”
“What’s it mean?”
“It means it can be squished down small then blown up.”
His eyes went wide.
“Blown up like a bomb?”
“Damn it,” his father interrupted, addressing his mother. “Don’t get him scared about it now. We still have one more night, and I’m not sleeping in the car with him.”
His mother ignored the comment and redirected herself to him.
“Inflatable just means air can go into it, sweetie. That’s all.”
He took another look at the box then looked back to his mother, who was smiling at him brightly. His father’s attention appeared to have fully returned to the act of pulling a disposable razor down a few parts of his chin. It didn’t make sense that inflatable meant air could go into something because he had seen many things full of air without ever having heard the word inflatable.
“Okay,” he said, and his mother smiled again for reply.
The simple subtraction that he learned in school told him that they had now been camping for a whopping seventy-five more episodes than he had ever been allowed to watch in a row. He tried to imagine the act of watching eighty episodes. It seemed obvious that such a number would be enough to watch every season of every series ever made.
“Would you get up already?” his father suddenly said. “Last night, you complained you couldn’t sleep.”
“Here, sweetie,” his mother quickly said, “let me help you get your jacket on.”
“I’m not cold,” he answered.
“We’re going to be out all day, sweetie, so you better bring it.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s how long the festival lasts.”
“Dad doesn’t have one.”
“Dad also doesn’t complain,” his father interrupted.
“I have your father’s jacket here with me,” his mother explained. “He’s going to put it on when you do.”
Reluctantly, as well as slightly relishingly, he pulled his legs from his sleeping bag. While still on his back, he arched himself in order to reach his pants then did a strenuous sit-up to throw the clothing past his toes.
“Quit making a scene of yourself,” his father said. “We’re leaving with or without you.”
He leapt from the floor of the tent and started counting. By three-Mississippi, he already had on his shirt and was holding one of his socks. By six-Mississippi, he had located both his shoes. Before ten-Mississippi, he was ready except for the fact that his shoes were still untied, which he didn’t consider a necessary aspect of the rules.
“I beat you!” he exclaimed after jumping through the tent’s opening. “I beat both of you.”
“You did, sweetie,” his mother said, emerging after. “Don’t run off now.”
This warning from his mother reminded him to look about, and, like the morning prior, he found himself to be in a wonderland. Tents abounded for what seemed miles all around, and he could look up and down the dirt road and see all sorts of little communities doing all sorts of little things. There was a large dumpster not far from his family’s campsite, but even this had its marvels. The receptable was overflowing such that its lids had been tossed over its back, and the trash brimming it had all the colors of a rainbow and all the variety of a sideshow. He saw half-eaten chicken tenders, streamers spilling out and sticking to the bin’s sides, and what looked like a giant foam baseball glove. He saw half-flattened boxes, a teetering tub of potato salad, and what looked like a rubber leg sticking up straight from it all like a flagpole. The sight was so striking and fantastical that he could only compare it to the scene after an old-time battle, though he had never been told how such actually appeared, so this was only a guess.
“What are you doing?” his father suddenly said. “Get over here.”
He walked back to his family’s tent and took the disposable toothbrush that his father was thrusting through the opening.
“Do I have to?” he asked.
“I’m handing it to you,” his father answered.
“But there’s nothing to wash it out with.”
“I filled up our water bottle, sweetie,” his mother said. “I’m coming back out with it in a second.”
He counted to two-Mississippi, which was his judged limit for how long before another legitimate-seeming complaint would be impossible. Finding nothing, he began brushing.
As his mouth began to foam, he absentmindedly wandered off toward the dirt road. He looked again at the dumpster and tried to remember what he had been thinking about it.
Just then, he became aware of a couple walking down the road toward him, and they were close enough that they must have been watching him the whole time. The man was shirtless atop huck-finned jeans, and the woman’s face was painted so that she had roses on either cheek, and she was wearing a white t-shirt atop tights and a tennis skirt.
Only old enough to know of women that he was supposed to desperately want them, the sight of the couple arrested him entirely. He didn’t know what to do for a time he forgot to count, and the only thing he could think of was trying to figure out the woman. As they passed, the man gave him a puzzled look, but the woman didn’t seem to notice him at all. She did, however, point in his direction, but it was only to bring her boyfriend’s attention to the community that happened to be camped behind his family. He had already seen them himself that morning, of course. Their tents were arranged in a large circle, with strings of lights hung from the surrounding trees and crisscrossing overhead, and, in the middle of it all, there was currently a drum circle around the breakfast they were cooking.
“Come on,” his father suddenly said. “I have your water here.”
Without hearing the words, he shook his head.
“Get over here,” his father said, raising his voice. “You have toothpaste running down your damn chin. A second ago, you weren’t going to brush without it.”
He hurried back to his father and took the water bottle from him.
“Go on,” his father said. “Don’t spit it out in front of the tent.”
Walking sufficiently far enough away, he did his deed then remained that way, watching the water as it fell evermore infrequently from his chin. Once the chain reached the point where he could feel the formation of a particular droplet, he began to play with nature. He listed his head to one side and watched the affected droplet take a turning dive, and then, he listed back the other way in time to see the ensuing droplet do the exact opposite. He next held himself completely still and allowed a droplet to swell. When the weight of the thing finally removed it from him, he tried dropping his head as quickly as possible so that the droplet would be reunited with where it had just fallen from. He failed, of course, but continued trying.
“What are you doing?” his father suddenly said. “Come on. We’re leaving.”
He turned around to the sight of his parents waiting for him, though each was, however, momentarily preoccupied. Standing beside the tent’s opening, his mother was smiling down at her phone while his father frowned down at his. He wiped his chin and walked toward them.
“Come on,” his father said when he was close. “We still have plenty of time before they’re on stage, but I don’t want to take a chance.”
The trio began the short trek from their campsite to the dirt road. There were a few clouds in the sky, but rain was the furthest thing from anyone’s mind.
“My glasses!” his mother exclaimed, and, without another word, she turned and hurried back to the tent.
His father mimed continued walking then stopped and gave him a conspiratorial smile. He smiled back, though he wasn’t sure why his mother’s forgetting of her sunglasses was something that was his fault.
When his mother eventually reemerged from the tent, she placed the sunglasses atop her head then fixed their position.
“I couldn’t forget them,” she said.
“They do complete the look,” his father answered.
“Well, I can’t stand around squinting all day. Otherwise, you’d complain about that.”
“Maybe he’ll notice you.”
His mother laughed and became mock-dreamy.
“Do you really think so?” she said. “You mean I might be rescued and whisked away to wherever it is that riches spend their leisure?”
“To get all that, you might have to take off your shirt, too.”
His mother laughed then lightly jabbed his father in the ribs, and the man brought her in for an embrace.
“Who?” he asked.
“What’s that?” his father answered.
“Who are you talking about?”
“Who do you think? The Audacious Crouse. That’s who we’re here for.”
This title brought to his mind all sorts of things. He knew, of course, that the band’s show that afternoon was his family’s main reason for coming to the festival. He knew, additionally, a number of their songs, though his familiarity with them was more in the form of being able to recognize his parents’ favorites than anything else. There were also all the nightmares the band had caused him, which were impossible to forget.
These nightmares, though not occurring for over a year, had never truly left him. They had been spawned by his harmless picking up of one of the band’s albums from off his family’s living room floor. The album was titled Mawnings, and its cover was simply a photo of several men lounging about a pool at sunrise, each with a hand lifted in order to shield his face from the new brightness. The sun, however, was unlike all else. Rather than being the normal, yellow, rounded ball, it had been drawn onto the cover like a cartoon and sporting several rows of sharp, ravenous teeth. His father explained to him the social relevance and importance of the cover several times, but he had nevertheless gone to sleep for months with the fear that he would be waking into a terrible and devouring new day.
“Answer your mother,” his father suddenly said.
“What?” he asked.
“Tell her whether you’re hungry or not. How many times does she have to ask?”
“How close are you to being ready for lunch, sweetie?” his mother asked.
“I’m hungry.”
“Are you hungry right this second, or can you wait until we eat lunch later?”
“Right this second. I’m starving.”
“Don’t say that,” his father interrupted. “There are kids out there who actually are.”
“Who?”
“Kids all over the world.”
“Why?”
“Would you stop asking stupid questions?”
“We can get him something as soon as we get inside,” his mother said.
“We have to meet Bradley over there, anyway, I guess,” his father replied.
At the sound of this name, he was reminded that his day wasn’t going to involve just his parents and himself. He had met this Bradley at several holiday gatherings before, and the man had always been introduced to him as his uncle, though no one on those occasions ever referred to him as his father’s brother. This association despite strange alienation was the primary thing he remembered about the man. If he was his uncle but not his father’s brother, he imagined there must either be something wrong or interesting about him.
By this time, they had walked far enough to come to a juncture with a gravel road that was considerably wider than the dirt one they were camped along. Traveling between the figures of his parents, he felt at liberty to take in the world at large, though he was largely struck by what he saw. Thinking back, he wondered if any of his friends had known how childish he himself must have seemed during those times when he had made fun of littler kids for playing with glitter. Turning left at the juncture of dirt and gravel, they joined the slight stream of others going their same direction.
“It looks like a good amount of people,” his father said.
“The main stage has its first show of the day, too,” his mother replied.
“Who is it?”
“I’m not sure.”
“And yet, that’s where everyone will go, I bet. No one cares about the band actually saying something. No one even cares at all. I wonder who it is.”
“I’m not sure.”
“Remember that, Jacob. If everyone’s doing something, it’s always wrong.”
“Don’t listen to your father, sweetie. He’s just exited to see his favorite band.”
“My favorite band? Who was the one who made me keep listening to them? I was the idiot who said I hated them on our first date.”
This reference to his parents’ former lives roused his interest, as such always did. Moreover, his mother’s instigation of a thing he knew to be rebellious shocked him in a way that made it momentarily impossible for him to view her solely as a mother. Even further, she seemed good-naturedly frazzled in the face of it, as if the comment had allowed her former self a short stroll outside the bounds of memory.
“Pay attention,” his father suddenly said.
“Hurry up and put your wristband on, sweetie,” his mother said.
“Why?”
“Because you have to, sweetie.”
“Why?”
“Because you can’t get in without it. We’re almost to the gate.”
“Does everyone have one?”
“Yes, of course, sweetie. Everyone needs it to get in.”
“What’ll happen?”
“Will you just put the damn thing on?” his father interrupted. “I didn’t hear you complaining about it yesterday.”
He allowed his mother to fasten the band about his wrist, and they passed through the festival entrance without issue.
“Are you ready to eat now, sweetie?” his mother asked.
He nodded.
“Bradley’s here already, I’m sure,” his father said.
“Are you going to look for him?” his mother asked.
“I’m going to get a beer first. I’ll get him one, too. Do you want one?”
“No, I’m just going to have water today, I think.”
There was a pavilion just inside the festival entrance, and his mother led the way to one of the unoccupied picnic tables at the edge of it. She unshouldered her bag, and he sat down beside it.
“Are you hungry enough for a burger?” his father asked.
He shrugged.
“It’ll just be yours, so you’ll have to finish it by yourself.”
He shook his head.
“What do you want, then?”
“Do they have pretzels?”
“I’m sure they do somewhere. Is that what you want?”
He nodded.
“Okay,” his father said, addressing his mother, “I’ll go get two beers and then find him a pretzel. Do you guys want to hang out here?”
“Sure,” she said while smiling down at him. “I think we’ll be able to survive.”
His parents kissed then parted, and he watched his father disappear into the circles and lines of everyone around. This loss of a singular subject into a mess of others was like a developing kaleidoscope in his mind, and, as often happened at such times, he became lost in thought over something that had never seemed to make sense.
He was aware of fashion, of course, considering he went to school. He was not, however, aware of fashion’s shrouded dictates, since he knew that such was special knowledge for those specially attuned to it. He had tried to figure it out, of course, but all he had learned was that asking a wearer the reason why he or she was wearing something would only bring him some kind of severe rebuke. Frequently, his own question would even be turned back on him, and the wearer would, instead, demand that the reason come from him, as if his very attempt at applying meaning to the universe was insulting. He had tried to stand naked before his closet and dress without caring the way others apparently did, but he found it impossible, since even decided non-caring seemed to be a form of caring. As he now looked about the pavilion’s human sea and found variety to be the only uniformity, he wondered how it was that people were able to so surely know what to wear without caring.
“Greg should be back any minute,” his mother said. “I’m not sure where they have the restrooms, but I shouldn’t be long, either.”
He looked up and realized his mother wasn’t speaking to him. She was gone almost as soon as he saw her, and Bradley sat down next to him on the picnic table’s bench.
“Hey, buddy,” the man said.
“Hey.”
“Are you excited for the show?”
He shrugged.
“Are you a fan? I know they’re your parents’ favorite.”
He nodded.
“What’s your favorite song of theirs?”
“‘Up’s Down.’ My dad plays it a lot.”
Bradley leaned back and smiled, reminiscing about what had just been said.
“I like those story ones, too,” the man replied. “‘Up’s Revenge’ is probably my favorite of them. You never hear guitar solos anymore. The Audacious Crouse do everything, though. They’re what every other band tries to act like it is. You don’t actually like all the music the rest of your generation does, do you?”
“Are you dad’s brother?” he asked, which was a question he had, of course, long had on his mind, though he couldn’t say why it had broken forth from him then.
“Of course, I am,” Bradly laughed. “You’re my nephew, right? Your dad and I are brothers-in-law.”
Though he had received an affirmative, he couldn’t help but notice the qualifier added on at the end. He had heard of brothers-in-arms but never of brothers-in-law. A friend of his had an adopted sister, and this friend had told him of having to go to a courtroom and before an actual judge in order for his sister to count, but this was the only comparison he had. If his father and Bradley had done the same, did this mean that one of them had to have been adopted from something? Was his father also, or perhaps merely, his father-in-law?
“What are you thinking about, buddy?” Bradly asked.
“Are you and dad brothers?”
“Well, yeah, buddy. I just told you that. He’s my brother-in-law.”
“What about without?”
“Without what?”
“Without a judge.”
“There’s no judge. Why would there be? Your Aunt Amanda would’ve been the closest thing, I guess.”
He didn’t answer right away because none of it made sense. If there was a whole other level of relationships as defined by law, why had he never heard of it? Did there exist determiners of family just like there were those for fashion, and had he perhaps somehow slipped through the cracks of their judgement such that he would be continually susceptible to potential trial? He had heard of people who had to always be afraid of the law, but he also knew it was because they were supposed to be. Now that he was seemingly feeling those fears, he wondered what he had or hadn’t done.
“Is dad my dad-in-law?” he asked.
“Of course not, buddy,” Bradley answered, and the annoyance in his voice was unmistakable, even across the generational gap. “He’s your dad. You know that.”
Both exasperated as well as now cowed by the knowledge of having exasperated a grownup, he said nothing. He wanted to ask which brother had adopted the other, but he felt as if he was so confused that any question of his wouldn’t even be properly directed. Like with many things that went on in the world, he decided he would have to resolve to forget about it.
Bradley stood up from the picnic table to shake his father’s hand. As part of the same movement, his father handed him his pretzel and warned him to be careful with it.
“When was the last time you saw them?” his father asked.
“I was at the last show of the last tour,” Bradley answered.
“It’s been over two years for me. I didn’t get a chance to see them on that last one.”
“I had to drive over four hours, but I wasn’t going to miss it. It was raining, but no one cared. I still can’t believe no one’s talking about their new album.”
“Good luck even hearing anyone talk about any of their older ones. Good luck getting them to tell you why, too.”
“Someday, their grandkids are going to talk about how lucky they were to have been alive when The Audacious Crouse was still making music, and they’ll act like they were fans the whole time. It’s like in “Little White Lies,” where there’s that lyric about how truth requires two sets of eyes, both the main pair and then another pair looking over its shoulder.”
“Where’s Kate?”
This question from his father caused the two men to turn in place and look about for several moments.
“She was just going to the restroom,” Bradley said. “It’s only been a few minutes.”
“Let’s go wait for her, I guess,” his father replied. “I want to make sure we can get up close to the stage.”
With the saying of this last comment, his father seemed to remember his son, and the man turned back to him.
“Can you eat and walk?” his father asked.
He nodded from around his pretzel.
“Are you going to be ready for the show in a little bit? Remember that the stage is going to seem really big, so be ready for it. It’s going to be a lot bigger than the show you were at last summer. Remember that?”
He nodded again.
“That’s good to hear. Let’s go find your mom.”
The trio began a meandering path through the pavilion toward a concrete, bunker-like structure at the other end. Both Bradley and his father were tall men, and they swiveled their heads as they walked, making sure their purpose couldn’t escape their notice.
His pretzel still had some left, and he remained so immersed in it that he missed the comedic scene that played out over the next several minutes as his mother left the restroom, was missed by their little group, and then had to be relocated with much unnecessary walking and annoyance. When the time finally came that he reached the last bits of the pretzel, he instinctively stopped walking, as if his body was insisting on being part of the savoring.
“Come on,” his father suddenly said. “We’re going to walk up front. Hold your mother’s hand.”
He reached up for the mentioned member before looking up to see the reason for it, and, upon doing so, he recoiled and pulled back.
“What’s wrong, sweetie?” his mother asked.
He didn’t want to say what he was afraid of since he knew he shouldn’t be. He had been prepared for the stage, but the suddenness of it took his breath away. They were, at that moment, only perhaps a hundred yards from the thing, and his legs were actually being asked to move him closer. He felt as if alone on a beach and at the opening of a monstrous and awe-inspiring cavern, and, indeed, that wide-and-deep stage seemed to have no back but blackness, and its roof came to a point that seemed impossibly high overhead and far out over the crowd.
“Looks like what we expected,” his father said, indicating the crowd before the stage.
“There are still a few minutes,” his mother offered.
“Who’s going to be here is here,” Bradley said. “If you say what everyone’s thinking, they’ll put you in every commercial, but if you say the thoughts that are actually in the back of everyone’s head, they’ll try to stop you from even having a commercial release.”
“Can you imagine The Audacious Crouse doing a commercial?” his father laughed.
“No one would even dare ask them, I bet.”
“They probably wouldn’t even let the person get the question out.”
“Actually, I bet they’d do a commercial for something no one would ever expect. They’d do a commercial for the type of place that wouldn’t even think of asking them to do one.”
“I could see them doing a commercial for some mom-and-pop.”
Though the words from his father and Bradley were distracting, he was still being moved unmistakably toward the stage. He couldn’t help but notice the behemoths of speakers that were stacked at either side, and each appeared not only bigger than he was but bigger than he could ever even imagine himself growing up to be. Like resting cannons, these speakers seemed all the more intimidating due to what he could imagine resulting from them.
“I see the perfect spot for us,” his father said. “It’s as close as we’ll get, I think.”
“Here, sweetie,” his mother said while stooping down to him. “Put these in.”
He looked at the earplugs with disdain. Being offered an apparent escape, he felt insulted and belittled. If his parents and everyone else around was able to take The Audacious Crouse’s degree of rebelliousness and social commentary, he didn’t see why he shouldn’t be expected to do the same. Turning slightly from his mother, he shook his head.
“You have to, sweetie. It’s going to be too loud.”
He again shook his head.
“Your father and I have our own pairs. Everyone’s going to have them in.”
This ultimate argument proved enough to convince him, and he took the earplugs just as his father began pulling their small group toward the spot he saw in the middle of the crowd.
When finally placed in position behind one row of standing fans and before another, it truly struck him that he was about to see The Audacious Crouse in real life. He had, of course, known this fact for some time, but, like all forthcoming things, it had been but the scenery of the moving present until the moment came when he found himself suddenly part of the scene. All around was readiness, and he tried to make himself so, as well.
He had quite naturally come to think of The Audacious Crouse as being larger than life; however, to be fair, he had naturally come to think this way of life itself, too. His idea of the band was thus like that of a deity, such that all good in the world he assumed to be in some way them-derived while all evil was simply that which the band had not yet had time to get to. He imagined that the band members must each be giants and capable of wielding the vast and weighty powers of discourse. So capable of what others were not, they, he assumed, must possess extra arms, legs, or eyes, or perhaps they were so far beyond such physicality that they would only appear to him as blinding beacons of edification. He imagined them arriving ahorsed and fully armored, but he knew this last thought of his was only based on the little he knew from history, which meant it would be incorrect.
“Time to put your earplugs in, sweetie,” his mother said.
He nodded but didn’t do as asked. A moment later, however, an unignorable power forced the action, and the earplugs were no sooner in his ears than a pounding began in his feet. He looked down in wonder and confirmed that the ground did, indeed, appear to be vibrating. The crowd all around went hysterical with joy, and he knew The Audacious Crouse must have come onstage.
During the first minutes of the show, he found himself thankful for the fact that he was only able to see the legs of those around him. He was, of course, intensely curious of The Audacious Crouse, but he was, simultaneously, unsure if he would be able to stand the sight. If the band truly was enlightenment incarnate, might not the brightness blind the unprepared?
“I’m going to lift you up,” his father suddenly said. “You’ll get a quick chance to see.”
Before he could even consider squirming away, he was in the air, and he felt himself being pulled closer and closer to what he knew to be the band’s true and powerful sound. What had before been a vibration that he could feel in his feet quickly became one he could feel inside his chest, and he imaged that this must be the result of the band’s message beginning to take root in him. It was as if the sound was consuming him, though this didn’t outright terrify him, since he had long been assured that such, when it happened, would be for the best.
“Look!” his father exclaimed. “He’s going to be coming right in front of us.”
He followed his father’s direction and saw that the band’s lead guitarist was, indeed, strutting about the stage in an arc that was going to bring him to the spot on it nearest them. Beyond the guitar, he could see nothing of the individual, and it felt as if his eyes were still taking some time to adjust to all the noise. He squinted, and the sight of this member of The Audacious Crouse became much clearer.
“Why, he’s just a man!” he exclaimed.
He had, of course, meant no harm by this remark. It had only been an expression of the reality before him; however, such is, as was the case here, often impertinence incarnate. All the surrounding grownups turned in his direction and scoffed or rolled their eyes, and he could feel his father’s embarrassment through the man’s hands. Bradley, though standing right beside his father, appeared to notice nothing, though he could tell that this unawareness was just a feint. Slowly and without a word, his father lowered him to the ground.
When back on his own two feet, he felt ashamed. He wasn’t certain of his exact failure, but the overwhelming reactions from others made it clear to him that some lacking of his had been exposed. He looked up at his parents, and he had a clear view of the bottom of their chins as they bobbed their heads to the beat. There were, of course, many questions in his head at that moment, but the music’s volume, in combination with his life experiences, kept them to himself. Shrugging his shoulders, he decided that there must be a great many things about grownup life that wouldn’t make sense until he became one.
Mr. Berg grew up split between rural Texas and a Seattle suburb. After graduating from Pacific Lutheran University in 2014, he moved to Austin, where he began publishing his Miscellanea series of eBooks before joining the Press. He lives in Marble Falls, Texas.