Chapter 1
Prologue
Zac Taylor and his entourage moved like sheep following a shepherd. The massive crowd of concert-goers hiked up a steep hill they believed would lead them to Woodstock ’94. Nearing the top, people began pointing upward. Following the fingers, they observed a tall sign—not yet readable from their current distance. “What do you think it says?” Jax asked. Other patrons were asking each other the same question, curious—not only with what the sign read but what might be waiting for them beyond it. They continued to climb upward, feeling fatigued and gasping for air. Eventually, the words were in focus. It was a large, white sign with dark-blue lettering, standing about twelve feet high and ten feet wide, reading from top to bottom:
Chills rushed through Zac’s body. He looked down at his arms; every hair was standing erect, a feeling he commonly referred to as “Spidey-sense.” Glancing down and to his right at Melany’s arm, her hand firmly gripping Zac’s, he noticed the hair on her arm was doing the same. Everyone who had made the journey—even the people Zac and his friends had picked-up along the way—had similar facial expressions.
They were smiling, yet these weren’t regular everyday smiles, or smiles of amazement and curiosity; theyweresmilesofarrival. They all stood directly underneath the welcoming sign, in one line, side-by-side, then Jax blurted, “Holy hell!” It was the perfect statement for a group that was observing the most beautiful sight they had ever encountered. Zac couldn’t have said it better himself as he looked upon the North StageofWoodstock’94, scanning the massive crowd in every direction. He could not stop thinking how his journey to this point had begun five days ago with a rude awakening on his 18thbirthday.
ii
WOODSTOCK
CHAPTER 1
THE RUDE AWAKENING
Zac’s bedroom door flew open with almost enough force to knock it off its hinges, slamming into the green wall behind it. Jumping up as if a tornado had entered his room, he looked around, foggy-eyed and confused. In the doorway stood Zac’s stepdad, Rick, wearing nothing but his tighty-whities, a white t-shirt, and what
appeared to be a florescent shotgun.
“Fivea.m.Mustbeapeachofadream,”Rick stated with a contrived southern drawl.
Rick thought it was humorous to quote and act out scenes from popular movies, hands-down his favorite pastime. This morning he wasinrareformasDocHoliday.“Why, Zac, you look like you’re ready to burst.”
“Get out!” Zac demanded as he tried to orient himself.
“Well, I suppose I’m deranged, but I assume I’ll have to squirt you with my Super Soaker. Cover your ears, darlin’.”
The harsh whine of water pressurizing in the plastic barrel of Rick’s
Super Soaker failed to prepare Zac for what was about to happen. Squirt!
“Isn’tthatadaisy?”Ricklaughedtohimself,nowholdingtheSuper Soaker at his side, as if he were Sylvester Stallone in Rambo.
Zac did not share in the amusement, and Rick’s impersonation of Val Kilmer’s character from Tombstonefailed miserably to impress as ice-cold water seeped through his queen-sizedThundercats bedspread. “You’re an ass, not Doc Holiday!” Zac shouted with a deep hatred in his voice.
“Why, Zac, are we cross? Does this mean we’re not friends anymore? You know, Zac, if I thought you weren’t my friend, I don’t think I could bear it.” He walked next to the nightstand on the left of Zac’s bed and sat the Super Soaker down, tapping it gently twice. “There, now we can be friends again. I calculate that’s the end of this rude awaking,” he said with a snicker.
“Why don’t you jump on your horse and get the hell out of my room!” Zac demanded, throwing the wet blankets to the floor.
Rick paused, looked over his right shoulder as he was about to exit the room and said, “Don’t plan much for the rest of your summer.”
“Why’s that?”
“Cause the concluding weeks of summer are reserved for the last charge of Zac Taylor and his immortals. Well, then, good day.” Rick exited the room laughing to himself.
What a dick, Zac thought as he pushed the power button on his radio/CD player on the top of his dresser, sitting under the only window in his bedroom. “And what the hell did he mean by the last charge of Zac Taylor and his immortals?” Opening the curtains, he was greeted with a warm Oklahoma dawn, the sun beginning to rise in the east. The end of the song, “No Rain,” by Blind Melon blared from
the speaker. Reaching down to pick up his soaked comforter, all he could do was chuckle at the irony. Anger felt pointless as he placed it in his hamper, which “screamed” to be emptied. The song concluded, and the DJ’s voice came over the radio announcing something about Woodstock ’94. Zac didn’t obsess over the announcement, but he did think to himself, how cool would it be to attend that!? Like all soon-to-be high school seniors, this was his last summer before graduating, and he wanted to experience something legendary. Woodstock ’94 certainly fit into the legendary category. However, Rick, clearly had other plans for the remainder of his summer vacation.
Zac jumped in the shower, soaking his shoulder-length blond hair as the warm water flowing from the showerhead cascaded over his six-foot-two frame. Looking down at his feet, he could not believe how tan his skin was after two months of lifeguarding at the city pool—all except for his bright whiteass.
Ring, ring! “Shit,” he mumbled as the phone rang. One ringdown: he only had four more before the answering machine picked up the call. He leapt out of the tub, almost tangling himself in the shower curtain, missing the floor mat entirely, and grabbed a towel. Sprinting down the hallway, he tried to stop as he grabbed the doorknob with his left hand. He failed to calculate his momentum properly—plus, wet feet and hands. Zac’s feet flew out from underneath him. He hit the floor.Hard.Landing flat-backed knocked the air out of his lungs. What the fuck, he thought, lying naked on the cold hardwood floor, his left hand still clenched to the doorknob. He heard the third ring. One ring remaining. In severe pain, he popped up, leaving the towel on the floor, hoping to retrieve the call before the final ring. It may seem peculiar to endure so much to answer a phone call, but rule number one in his life was never to miss a call or a page. He could not count on his family to answer because, like most teenagers living at home, the phone was usually for him, and they didn’t care to speak with his friends.
Zac retrieved the phone receiver before the fourth ring, but his intended triumphant, “Hello” fell short due to the oxygen depletion in his lungs. “Zachary?” the voice on the other end questioned. Besides his mother, there was only one person who referred to him as Zachary.“Uncle J!” His uncle J, or Uncle Jimmy, was someone he respected deeply, considering him more of a father figure than that of an uncle. Coming into manhood, Zac was often confused about things, and not having any siblings—and a dickhead of a stepdad—did not provide many avenues for him to discuss his perplexities. However, UncleJimmy was always there for him, even if not in person. If Jimmy were across the country and Zac reached out by paging him, he would stop everything to call and listen and give the best advice possible. "Are you done working that summer job yet, son?” Uncle J’s question was somewhat muffled by static coming from his end of the line, as if he were on a payphone. "Are you done working that summer job?"
"Not yet—we have two-and-a-half weeks left.”
“Ah, the last weeks of working the city pool. Appreciate every second, son; it will be over before you know it,” Jimmy added.
“Where are you? Are you stopping by to see us at all before the summer ends?” Zac asked, hoping to hear a yes.
“I need to speak with your mom, Zachary.”
Looking over at his alarm clock, Zac noticed he was running late, so he didn’t press the issue. He yelled for his mother, said his goodbyes, then got back to his shower.
While getting dressed, Zac thought about his Uncle J and how on his mother’s side of the family he was considered an outcast, “a byproduct of the sixties,” they would say. His parents had never quite
come to terms with the fact that their only son had matriculated to Berkley. After Uncle J completed his undergrad degree, he obtained a law degree from Berkley as well, yet never practiced a single day in his life. He began selling memorabilia at Grateful Dead shows and in beach towns up and down the California coast. Not exactly the path UncleJ’s father planned for him when shelling out the high cost of college tuition. Nevertheless, he managed to make a very nice living.
