I had no explanation. I'd been given the best opportunity of my young career and I was honored, excited and ambivalent at the same time. The result was intimidating, humbling, entertaining and educational and, yet, I was able to pull it off anyway.
My name is Justin. I was working for a regional news organization just a year after graduating from University with a degree in communication and journalism. I was the first member of the Tyme family to graduate from University in anything and I was enjoying the attention of my family while maintaining a humble attitude at work and doing my job.
My job, until that day, consisted of covering weddings, funerals, secondary school athletics, women's club activities and getting coffee and donuts for the rest of the staff.
My supervisor, Ed, an editor with a Don Johnson beard, premature gray hair and an office, called me in to talk on a Thursday afternoon. He asked me if I had heard about a Rock concert planned for three days in early June at a nearby outdoor arena. I had. He quizzed my about the depth of my knowledge and I regaled him with facts and figures as I had seen them on the many internet posts and stories I had read.
He related that the size of the so-called concert had been growing rapidly and it was fast becoming an internet sensation. He referred to it as the next Woodstock. I suggested that it wasn't that big but it had indeed generated a lot of interest. He countered that he had been told the attendance was predicted in the tens of thousands, far in excess of the capacity of the venue. "Just a little rain," he said, "and the whole thing could become "Woodstock like."
I didn't disagree with him but I did note that the organizers were being very careful about who was able to attend and they were especially suspicious of reporters and other news-like individuals.
"That's why," he replied, "You're the perfect person to cover the concert for us. You're the right age and you don't look at all like a reporter."
I didn't know if I should be grateful or insulted. Either way, I accepted the challenge knowing it was an opportunity to either become the office joke or gain some credibility with the rest of the staff.
It was a real challenge. I know Ed assumed, since I was the right age, that I was familiar with the current Rock culture and associated behaviors and I would be able to add color to my concert reporting based on my history and personal experiences.
The opposite was the reality. At Uni, I was a loner, a nerd with few friends who spent much of my time studying and fantasizing about what I was afraid to do. I knew nothing of the culture I didn't live or its music. I didn't get laid the first time until my sophomore year and then it was at a fraternity party that I had been reluctantly dragged to by my roommate with good intentions. I was sitting on the side watching the party degenerate into a tangled mass of mostly undressed coeds and the lucky guys mixed in with them, when a totally naked, brunette with long hair, a slender body and massive tits sashayed up to me and began to give me a personal performance and lap dance. I had had a few drinks and she soon had my shirt, pants and the rest of my clothing off and was rubbing her clitoris up and down on my uncontrollably responding cock.
A few seconds later, she settled down with me fully inside her. She ground, wiggled and pounded up and down on me until I came inside her and she screamed. She then wandered away in a daze leaving me in my chair in a similar state.
Near the end of the party, I was sitting, still alone and hap hazardedly dressed, the same woman approached me, this time fully dressed, and suggested that I had impressed her and that we should spend time together in the future. I learned a lot from spending time with her but that's a different story.
By the Monday before the Friday start of the concert, I had been unable to acquire a ticket to the concert. I went to see Ed to explain the situation and see if he had any contacts that could help.
Tuesday morning, Ed called me into his office. "Here," he said as he handed me a lanyard with credentials. "This identifies you as a member of the Sound and Lighting staff for the entire weekend. You have full access to anything at the venue before, during and after the concert. The concert starts Friday night. You should get there early Friday, mingle with the rest of the staff, and get an early start on your reporting. Check in with George when you get there. I expect to see frequent reports from you during the weekend. You can phone them to Marsha on the Rewrite Desk. She'll be available at any hour during the concert.
I spent the rest of the week studying what I hadn't lived, hoping not to embarrass myself, checked in on Thursday afternoon with Marsha to solidify the communication plans and headed for the concert site Friday morning with my assignment, my credentials, a gym bag with some essentials and nothing else.
Five miles from the site I began to pass cars parked alongside the road. Most were young and ready to party. At least one woman was sitting half-naked on the roof of her car drinking beer and waving to those nearby. About a half-mile from the site, I was stopped by an armed six-man security detail at a gate in a ten-foot high chain link fence. One of them checked my credentials and directed me to an appropriate place to park. I confirmed with them that no one without credentials or a ticket were allowed into the site and they were prepared to stop, with force if necessary, anyone who attempted to crash the venue.
I parked and wandered around. I was impressed by the sophistication of the stage, lighting and sound systems already installed and crawling with technicians busily doing their jobs. About an hour after I arrived, I was approached by an intimidatingly large man who asked who I was. I showed him my credentials and asked if he knew where I might find George.
"I'm George and I know who you are. Look," he said, "the organizers of this little party have gone to great effort and no little expense to keep reporters out of the area. If they find out why you're here, we'll both be in fuckin' trouble and these guys know exactly how to deliver it. I have nothing for you really to do, so wander around and do whatever you have to do. Just don't look useless and don't get caught."
For the next four hours, I wandered around, talking to the various technicians who would talk to me. I scoped out the locations of the portable bathrooms and outdoor showers. That last got my attention and I made a note to return later to report on how they were being used and satisfy my voyeuristic tendencies.
The music was scheduled to start at eight pm and the plan was to start to let attendees in beginning at noon. They had about forty acres of unpaved parking and if that filled up then folks would have to find parking along the roads leading to the arena and walk the rest of the way.
I phoned Marsha with a pre-event status mid afternoon and went to find something to eat.
By five pm, there were thousands of people on the grounds. Most were crowding near the stage. The few that tried to set up tents were quickly ushered to another area to make room for as many spectators as possible. Groups with camp chairs or blankets were allowed to stay. Many seemed drunk already or high on something else. I phoned in another report to Marsha.
Extensive testing of the extensive sound system began after six and the lights as darkness approached. By eight, all the preparations were complete and the first sounds of music heard throughout the grounds. The first group was a local, low talent five some with lots of energy and a discordant beat. I phoned Marsha for a start of concert update. At least I tried to. I couldn't get a signal. Remembering what George and others had told me, I assumed that the organizers were blocking all communication. I thought it might be illegal but who was going to complain except me and I wasn't going to take the risk. I went looking for George.
"I thought they might do something like that," he said when I found him. "I came prepared. I have a satellite phone in my trailer over there." He pointed toward a white and red medium sized camper. "I wanted it in case I needed parts or some other equipment I don't have with me. In for a penny, in for a pound," he said. "You can use it if you're careful not to be seen going into the trailer and use it infrequently."
"Thanks," I said as I headed in the opposite direction from his trailer. I worked my way around behind the stage and behind the large number of trailers. George's trailer was behind most of the others that were reserved for performers sleeping and dressing rooms. I found his trailer and careful not to be seen, went inside. It was small, with a place to sleep and a tiny desk with a laptop and a large phone-like device that had to be the satellite phone.
I called Marsha. It took several tries since I had to dial 44, the STD code and then Marsha's number. I tried every other combination before it connected. I gave her an update and explained the communication problem. She asked if I would be able to provide frequent reports and I told her I'd do my best but I couldn't commit to a schedule since I was borrowing George's phone and risked being caught each time.
By two am, I was exhausted. I realized I hadn't planned any place to spend the night. I went looking for George. I found him about a half hour later and explained my plight.
"Shit, what are you some kind of amateur?" he asked.
