“Let’s see that guy actually carry a tune,” he said, and each of us agreed in the crowd, nodding and clapping. We laughed, snickered, a woman in back said, “Amen to that shit.” Then McLean sang Vincent and Crossroads and other favorites and I wanted to cry, or evaporate, maybe hide from the world for a while – but I didn’t want to die. I say that almost with shame, but that’s where I was. Wasn’t interested in perishing but didn’t want to exist either. I was too fat to breathe, and I knew the world was flying by Mr. McLean and everyone else in the concert hall. (It felt like it had blown by Barry and myself years earlier.)

We were surrounded by aging, wealthy hippies, with the familiar layer of marijuana in the air. To my eyes, the audience consisted of contented folks that were left with enough cash to settle in a relaxed, cultured suburb. I imagined that most of the professional men at the concert hall just wanted to get through their divorces and send the kids to Brown or Williams and beyond. They wished to play golf with an old buddy at the club twelve times a year, and to get laid by the young and fiery artist/administrative assistant, or the thirty-something Puerto Rican waitress from Hadley, who grunted like a Wimbledon champ during sex. 

I believed the only thing most of the audience wanted was to take a gentle, wistful ride down memory lane with a girl half their age and hear the soothing pipes of a troubadour from their youth. And their night of wonder, fun, and ease got ruined by two rotund, psychotic men in baggy pants and sweats who came and plopped down in the middle of the peace, tranquility and goodness. In truth, we weren’t psychotic at the moment, but we sure fit the bill and dressed the part. I felt the eyes from the people around us. Kind of like, what the hell is the deal with these two?