I Roamed Around Freely.
My dear friend Ronnie had followed us to Sturgis, appearing in his truck at the Buffalo Chip Campground to hang out and take pictures of all the festivities. He took all the pictures I have from Sturgis. Since I didn’t shower for seven full days, I have no idea if they were all taken in the same day or not.
For me, this meant that I had someone to talk to, and for Larry it meant I had someone to keep an eye on me whenever he wasn’t around.
But Ronnie didn’t care what I did, nor did he want to babysit. Ronnie was having the time of his life, surrounded by insanity and music. So I roamed around freely and did what I wanted to do, making sure to check in with Ronnie every few hours. We had a meeting place by the fence for those check-ins where we’d laugh and goof around like we were siblings. There was no “checking in.”
When Larry and Ronnie weren’t around, I became attached to a young biker named Jose from Azuza, California.
Partially I liked him because he came from Azuza, California. First, I believed that everyone from California was the epitome of cool, and wildly progressive. (This is not true.) Second, in the movie Mask, the Sam-Elliott-and-Cher biker movie that I loved, the main character says the word “Azuza” in a specific way that made me remember it distinctly.
So when Jose said he was from Azuza, I felt like I was somehow touching greatness. I begged him for a Harley t-shirt from Azuza which he provided, and I gave him one of mine from … somewhere else.
Jose started showing up at the fence when I was supposed to meet Ronnie. At the fence, far from the crowds, it was easy to make out without any concern that Larry might find us. Jose and I would make out like mad, stopping only to smoke and drink and breathe, then start up again.
Larry never did see us. At one point, I begged Ronnie to take a picture of Jose for me, so I could have it when I got home. We argued over whether or not this was a good idea – especially after the t-shirt exchange – but eventually Ronnie caved. I have almost no pictures of Larry, but I still have this.
I don’t think Jose ever took off his sunglasses. He did drive me around the campground on his bike, looking for clean port-o-johns, but we never found any. I don’t remember holding actual conversations with Jose; I only remember asking him about his hometown.
“It’s just like any other place,” he said. “My house is there.” I remember not understanding why he wasn’t overtly excited about this.
Jose didn’t understand my California dreams, based entirely on television and film stereotypes.
I couldn’t see the stage, so little Jose lifted me onto his shoulders. When he got tired, some other guy put me on his shoulders.
I remember music and sunshine and sleeping in dirt.
With as much alcohol as I consumed during those seven days, I’m surprised I remember anything at all. I saw some great concerts but I had to find out online that I saw Country Joe McDonald, Mitch Ryder and Canned Heat.
I only remember the crowds, music blaring into the sunshine, hordes of black t-shirts, and the blistering heat. I remember kissing Jose, laughing with Ronnie, seeing Mount Rushmore, and sleeping in the dirt.
Oh, and I remember the t-shirt debacle. Because I do tend to remember the worst things that happen.