they’re singing a completely different song. The lead singer takes this time to pump his fist at the crowd, which hollers back at him. As his eyes move over the crowd he seems to stop at me and then points almost right at me for a second, screaming this line, “Blood for blood! Sin for sin! The circle of life comes round again!” before kicking back into the song. I want to leave right then and there.
“Man, look at all these old bastards,” says Brad.
“I think we should go.”
“Me, too,” says Will, who’s looking around suspiciously.
One old bearded guy in a black leather vest and sunglasses comes up behind us and puts his arms around our shoulders. “Hey fellas, what brings you way out here?” he says.
“Uh, heard about this from a friend,” says David.
“A friend, huh? What kind of friend would send you guys out here?” He smiles and pats us on the shoulders.
“We should probably be getting back,” says Brad.
“Noooo, noooo, stay awhile. I was just kidding. We’re gonna have some fun.”
We’re given beers in clear plastic cups, which we politely accept. Everyone’s drinking beer and smoking. We try to sneak away, but that same guy keeps stopping us and gently encourages us to stay. In the middle of a song with the guitars driving and the music really loud, thesinger starts jumping around. He gets so worked up that he takes his shirt off and puts on a blue cap that he pulls from his back pocket. A mosh pit is forming at the front of the stage. Meanwhile, the singer’s running around in circles with that cap on backward. I recognize that cap. It’s the cap on the guy who drove by Mrs. Greenan’s house when I fell asleep on her front porch. In fact, I’m sure of it. It comes back to me, how it felt like someone was strangling the life out of me, those cold hands around my neck. I was just waiting to see those babies, then something like that happens. And it feels like it’s happening again right there in the field. I can feel the gripping sensation around my throat. All the while that singer’s getting more and more agitated. He gets to shaking and flailing his arms about like he’s having a fit. He falls back and starts squirming around, almost like he’s imitating those babies. Watching him makes the choking feeling worse. I put my hands to my neck, but there’s nothing there, just my own hands. Everyone else is enjoying the show. The mosh pit is swarming. Even David and the guys seem intrigued by this guy’s onstage antics. I’m the only one freaking out, and it’s getting to where I’m feeling dizzy and everything’s spinning out of control. Then the song finally climaxes and the singer dives off the stage into the crowd, where he disappears into the sea of overflowing bodies. The song ends, and the pressure around my neck goes away. I start to look for where the singer went, but the old guy standing by us grips my shoulder.
“Where do you think you’re going?” He points to the stage where a man sporting a huge beard, I mean Old Testament, Moses, ZZ Top huge, with a bandanna gets on the microphone. “It’s time for the singing contest,” he announces. “Each group must choose an ambassador and send them up to the stage to sing a song of their choice.” A runner comes around with pieces of paper and a pencil stub for each group.
“Write down a song, Samuel,” says Will.
“Why me?”
“C’mon just write something.”
“Don’t worry, we’re not gonna get picked. Just write one.”
I go ahead and write down “Lift Me Up.” A runner comes by and picks up all the papers and takes them up to the stage, where the emcee starts flipping through them.
“If he calls on us, I’m running,” I say.
“Okay, we’ll all run,” says Brad.
The emcee calls out, “ Lift Me Up!’ Who’s the lucky man? Come on up and represent your group.”
For a split second I think, Samuel, you can do it. You can go up there and sing . I try to pump myself up, but that
“Man, look at all these old bastards,” says Brad.
“I think we should go.”
“Me, too,” says Will, who’s looking around suspiciously.
One old bearded guy in a black leather vest and sunglasses comes up behind us and puts his arms around our shoulders. “Hey fellas, what brings you way out here?” he says.
“Uh, heard about this from a friend,” says David.
“A friend, huh? What kind of friend would send you guys out here?” He smiles and pats us on the shoulders.
“We should probably be getting back,” says Brad.
“Noooo, noooo, stay awhile. I was just kidding. We’re gonna have some fun.”
We’re given beers in clear plastic cups, which we politely accept. Everyone’s drinking beer and smoking. We try to sneak away, but that same guy keeps stopping us and gently encourages us to stay. In the middle of a song with the guitars driving and the music really loud, thesinger starts jumping around. He gets so worked up that he takes his shirt off and puts on a blue cap that he pulls from his back pocket. A mosh pit is forming at the front of the stage. Meanwhile, the singer’s running around in circles with that cap on backward. I recognize that cap. It’s the cap on the guy who drove by Mrs. Greenan’s house when I fell asleep on her front porch. In fact, I’m sure of it. It comes back to me, how it felt like someone was strangling the life out of me, those cold hands around my neck. I was just waiting to see those babies, then something like that happens. And it feels like it’s happening again right there in the field. I can feel the gripping sensation around my throat. All the while that singer’s getting more and more agitated. He gets to shaking and flailing his arms about like he’s having a fit. He falls back and starts squirming around, almost like he’s imitating those babies. Watching him makes the choking feeling worse. I put my hands to my neck, but there’s nothing there, just my own hands. Everyone else is enjoying the show. The mosh pit is swarming. Even David and the guys seem intrigued by this guy’s onstage antics. I’m the only one freaking out, and it’s getting to where I’m feeling dizzy and everything’s spinning out of control. Then the song finally climaxes and the singer dives off the stage into the crowd, where he disappears into the sea of overflowing bodies. The song ends, and the pressure around my neck goes away. I start to look for where the singer went, but the old guy standing by us grips my shoulder.
“Where do you think you’re going?” He points to the stage where a man sporting a huge beard, I mean Old Testament, Moses, ZZ Top huge, with a bandanna gets on the microphone. “It’s time for the singing contest,” he announces. “Each group must choose an ambassador and send them up to the stage to sing a song of their choice.” A runner comes around with pieces of paper and a pencil stub for each group.
“Write down a song, Samuel,” says Will.
“Why me?”
“C’mon just write something.”
“Don’t worry, we’re not gonna get picked. Just write one.”
I go ahead and write down “Lift Me Up.” A runner comes by and picks up all the papers and takes them up to the stage, where the emcee starts flipping through them.
“If he calls on us, I’m running,” I say.
“Okay, we’ll all run,” says Brad.
The emcee calls out, “ Lift Me Up!’ Who’s the lucky man? Come on up and represent your group.”
For a split second I think, Samuel, you can do it. You can go up there and sing . I try to pump myself up, but that
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