Eric Rasmussen

The King of Tremendous Pines

Eric Rasmussen

I’m standing in the ice cream line with Dad, and all of a sudden there’s this girl in a mid-riff STAFF t-shirt with a cattle prod.

“Come with me, sir,” she says to my father.

“Why?” he asks.

“You’re over forty.” She’s about three years older than I am, maybe nineteen or twenty, and she stands so close to Dad they’re almost touching. “Everyone over forty gets to enjoy the concert from a special section.”

It’s supposed to be funny. A gimmick, because there are festivals all over this weekend, and because ours, Tremendous Pines Art and Music, failed to secure a decent headliner. The organizers hinted at the plan over social media, and those of us who saw the posts, everyone I talked to anyway, thought it was a joke.

“I’m here with my son,” Dad says.

“I’m not asking,” says the girl.

Dad and the other parents in the food lines and the ex-hippies and childless couples scattered around the field don’t know the cattle prods aren’t charged, so for a minute everything gets really not funny. A few screams sound from different corners of the festival grounds. A circle opens in the crowd in front of the merch tent as some old guy attacks the dreadlocked employee whose request apparently got too forceful. The girl standing in front of Dad is quicker to switch to the speech for those who won’t come quietly.

“It’s just for a little while.” She lets the cattle prod hang from her hand, its tines brushing the matted grass. “We’re trying something. Maybe these will help you cooperate.” From her shorts pocket she produces two free drink tokens. “Only redeemable in the Elder Section.”

“Elder? Ouch.” Dad raises his eyebrows and shrugs. “Do you care?”

I probably should have pretended. Oh no. Please don’t go. I’ve been looking forward to this forever. A sweltering Saturday watching bands I’ve barely heard of is more than adequate compensation for the way you and Mom have been acting lately. But I’m not thinking that fast. “Go for it,” I say.

“You’ll still have a good time?”

“I’ll try my hardest.”

Dad joins the stream of people with graying hair and outdated clothes following their handlers to the big chain-linked square tucked into the trees on the far side of the field. Before he’s swallowed by the multitude, he steps behind two women in peasant dresses and cowboy hats, and whatever he says makes them laugh and separate enough that he can wedge in between. I’m engulfed by a familiar nausea. I wish they had charged the cattle prods, and I wish they had given one to me. *

Liv and her older sister Faith text me to meet them at one of the participatory art/sound installations called the “Lumberyard.” After I get my ice cream, I wander over.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” says Liv.

“I thought you were allergic to sunlight,” says Faith. “You’re not even melting.”

The “Lumberyard” is just a big circle littered with wood. Sticks, logs, branches, two-by-fours, which we’re supposed to use as instruments. Faith is rubbing a pine bough across a sheet of plywood roughly in time with all the other wannabe musicians in the clearing.

“Did they take your mom?” I ask.

“She was pissed,” says Liv. “She tried to make the guy check her ID.”

“She’s not forty?” I ask.

“Forty-seven. It didn’t make any sense.”

Faith pauses her pine needle thrumming. “That means we don’t get to hang out with your dad. That sucks.”

“Please stop,” I say.

“I’m sorry, but you have to face facts. Your dad is yummy.”

I’ve heard it so many times from so many different people that I’ve honestly stopped caring. But with Faith and Liv it’s different. We’ve been neighbors for over a decade, since elementary school. We were friends before any of us found anyone yummy.

A voice booms through the speakers bungee-corded to the trees. “Welcome to Tremendous Pines!” Everyone stops their drumming and raises their faces skyward. “Now that we’ve dealt with all the senior citizens, let’s get this party started.” The announcer thanks the sponsors, then introduces a band that Faith and Liv and their volleyball teammates love and that I couldn’t care less about.

“Come with us,” Liv says.

“No thanks,” I say.

“You sure you’re okay?”

I give her a thumbs-up, then wander deeper into the trees. *

I remember in fifth grade, a half-dozen of my classmates’ parents got divorced. After we learned of the first one, everyone kept quiet. But by the time we hit number six, it had turned into a bizarre rite of passage. We all but threw parties for the newest members of the broken family club. Still, we lived in fear that it would happen to us, because we saw what it did to our friends. It became a disease that we knew would claim more of us. We just didn’t know who, or when.

I’ve never set foot in a church, but most nights back then I prayed that Mom and Dad wouldn’t succumb. I looked up prayers online, saving the longer ones for the nights when they fought over work or money or how to deal with my sister’s terrible grades and frequent suspensions. When they got along, they had me to thank. When they didn’t, I tried harder. And it worked. Mom and Dad are still together, no matter how much I wish they weren’t.

By midafternoon I wander over to the forty-plus corral to find Dad leaning against the back fence, surrounded by a half-circle of the most attractive old people the cage has to offer. A woman in a black t-shirt rests her arm on his shoulder. She doesn’t move, even after he starts talking to me.

“Caleb,” he says. “Are you having fun?”

“Are they going to let you out soon?”

“I don’t think so. They literally padlocked the gate.”

“That’s not legal.”

“It’s cool. They keep handing out free drink tokens.” Dad gestures at his group, which, to make things even more uncomfortable, includes my sophomore year English teacher. “I wish your mom were here. She’d love this.”

I don’t know what expression I produce that makes him think I’m upset, but suddenly he pushes the woman aside and steps up to the fence and lowers his voice. “Are you okay?”

“Sure.”

“Did Faith and Liv find you? They told their mom they would.”

“We hung out a little.”

“There’s so much here for you to do.” Dad pulls twenty dollars out of his pocket and slips it through the fence. “Try to meet some people. Take advantage.”

Over by the campground is another of the festival’s installations: a trailer where, for ten bucks, a semifamous author recites classic poetry to you over lemonade and air-conditioning. I actually know of one of the writers; I’ve read both her books. But by the time I get there, she’s gone. She apparently switched shifts with some travel writer who reads Charles Bukowski poems without looking up. He doesn’t even ask my name.

There are ten thousand people attending Tremendous Pines, so it’s strange that I keep running into Liv and Faith. I end up standing behind them while we watch some hip-hop artist at a side stage. The sun is so harsh that festival employees stand in the corners and spray the crowd with hoses, and soon everyone is hot and wet, dancing to a bass beat that vibrates our teeth and a lyrical flow that keeps doubling in intensity until a frenzy overtakes us. When the artist finally departs the stage, the crowd disperses, dripping and bleeding and muddy.

I see the sisters again in the drink line. With all the grown-ups sequestered away, the rules have been suspended. No one is checking ID’s, and the under-21 attendees take full advantage. The drugs have come out, too. Groups of concertgoers share joints and sniff powders off the backs of their hands as they wander the grounds. After the bartender hands Liv and Faith their neon-green beverages, they notice me. “Hey Caleb,” says Liv. “What are you drinking?”

“Water,” I respond.

“You’re so funny,” Faith says. “You’re like my grandma.”

Liv downs half of her drink in one swallow. “You’ll take care of us, right? If we get carried away?”

“Of course.” I touch her shoulder. It’s supposed to be friendly. But she rests her chin on my knuckles, which makes it weird, so I jerk my hand away.

I see them one more time before things really start to get out of control. Forty-five minutes before an all-girl Russian punk band is scheduled to perform, the entire volleyball team plants themselves in front of the main stage. I wander past on my way to the row of porta-potties.

“Caleb,” yells Liv. “Come here.”

I hesitate, but comply.

“You have any water left?” she asks.

“Ha, ha,” I say. “I get it. I’m super lame.”

“I’m serious. I’m so thirsty.” She teeters, then catches herself. “Never mind. I’m fine.”

“I’ll get you some,” I say.

“Really? Caleb, I love you. You’re so amazing.”

I offer a bow that I instantly regret, then turn to leave, but something stops me. The volleyball players speak to each other over the din of their intoxication, unaware that I’m still within earshot.

“Isn’t that the kid with the hot dad?”

“Dads are my thing. The chubbier and beard-ier, the better.”

“Eww. That was funny when people were saying it two years ago.”

“But that kid’s dad is actually gorgeous. Like Ewan McGregor with long hair.”

“I’d get on that.”

And then someone who I pray isn’t Liv or Faith shares the piece of information that I would give anything to eliminate from the minds of everyone who I have ever or will ever meet.

“You could. His mom and dad have an open marriage.”

“People actually do that?”

“Mom has a boyfriend and his dad sleeps with tons of people. Not just women. It’s super progressive.”

“Awesome. But how shitty for that kid?”

It’s true. My parents came up with their arrangement about two years ago, shortly after my sister left for college. Mom and her boyfriend post pictures of what they do together on a website that’s way less confidential than she thinks it is. Dad puts his dates on the family Google calendar. She wears tons of perfume, he wears tons of cologne, and they smile all the time and joke about stains on their clothing and they’ve never been happier. I, on the other hand, am slowly dying on the inside, and the last thing that’s going to help is a stupid concert in a stupid field.

I have to find Dad, so I return to the far side of the elder enclosure. The early evening sun doesn’t penetrate the towering white pines, so back here it looks later than it is. The punk music is extremely unpleasant, screaming and thumping and the sound of metal scraping on metal, and it’s hotter than ever, even in the shade.

This time, a full circle of people surrounds my father. The half outside the fence is like a mirror image of the half inside the fence, just twenty years younger. Some are dancing to the terrible music, others sway with each other. Everyone is touching someone else, their eyes slitted under the weight of alcohol and THC and MDMA and hormones. The last thing I want to do is push my way through what looks like a developing orgy, but somehow Dad notices me and waves me over. This time he has one arm around a woman in a tank-top, the other arm around a man in a tank-top, with someone at his feet who wears their gender less overtly.

“Caleb, buddy.” He’s unbuttoned his shirt all the way down. “Please tell me you’re having a good time.”

“I hate this. Can we go home?”

He makes eye contact with each member of his little harem, and they give him some space. “I wish we could, but the gate’s still locked.”

“When are they letting you out?”

“I haven’t asked.” He can’t help but smile at his place in the bacchanalian scene. “Do you need more money? Would that help?” “Absolutely. That would make all the difference. A hundred dollars would make me feel all better.”

Dad offers a familiar look: head tilted, lips pressed together. He and Mom insist that maintaining a healthy family requires talking about the feelings dislodged by their insane lifestyle. We even see a family therapist who insists that sarcasm is the final barrier remaining between me and a “mature parent-child connection.”

“We’re both allowed to live the lives that make us happiest,” he says.

“You apparently are,” I say. “But I’m not.”

I walk away, and he can’t follow. It’s the best I’ve felt all day. *

Back outside the trees they’ve started lighting hundreds of tiki torches and planting them around the field, even though plenty of daylight remains. I told Liv I would bring her water, so I head for the drink tent, but it’s gone. Rioters have torn down the canvas walls and are emptying the coolers, tossing cans of beer to their friends. Pairs of dirty looters claw at each other over bottles of booze. Helpless staff members stand off to the side, trying to find a cell signal. I care about Liv a lot, but I’m not getting hurt over her hydration mismanagement.

So, plan B. In the far corner of the grounds, past the main stage and beyond the now-abandoned First Aid tent, the organizers hid a little VIP section, which should be stocked with refreshments. And because it’s out of the way, maybe the mob forgot about it. I make a wide arc around the main stage and its mass of people. They throw themselves at each other like crash test dummies launched out of laboratory windshields. After impact they fall, then thrash against being trampled while they lie on the ground.

No one is manning the VIP gate anymore, and inside it looks like a British manor house’s sitting room transported outdoors: enormous rugs, plush gilded furniture, ornate ottomans. It’s peaceful compared to the throb of violence from beyond the plastic fence. I check the corners and behind all the couches. No coolers, no beverages of any kind. But there has to be something. I keep going, through a burgundy curtain at the far corner hung from some metal rigging that juts out from the main stage, and suddenly I’m backstage. It’s a futuristic version of the VIP lounge, all chrome and plastic, with a few black leather couches and chairs. Every flat surface holds multiple musicians.

“Who the hell are you?” asks a guy in thick eyeliner.

“Caleb.”

“You’re not supposed to be back here.”

“I’m sorry.”

Through the metal columns and piles of equipment I can see the Russian punk band rocking on stage. The entire structure resonates with their performance.

“It’s pretty insane out there,” says a woman in pigtails and fishnets. “Are you okay?”

“I guess.”

“Don’t worry about these assholes.” She indicates the mix of people guarding guitars and clutching drumsticks in the makeshift lounge. They’re all dressed like comic book characters, in heavy makeup and costumes that reveal all sorts of skin. “You can stay if you want.”

“I’m just trying to find some water,” I say. No one responds, or moves, and I can tell they’re scared. It takes a moment for me to understand why. A lot of them are parts of bands that have been around long enough to make names for themselves. They’re old, some even older than Dad. Who knows how the masses would treat them?

The pigtailed woman reaches into a cooler near her feet and retrieves two bottles of water. She tosses them to me, and I manage to catch one. “Don’t let anyone see how you got back here, okay?”

“I won’t.”

“Please be careful out there.”

I want to ask for a third bottle, so Faith can have one too, but I refrain. These people need it more than I do.

By the time the punk band finishes and the crowd picks themselves out of the dirt, the sun has set and the glow of tiki torches does strange things to people’s faces. I keep seeing Liv on the edges of the spheres of firelight, but when I get close I discover it’s not her at all. The strangers I approach are all madder than they need to be. “What’s your problem?” “Get away from me.” I try texting her, but she never texts back.

The other complication is all the bodies littering the ground. Most of the people I trip over are catching their breath or checking their wounds, but plenty lie there motionless, asleep or passed out, hopefully not dead. In a stretch of darkness my foot catches the leg of some guy on top of some girl, having sex, and neither of them look up, even after I say, “Sorry,” and, “Maybe you should do that somewhere else?”

My job gets easier when I remember Liv is wearing a jean skirt and a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. I don’t have to check the faces of every girl milling around the field or lying on the ground, just those in that outfit. That still leaves lots of partiers, way more than you would think. And the heat still hasn’t dissipated. I wipe my forehead with the front of my shirt until it’s dripping too. *

An hour later I still haven’t found her, but the festival starts to reawaken. The crowd filters from the installations and side stages back to the main field. Groups of attendees collect like rivulets of rain running down a windshield, absorbing individual droplets as they pass. They gather in the torchlight until the grandstand’s lights are fully illuminated, which transforms the whole scene. Now the masses staring at the stage look like woozy cavemen hypnotized by a spaceship. They have no idea what’s going on and they can’t look away.

“What a day.” Fifty yards in front of me on stage, a man in khaki shorts grabs the microphone. “They said Tremendous Pines wasn’t going to measure up this year, but man, were they wrong.” The crowd responds with enough noise to prove his point.

“And we still have one performance left. But two things before we get there.” He looks skyward. “We’ve got some storms moving in. They’ll likely miss us. Nothing to worry about.”

Someone in the sea of fans cheers. A light flashes, probably a phone camera.

“Second, there’s someone I have to introduce. This guy is incredible. He’s been stuck in the Elder

Section all day, but he’s still managed to become the most popular dude here. Everyone needs to hear what he has to say.”

Oh no.

“Ladies love him. Guys want to be him.” The khakied organizer looks off stage left. “Let’s be honest, guys love him too. And he loves them right back. Allow me to introduce the man we’re calling the King of Tremendous Pines.”

At this Dad walks across stage, leading an entourage of dozens of people. Hundreds. They follow him like a shirtless Messiah. Most of them are mostly naked, hanging off each other, bliss surrounding them like the mist that has started falling from the sky. Nothing about this terrible stupid day has actually bothered me, until I recognize a few of the faces in his posse. Liv, Faith, and their mom. The boulder of emotion I carry around in my stomach gets heavier.

Dad takes the microphone from the host. “Good evening, Tremendous Pines.” Then he starts talking about love and happiness. He steals a bunch of lines from our therapist. The crowd is silent, entranced by some quality he possesses that I can’t understand.

While everyone stares at Dad, I watch Liv. She looks terrible, even from over a hundred feet away. Her face is pale, her eyes squinted. But I can help. I made her a promise, in fact. Both bottles of water remain in my pockets. This time, getting to her is easy. Everyone is so focused on Dad that I can move through the crowd like liquid through gravel.

“You owe yourself your own version of happiness. And the only thing everyone else owes you is the space to pursue the life you want.”

It would have been better if I had snuck up, grabbed Liv, and led her away, but since I’m the only one moving, my mission is too obvious. Everyone watches me climb the stage and tiptoe through the little symposium. Dad waves me over.

“Folks, this is my son, Caleb. He’s on his own pleasure journey, and he needs our help.” Dad turns to me. “Caleb, come here.”

I freeze, but the roar of ten thousand people is hard to resist, so I join Dad at center stage. While the crowd continues cheering, he drops the microphone to his side.

“Are you having fun yet?” he whispers.

“No.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He rubs my back between my shoulders. “You could be. All you have to do is give yourself permission.”

It’s hard to describe how it feels when thousands of people stare at you at once. I try to look back at them, but there are too many eyes. I can’t focus anywhere.

“I have to go,” I say to my father. “There’s something I have to do.”

I don’t wait for his response. The crowd keeps up their noise as I cross in front of Dad’s disciples and grab Liv’s hand. She startles like I’ve just woken her up.

“Caleb,” she says. “What are you doing here?”

“I got your water.”

“You got me water?” she slurs. “You’re so sweet.”

I pull her hand, and she follows along. “We should get off this stage. There’s a storm coming.”

For a moment I worry about the crowd’s reaction to our departure, but they don’t care. The members of the final band have taken their places behind their instruments; Dad and the lead singer wrap their arms around each other’s waists as the drummer taps out a beat. The lights go out and the lasers start. The wind picks up and drives the vanguard raindrops into the faces of the crowd, cleaning the dirt and blood from their foreheads and cheeks. Lightning flashes in the distance, then closer, then closer still.

“Where are we going?” Liv asks as we descend the metal stairs and head for the shelter of the forest.

“Trust me,” I say. “Somewhere fun.”