Westbound Sign ➵ Billie Joe Armstrong

Woodstock

Collin

Erin grinned like she'd swallowed lightning and pulled two red tickets from the back pocket of her shredded jeans. "Told you it'd be worth it, even if its pouring" she said, pressing one into my hand.

We shoved our way toward the entrance, a river of people already pressing in from every direction. The air buzzed - sweat, beer, weed, something alive in it.

"Tickets," grunted a guy at the gate. He barely looked up from under his bucket hat, palm outstretched like he'd rather be anywhere else.

Erin bounced on her toes as she handed hers over, practically squealing.

I passed mine to him with a blank stare, the kind I'd perfected from years of not wanting to be seen.

He barely nodded, handing me a torn stub in return. I slid it into my back pocket and caught up to Erin, who was already dragging me into the madness.

The ground sucked at our boots, thick with rain soaked mud and stomped grass. The closer we got to the stage, the louder everything became - guitar feedback, screams, laughter, the chaotic percussion of a thousand bodies moving without rhythm.

And then we saw it.

People with needles in their arms. Others smoking fat joints with zero shame. Shirtless guys coated in mud, girls dancing with wild eyes and smeared lipstick, everyone drowning in something - drugs, music, the need to be nowhere else.

Erin and I squeezed into the mess, caught between limbs and backpacks and noise. We were barely to the middle when the first familiar guitar riff ripped through the air.

Erin shrieked, gripping my arm so tightly it stung.

"Erin, chill," I groaned, trying to pull away, but she only laughed harder.

"I can't help it! It's them!" she yelled, jumping in place.

Drums kicked in, - loud, fast, raw. A guy on stage with electric blue hair shouted into the mic, voice like gravel soaked in gasoline. "C'MON, FUCKERS! THROW SOME SHIT!"

Someone lobbed a hunk of mud at the bassist. He flinched, but didn't stop playing. His face looked vaguely familiar, like something off a sticker covered zine or poster I'd stolen from a record store.

"Dear mother, can you hear me whining?!" the lead screamed, stomping across the stage like the whole world owed him a fight.

More mud flew.

A clump sailed past my head, hitting the edge of a speaker. Someone else missed and hit a security guard.

"Is that all you got, Woodstock?" he taunted mid verse, laughing into the crowd like he wanted us to riot.

And we did.

"Welcome to Paradise!" Erin shrieked into my ear.

The mosh pit swallowed us whole. Bodies slamming, boots stomping, arms flailing. There was no fighting it. If you didn't move with them, you got trampled.

Mud clung to everything - hair, skin, lungs. It flew like confetti from hell.

"This is fucking insane!" I yelled, half laughing, half panicked.

More projectiles. The lead singer caught one full on in the chest and stumbled back a step, grinning like a lunatic. His face was wild, eyes sparkling with mischief and sweat, jaw clenched like he was about to bite the air.

I ducked, wiped my cheek, and looked up just in time to see him aim a clump of sludge directly at me.

"You son of a-" I muttered, dodging, but it clipped me anyway, right across the face.