Meeting Jerry

Articles

Holly Winter
Living The Life Of Holly

Meeting Jerry
May 18, 2003

“Anyone in here?” She yelled, pushing her way through the door.

“Eliza, NO.” I begged.

“I’m here. I’m HERE!” A man called.

“Ok. We’ll wait.” She said, patiently. She turned to me. “Holly, you have to see Jerry.”

“Eliza. I don’t care to see him. Let’s go. Not a big deal.” This was far beyond what I considered to be fun on a Friday night.

Men started lining up in the hall. One put his hand on my arm. “You gotta see Jerry. Really. You gotta see him. He’s awesome.”

“You done yet?” She called, impatiently, toying with the door again.

We were in Sanchos, a Grateful Dead Bar. Eliza had been dying to take me there, forever.

“Ok. Done.” He yelled.

She was already pushing me through the door. “Come on.” She prodded, as if pushing a young child. “Go into the men’s room. It’s ok. He’s done.”

There was Jerry Garcia, larger than life, painted on the wall over the sink. His oversized sunglasses were mirrors for you to catch your reflection. One man pulled me in front of the mirror so I could get the full effect.

“Cool.” I agreed. “But. No Fair.” I envied. “This is way better than the woman’s bathroom.”

The men who had all gathered around the urinals to proudly show off Jerry to the new girl agreed. The men’s bathroom had the better murals.

We returned to the bar and Eliza started showing me around the place, one of her favorite hangouts.

“Look at these incredible couches.”

Incredible?

“They get them at the Salvation Army! Do you love the art work?”

Lots of really raw art. It did remind me of home. No. Not my apartment. I mean Woodstock. You know. Hippie, dippie stuff.

Eliza, ever the Queen Bee, introduced me to everyone. “This is my friend, Holly. She’s from Woodstock. She has to drink wine because she is allergic to beer.”

“Oh. Man. Allergic to beer? That’s too bad.”

There were lots of men with long hair and long beards and ski caps and baggy clothes. One young guy introduced himself to me.

“I was conceived at Woodstock. You know, the concert?” He said, proudly.

“Oh. So your thirty five years old then?”

He face clouded over. “No. I guess that I never really counted before.”

I know. I had absolutely no reason to be mean. But. Why is it that so many people seem to think that it’s important to tell me that their parents had sex at the place where I was born? I NEVER do that to people. You have no idea how many conversations about my hometown have started this way over the course of my life.

He turned to me. “What year was the concert?”

“Sixty seven.” Ok. So. I know that was exactly two years shy of the truth.

“Really?” He stammered. “I always thought…”

He left and Eliza continued her introductions. The guy came charging back.

“I bet you a drink that Woodstock happened in sixty nine, the year I was born. I just don’t think my parents lied to me my whole life.” He said.

I shrugged my shoulders. “Ok.”

“But, you would know.” He said, slowly. “You grew up there.”

“I was two years old.” I held up two fingers. Yes. I had done this before.

I don’t know why. I have told this lie to more people born in sixty nine than you could ever imagine. What is it about people who were conceived at Woodstock? Why is it that they are so insecure and willing to listen to anything they hear? Oh. I know. It’s a good thing to be trusting. But. If he’s so proud of his place of conception, why doesn’t he KNOW more about it?

He started working the bar. He would stop back from time to time and report in. “Some guy just said that it happened in seventy two. What a looser, huh?”

“Yeah. Huh.” I wanted to ask him if he meant his conception or the concert, but thought that might be too off color.

He stopped a fifty year old woman to ask her if she had an opinion on when Woodstock happened. She was insulted and vented to me.

“What? He thinks I know? What? Because I was old enough to have been there? Why should I know?”

I might have stopped the game earlier, but it was so much fun. Nobody knew. People in this bar were throwing the peace sign around like it was a new invention, yet nobody knew when THAT concert happened.

The misled boy came back. “Holly. I don’t know what to do. Nobody knows.”

“Hey. Let me buy you a drink.” I insisted.

“No. I am not giving up. The OWNERS will know.” And he was off again.

The owners? Great. They’ll see right through me. Ok. Maybe I’ll get thrown out for messing with the minds of the innocent. Or. Maybe I will be forced to watch the movie, Woodstock, or listen to the soundtrack or stand on the bar and sing, Mercedes Benz for the crowd.

Now. I was feeling bad. I mean. Come on. It wasn’t this kid’s fault that his parents started him off at a concert. Hey. At least it was a good concert. And. Now my lie had ruined his evening. Rather than enjoying a smoky game of pool, the poor guy was running around the bar trying to find meaning in his life.

But. You gotta admit. There is a gentle kind of poetic justice when a young man, who claims he was conceived at my birthplace, is spending a long night trying to prove his existence by questioning the people in a bar.

Now. That’s philosophy at its finest.

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About the author: Holly Winter is a teacher and a writer and a flight attendant living in Denver, Colorado, USA. She can be reached at her website or email: Holly@livingthelifeofholly.com

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