Conversation Between A Pink Floyd Fan And A Yes Fan, Allentown PA (2004)

“Look at that! The world’s best funnel cake!” or so says the greasy looking kid who runs his own carnival food stand. I’m standing in line waiting for a soda and maybe a snack. There are so many food vendors at this county fair, I begin to wonder why I am waiting on line for what is readily available from any of a dozen carts stationed next to this one. A large woman in a white t-shirt that hugs her skin a little too tightly pulls a clump of crumpled bills out of her pocket and pays the greasy kid for his creation. In front of me stand two men in one costume: a faded black concert tee shirt and acid washed jeans. Emblazoned on the back are a series of “World Tour” dates and cities. Pink Floyd and Yes. Pink Floyd has cropped brown hair. Yes has thin gray strands crudely tied back with a rubber band. The three of us, we’re impatiently leaning against the stand while the kid slowly counts change. His eyes are still fixated on his funnel cake. The child reaches for the hot doughy substance only to have his hand slapped away by his fat mother. She reacts quickly and commands him to wait in Spanish. After she receives her change, she takes the cake and they walk back towards the rides and other attractions. Both men order a hot dog and a Pepsi.

Yes checks his watch and makes a gesture towards Pink Floyd—it’s either rolling his eyes or smirking—as a way to let his friend know he’s anxious.

“I don’t think they allow outside food in there,” Yes says.

“Whatever, we’ll sit here and eat. I’m sure we’re not missing much.”

After they take turns paying the greaseball, they move behind the vendors’ carts to find a place to sit and watch the distant concert. The opening act has begun its performance. I step forward and order nachos and Pepsi from the kid. He wipes his nose with his index finger and asks if I want extra cheese for the chips. My mind wandering, I utter a sustained “No,” drawing out the “o” sound. He takes my money and leaves me with a thick stack of cheese-dampened nachos and a giant box of cola. I’m fascinated by the notion of drinking soda from an over-sized cardboard box. It’s like the grownup version of those juice-boxes my mother used to pack for me during elementary school. Wild.

I walk past Pink Floyd and Yes, climb over a small barrier, and find a seat on the hood of a car. in the parking lot. It’s an older car, a Mercury, with a bumper sticker that reads “NO FARM, NO BEER.”

“Do you know these guys?” asks Pink Floyd.

“Dream Theater? Eh…They’re progressive,” replies Yes. I’m trying not to look but I imagine they’re ripping into their hotdogs between exchanges, gnashing their teeth together, tearing away chunks of meat with each bite.

Pink Floyd asks, “Where’s the singer?”

They mull over this question for a few moments. An extended guitar solo hangs in the air, not quite effecting it’s new-found audience. As the guitarist wails away, purple and yellow lights spread out over the grandstand, bathing the concertgoers in light. One of the men says he’s heard enough and asks if they’re ready to move. I sit watching the drummer’s hardware shimmer and glow with the white stage lights. After a few seconds, I too rise to my feet and begin walking towards the entrance to the concert.

I discard the remains of my snack and attempt to remain close behind the men as they make their way down the road towards the venue’s entrance. Pink Floyd continues pondering the missing singer.

“When I saw Bowie back in ’83…that was an intense performance. Two nights in July.”

“Where did you see him?” asks Yes.

“It was in Detroit. Joe Louis–” Pink Floyd is momentarily cut off by a teenager who barges between the two men, violently bumping shoulders. His head is down. In a black shirt and thick, baggy black pants that cover his shoes, he floats along to the sound of metal fasteners clinking against each other. There is no “Excuse me.” Silence follows the thud of colliding shoulders. As the kid continues walking, Pink Floyd stops. He looks up momentarily and then peers over his shoulder, smiling. The teenager is out of hearing distance.

He turns to Yes, and sighs, “Fucking kids.”

***

Not thirty minutes after that exercise in spying, I walked back to my apartment in Allentown and got really, really high. Then I composed this scene for an English class. That turned out to be a bad idea. I got a C-minus! At the end of the semester I included the same story in a portfolio of work that chronicled travels in the outside world and inside my mind. Somehow, I wound up with an A-plus in the course and a bunch of accolades from a team of stuffy professors. Following the awkward and stilted meeting during which my work was reviewed, I walked back to my apartment and got really, really high. Ah, college!