Moon Glasses.

Lessons in rock festivals and panhandling.

Image by cafevalentine from Pixabay

“I came upon a child of God,” Joni Mitchell

I was panhandling at this festival, and a girl gave me a quarter. I said to her, “Thanks, Moon Glasses,” ’cause she had on these half-moon purple glasses with stars in the corners. When I said that, she laughed, putting them on me, saying, “They look groovy on you.”

Well, they didn’t, but she’d just given me a quarter, so I thanked her, and didn’t slink away like most panhandlers. I asked her name, and she said it was Melissa — Melissa McGilvery — from Buffalo, New York.

She had this smile, you know, innocent, but not too innocent, more like she knew what she knew. I couldn’t think of anything wrong with that, other than she was young, maybe sixteen, with Roger Daltrey hair and this tie-dyed dress. She’d hitchhiked up here because she’d missed the last festival — the big one, Woodstock — and she wasn’t going to miss another.

They told us on the news it was a mess, too many people, toilets overflowing.

Most of us missed Woodstock. They told us on the news it was a mess, too many people, toilets overflowing. Stay away, in other words, so we did. Now, here we were at Mosport Racetrack, thinking we were getting a second chance. Except this wasn’t Yasgur’s Farm in Bethel, New York. It was Bowmanville, Ontario.

Everything started off well enough. Lots of people showed up. I made ten bucks panhandling at the gate earlier. You might say I was on a roll when Melissa came along, carrying this big carpetbag. She didn’t even blink when I asked for a quarter.

“No problem,” she said, giving me a quarter from a little change purse. It was one of those cheap plastic things you squeeze to open. Hell, I was saying to myself, “Are you really going to take a quarter from this kid?”

I was only seventeen myself, a long way from being an adult, but a year’s difference back then was still a year, and maybe panhandling had matured me. It did something, anyway, at least enough to say, “Are you sure you can afford this?” and she said the same thing again, “No problem.”

So here’s me with ten dollars in my pocket. What a louse, I thought, figuring maybe I’d find her later, say I’d done well all morning, and give her the quarter back. So I said to her, “Maybe I’ll see you in there.” She gave me that innocent look again, shrugging, saying, “Cool,” like, sure, why not?

I said, “Don’t worry, I’ll find you.” It sounds a bit creepy now. Back then, though, we didn’t think anything of it.

Then she goes, “I’ll be up close to the stage,” and I said, “Don’t worry, I’ll find you.” It sounds a bit creepy now. Back then, though, we didn’t think anything of it. Everyone was making friends the same way.

So then I said, “I just need to make a few more bucks out here.”

Next thing I know, Melissa goes up to this hippie couple. She asks if she can bum a quarter. “I just need something to drink,” she says. “It’s hot out here, huh? You folks have hats? I heard this afternoon’s going to be boiling.”

I’ve seen some good panhandling. Melissa’s pitch had most of them beat. The smile, the concern about having hats. Hell, I just stuck out my hand and acted nice. And get this: That couple didn’t just hand over a quarter. The woman followed Melissa and handed her another quarter. “Thank you so much,” Melissa said, those eyes all wide and innocent. Then she comes back and hands me the quarters. Doesn’t even think about it. Slaps them right down in my palm.

“I can get more, if you want,” she said.

Before I could say anything, she’s off again, talking to a couple in suede fringes.

“Howdy, I’m Melissa,” she says. “I just hitchhiked in from Buffalo. Lost my wallet in some big rig crossing over at Niagara Falls. Talk about bad luck, huh?”

Out come the quarters again. The guy gives her one, the woman gives her one.

“Thanks so much,” Melissa says. “Whew, hot, huh? Hope you folks have hats.”

Worked like a charm. I asked her afterwards, “What’s the deal with hats?” She said, “It shows them that I care.” Imagine that. This out of a sixteen-year-old.

Show me any admission stamp — any colour — and I could draw a pretty good likeness.

Now, here’s the thing I don’t talk about much. In my knapsack, I had these magic markers. Show me any admission stamp — any colour — and I could draw a pretty good likeness. If people balked at giving me a quarter, I’d say, “I can get you in here for fifty cents.” Then I’d explain how I duplicated the stamp.

I could make fifteen bucks in a half hour.

That’s if I needed to — which I didn’t with Melissa bringing me quarters. Before I knew it, we had enough for the gate. Once we got inside, instead of finding a place out on the grass, Melissa was eyeing the food tent. All these hippies were eating Sloppy Joes. Off Melissa goes again, coming back with more quarters.

Not only that, she brought back two Sloppy Joes on paper plates.

So we get out there in the middle and find a place to sit. Then Melissa pulls this big knitted hat out of her carpetbag. A woman behind us says, “That’s beautiful,” and Melissa says, “I knitted it myself. Try it on. I’m thinking of going into business. You’d make a beautiful model, by the way.”

The woman tries on the hat, and Melissa’s got this little make-up mirror. She holds it up for the woman, and the woman says, “This is so groovy.”

Melissa’s like, “Wow, that’s you. I want you to have it.”

“Oh, but you put so much work into it,” the woman says. Next thing you know, Melissa’s sold that hat for ten dollars, taking the money, telling me she’s just going to pop over to the food tent. Twenty minutes later, just as Delaney and Bonnie are taking the stage, Melissa’s back with two big Cokes.

“Here you go,” she says. “I bummed another fifty cents over there.”

“Am I ever glad I bought this,” she says. “Breeze goes through it, but I’m still shaded like.”

Meanwhile, the woman behind keeps telling people about her hat. “Am I ever glad I bought this,” she says. “Breeze goes through it, but I’m still shaded like.”

“Who’s selling them?” someone asks, and this woman points to Melissa. Rather than saying, “No, I sold her my only hat,” Melissa pulls out two more.

In a matter of minutes, she’d made twenty more dollars.

Not only that, people are asking for Melissa’s contact information. She’s saying to me, “Do you have a pen?” I had twelve magic markers of various colours and widths. When I pulled them out of my knapsack, Melissa’s like, “You’ve got an artist’s studio in there. Are you an artist or something?”

I explain the admission stamp, and she’s like, “Cool. Show me,”

So I draw the likeness from the stamp on her hand. It’s nothing more than tracing in a sense. Melissa goes, “Look at this,” to the people around us, and they’re like, “I can barely tell the difference.”

Then Melissa’s telling me if I can draw stamps, I draw other things. “Try it,” she says, pulling up the back of her tank top. “Draw something on my back.”

So I draw two horses — up on their back legs — facing each other.

The woman with the hat looks over, and suddenly she’s got people all around her looking at these horses on Melissa’s back.

“This guy’s Picasso,” the woman says.

So I’m drawing horses, doing about as well as a fifth grader. Melissa, meanwhile, is collecting money left, right and centre.

I’m the furthest thing from Picasso. Yet everyone — especially the stoned ones — wanted horses on their backs, too. So I’m drawing horses, doing about as well as a fifth grader. Melissa, meanwhile, is collecting money left, right and centre.

By the time Alice Cooper hit the stage, we’ve made about forty bucks. We’re back at the food tent, buying dinner, drinks, even some chips for later.

“You’re quite the operator, Melissa,” I said.

“You’re not bad yourself,” she replied.

“I’m surprised you didn’t sell your moon glasses.”

“I’m never selling these. They’re my mother’s.”

“You borrowed them?”

“No, she gave them to me. Before she left.”

“Where’d she go?”

“No idea. She just said, Here, Melissa, something to remember me by.”

“What’d your father say?”

“Good riddance.”

“Didn’t you want to go with her?”

“Nope,” she said. “I hate them both.”

She walked back to our spot on the grass, sitting there cross-legged with her carpetbag in her lap. We saw Lighthouse and Crowbar, sharing a joint with the people around us. Melissa was laughing again, then up dancing with the woman in the hat. They danced and danced right into the night.

The days that followed, I did more horses. Maybe it was the drugs or the heat, but people kept asking. I don’t know what they were thinking. I wasn’t even concentrating half the time. Meanwhile, Melissa had wandered off.

I’d run into her, sitting in a group of people, sharing a joint.

He had an old bullet wound just up from his navel. He kept putting his arm over Melissa’s shoulder, telling her he was a vet.

One guy was really hanging around her. He was shirtless with stringy hair and beard. He had an old bullet wound just up from his navel. He kept putting his arm over Melissa’s shoulder, telling her he was a vet. I doubt he was old enough.

I came over and said, “Melissa, someone over there likes your hats.”

When we were away from them, I said, “You have to watch yourself. That guy thinks he’s gonna pop your cherry.”

“Joke’s on him,” Melissa said. “It’s been popped.”

Early the third morning, I started packing up after Sly and the Family Stone finished. I found Melissa back with that group again, curled up with the guy.

When I tapped her on the shoulder, the guy groaned and Melissa sat up.

“Are you leaving?” she asked.

“Yeah, just wanted to say goodbye.”

“These folks are from Detroit,” she said. “They’re gonna drop me off.”

“Well, good luck.”

“Good luck to you, too. Work on your art.”

“Someone stole my markers.”

“Do you want money for more?”

“No,” I said. “I’m not an artist, Melissa.”

The guy on the ground was waking up now. He sat with his elbows on his knees. “Hey, Mel, you got any water?”

“I’ll get some,” she said. “Just let me walk my friend to the gates.”

Cars were already leaving. Melissa took a piece of paper out of her carpetbag. “Here’s my number,” she said, writing it down. “I won’t be there long. I’m hitchhiking to Los Angeles. Give me your address. I’ll let you know where I am.”

“Watch those guys,” I said.

I just wanted to make sure she got home all right.

She gave me a hug and went back through the gates again. I caught a ride with some folks going to Toronto. A couple of days later, I called the number Melissa gave me. I just wanted to make sure she got home all right.

A man answered. He said, “What?”

“I’m looking for Melissa,” I said.

“She’s not here.”

“Did she make it home?”

“Make it home from where?”

“I met her at a festival.”

“She never told me about no festival.”

“I’m just seeing if she’s okay.”

“Who are you?”

“Just tell her Tom called.”

“Don’t expect to hear back anytime soon. Damn kid, wandering off all the time. What’s your name again?”

“Tom.”

“I’m writing it down. What’s the number?”

“She has it, but here it is again.”

I gave him the number. He asked me to repeat it.

“I’ll leave it on the phone desk here,” he said. “She comes in, she’ll see it.”

“Thanks,” I said.

He hung up and I hung up.

Maybe her father gave her the message, maybe he didn’t.

I didn’t hear anything back. When I called again, the phone kept ringing. Maybe her father gave her the message, maybe he didn’t. A few months later, I did get a call from Melissa. “Hey, there, artist man,” she said.

“Where are you?”

“San Francisco. There’s a festival this weekend at Golden Gate Park.”

“Are you still going to Los Angeles?”

“Eventually,” she said. “Listen, Tom, I just wanted say, I had a great time with you. We’re a good team. You were right about Dwight, by the way. He wouldn’t let me out of the car. I ended up in Detroit.”

“Are you okay?”

“Sure, I just kept going. Look, like I said, we’re a good team. If you’re ever down this way, look me up. I’ll send you my address.”

“Okay. I don’t know when that’ll be.”

“Neither do I,” she laughed. “Anyway, I’d better go. People are waiting to use the phone. Take care of yourself, artist man.”

“I’m no artist, Melissa.”

“You could be.”

“Take care of yourself.”

So many girls were wandering around back then, hanging out on Haight/Ashbury or Laurel Canyon in Los Angeles.

I didn’t hear from her again. I saw some photos in Life Magazine of all these hippies at Golden Gate Park. One of the girls looked like Melissa. No moon glasses, though. Maybe it wasn’t her. So many girls were wandering around back then, hanging out on Haight/Ashbury or Laurel Canyon in Los Angeles. I’m sure Melissa got there eventually. She always seemed to get where she wanted to go. Imagine calling from San Francisco just tell me we made a good team. Hell, we made a great team. I just wish it’d lasted longer. I think she did, too. I hope so, anyway.

Robert Cormack is a novelist, short story writer, blogger and journalist. His work is now free here on Medium. His first novel “You Can Lead A Horse To Water (But You Can’t Make It Scuba Dive)” is available online through Simon & Schuster. I’ve even learned Walmart is selling “good, used copies.” His stories and articles are also available at robertcormack.net