If you can’t help yourself, help someone else.

That was at least part of my reasoning for buying tickets to see the Dead.  The last time the band came to Boston, I ended up escorted out of the show by security.  This time, things would be different. I’d be  doing it for a friend going through a tough time: Laid off, rocky marriage, mid-life angst.  He swears he’s “Sober!” and coping well, but I’m walking this path too, I know the signs. – the withdrawal, the silence, the unwillingness to engage with people reaching out.  “Dude, you got me into the band … you’re definitely coming for your own good.”

The day of the show our  designated driver tosses ma a plastic sandwich bag stuffed with pale dried mushroom stems and shriveled gold colored caps.  “Enjoy.”

Mr. Sobriety eyes the bag. Nostalgia is a powerful motivator. “Give me one of those.”  He pops one into his mouth. Then another. And,  then another.  Should I join him?  There are a number of solid reasons why I shouldn’t (my emotional state being a major concern). But, the sun is shining. I’m with friends and soon I’ll be in a surrounded by music almost catered to such an experience  … and to be honest my bruised soul could use this escape, or release, or whatever you want to call it.. Deep down, under the layers and compartments I’ve erected is a joyful human being yearning to be free … if only for a little while.

We park the car and begin roaming. Fenway Park has become a magnet for craziness. I can feel the energy building. I snap pictures as we wade ever deeper into the heart of darkness.. The colorful crowd surrounds us laughing, screaming, sucking on balloons. The world is a carnival of sensations: vendors shouting, music pulses and blares from every direction, incense and marijuana smoke waft, wide-eyed people shuffle and float by in a daze. Skulls everywhere. The air feels like syrup vibrating and alive. A dozen mounted police arranged in a line like stern statues survey the crowd from the edge of the parking lot.  The world feels increasingly claustrophobic. Ah … those mushrooms are starting to work their magic. Pressure surges somewhere behind and below me. This would be more manageable sitting down in the show. Sobriety looks pale, his eyes wide. “This is getting a little intense, what do you say we  get out of here.” He nods.

We make our way to Yawkey Way, now jammed with people – hundreds, thousands … millions of people packed together. We stand and survey the scene. The human traffic jam is growing by the second. Heat radiates off everything and everyone. It’s an oven and we’re all being baked alive. I know …  we’ll use the side entrance over on Landsdowne.  We swim upstream against the crowded current. A twisting, undulating snake spilling over the sidewalk extends from the small door in the great green wall all the way down, down, down the street and into the horizon. The world seems to be … tilting slightly.  Maybe Yawkey Way is the better bet after all. We let the sweating, shuffling sea of people take us that way. Stick with me. Stay close. Close. Everyone, everyone is so close. Water flowing uphill. The sun is so impossibly hot. Soaking sweat covers me like a membrane. A strobe of light pulses like a migraine at the edge of my vision. The world shifts and I reach out to hold the brick wall next to me.  A impossibly tall police officer with eyes like mirrors stares down at me. Where did he come from?  How obviously stoned am I?  Security is going to take one look at me and  …

An island of rational thought rises tall above the churning ocean of blurred sensation. I need a time out. Immediately.  The countdown begins. I lean into my friend who hasn’t left me side. “I need to get out of here and … sit down” I try to keep my voice calm as a flashing kaleidoscope descends on my swiftly tilting planet. A roaring wave breaks. I push my way through the crowd away from the crowd, but it is just goes on and on and …

… I open my eyes. I’m flat on my back, half in the road, half on the sidewalk.  Two bored looking Boston cops stare down. Oh … shit. One of them calls for an EMT. The other asks for some identification. I can feel another big wave coming. My friend wild eyed and positively vibrating  jabbers to the police, while I sit on the curb and wait for the EMTs. “Just dehydrated.” I explain as they later check my vitals. I decline their generous offer to take me to the ER. Their attention shifts to another casualty nearby. We slip away into the crowd and slide into nearby restaurant – air-conditioned and now empty. I ask the waitress for ice water and cling to the bar as the waves breaks again and again. Colors pulse and shift while objects gently sway like branches in a summer wind blowin’ in from across the sea. “You know … we could just …stay here, and skip the show,” Sobriety mumbles and drones. Hang in there, it’ll pass. All things must pass.

The worst of the psychic squall eventually passes leaving me drained, but strangely inspired. The clouds part. The world is luminous and quivering with anticipation. Have we missed the show? No, we can hear the music as we pass through security on a now deserted Yawkey Way. “Shake it, Shake it Sugaree!”  We practically skip into Fenway, every step infused with energy and potential. Boston’s own field of dreams transformed. A palace of near religious ecstasy. Fifty-thousand fans grooving to the music. The craziness outside the show is now the world’s biggest party. Everyone is happy and high. The heat has broken and the evening air flows over us cool and sweet. This was the gentle, sacred yin to the full-throtled yang of just an hour ago.

At a point towards the end of the show, Sobriety leans over and tells me earnestly (in-spite of everything) he’s glad he came and thanks me for being there for him in his time of need. Together we end our night walking across Boston, giggling at the rats scampering through the fens, posing for photos with the statues outside the MFA and strolling through the dark streets until late into the night. Neither of us in any particular rush.

News of our adventure travels quickly.  Friends call or text  “So, I heard you had quite an adventure at the show …”  Another memorable day to add to the lore.

I never intended to indulge. I assumed the concert experience would satisfy my goals. The drug effectively splashed gasoline on what was supposed to be a small, cozy campfire. At least for a short while, Sobriety came away with a new found appreciation for things (or so he says). As for me, there was no deep profound mental or spiritual insights. But, I did feel a subtle lifting of the weight that rested on my heart and mind. Mourning has a cyclical ebb and a flow to it and I began to accept that while life has infinite potential, it’s also fleeting, and some things that seem so right just aren’t meant to be.

I’m reminded of a prayer my grandmother used to cite: “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.”  Wise words.