Ezra Titus

1966 – 2009

WOODSTOCK ’94

I took a pretty girl from Georgia to Woodstock ‘94. Her name was Umbrielle, a blonde, erotic prancer. She looked like Cheryl Tiegs in her prime, except Umbrielle had nicer “tiegs.” We might have left with the the people who brought us there, but she wanted to stay and see Metallica. She wore a pretty little tank-top and “Southern Girl” denim shorts with holes in them, that sexy, torn-up look. She was also had delicate, golden slippers on.

 

It rained, and within an hour, poor Umbrielle’s feet were sinking into mud that was two feet deep. She trod through, determined to see Metallica, but sometimes, when she’d try to pull her foot out of the mud, a squishy noise would indicate that one of her slippers had been sucked off. She’d say, “Aww, dang it!” Then, she’d put her little foot back down into the mud to search by feel for the slipper, with a displeased look on her face. Finally, she’d find it, and it would come slurping out of the mud, once again on her foot.

 

We got very hungry, and purchased a few fifteen dollar egg-rolls (thank you, Michael Lang). The cleanest place we could find to eat was atop an overturned garbage can. Squeezing out packages of duck-sauce onto those Rodeo Drive-priced yet very low quality egg-rolls made us feel, somehow, disenchanted. Still, we stayed to see Metallica, and it was worth it – well, it had to be, right? Umbrielle and I agreed it was one of the best shows we’d ever seen. Then, it was time to call my sister, who was supposed to come and pick us up.

 

“Dude!” my sister shouted over the pay-phone, “it’s like, one in the morning!”

“Ophelia,” I said, “we are stuck in the rain, covered with infectious mud and ten miles from my car. Umbrielle is not happy, and if you don’t come to retrieve us as you promised to, right now, I’ll make you suffer!”

 

“Uff!” – Ophelia hung up the phone.

 

My sister sleeps for about twenty two hours a day, which is how she gets along with my parents so well. When awake, she’s in the shower or getting ready for bed. There is no time for conflict. I called back and she wouldn’t answer the phone. I was fuming, and Umbrielle wasn’t too happy either.

 

“No problem,” I said confidently, “we’ll hitch-hike.” With a girl as pretty as Umbrielle, I knew we’d get a ride quickly. What I didn’t know was that the road was closed except for buses, and all of those were filled to capacity. We hitched for about an hour, but even when I hid, so it would look like Umbrielle was hitch-hiking alone, no one would pick her up. I was astonished because, though muddy and wet, Umbrielle still looked like a hot blonde Southern Belle… one in distress at that, but she still couldn’t get a ride. I was completely baffled. Finally, we decided to walk. I decided not to tell Umbrielle exactly how far we had to go.

 

After about an hour, we were still only an eighth of the way home. It was dark on that country road and it was pouring rain. Umbrielle’s mud-packed little slippers weren’t holding up so well and she began to cry. “Dang,” she whimpered, “I’m so tired. I just can’t walk no more Izra!” I told her it was only a little further, knowing that, really, we had about nine miles left to go along that road, which was becoming more like a trail through a Vietnamese rain forest. Umbrielle trudged on for about fifteen more minutes before bursting into tears and collapsing in the mud. I tried carrying her, but her tits alone must have weighed fifty pounds, and it wasn’t long before I just couldn’t go on. I fell to my knees with my Georgia girl weeping in my arms. “We gonna’ die!” she shrieked. With the energy of pure desperation (and what remained of my chivalry), I mustered the strength to stand again and , with Umbrielle  in my arms, I continued on. Silently, I thought we might well die that night.

 

Finally though, we happened upon two men who were getting into their car. I dropped Umbrielle, ran over to them and said, “My wife is dying! I’ll give you a hundred dollars to drive us home!” On the way, Umbrielle stopped sobbing only once to slap me and say, “I never wanna’ see you again!”

 

When we got to the house, Umbrielle passed out in a chair. I got a pencil and a cat and snuck into the room where my sister was slumbering under a luxurious down comforter. Her diminutive foot was sticking out, naked and vulnerable. I ran the tip of the pencil hard, down from her toes to her heel. As she rose, enraged at being disturbed out of her near-eternal slumber, I tossed the cat onto her. “Ezra!” she screamed, but I was already running away, and she was too tired to pursue me.

 

Late in the morning, after I’d driven the angry, silent Umbrielle to the train-station, Ophelia was still sleeping, so I repeated the pencil-cat trick yet again. This time, she chased me into the kitchen and attacked. I simply placed my hand against her forehead, as I have done since we were children, and she swung her tiny fists in the air, unable to reach me, though, she did unleash a barrage of threats and condemnations. I laughed, which enraged her even further. It wasn’t long before she grew weary and slumped back off to bed. I went outside to hose the caked mud off of my sneakers.

 

While waiting for them to dry, I sat in the living room listening to Ophelia’s faint snore. The phone rang. It was my friend, Cooder. “Yeah… yeah,” I said. “It was one of the best concerts I’ve ever seen.”

 

 

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