The Jew in the Phish

A breeze off the bay gathers the setbreak clutter—ringed cocktail napkins, cloudy plastic bags smaller than matchbooks, a thousand hoarse hellos, a thunderhead of cigarette smoke—and flings it to the other side of the porch. The paper, the plastic, the exhaust, the everything settles for a few moments, maybe a few minutes, before the wind picks up again and the debris is sent soaring across the concrete enclave.

I’m sitting with back to wall and to bay, looking through the glass at a steady stream of disembodied chests, necks and faces. To my left is a line of legs. To my right sits Alex Harper. He is smiling, but his is the smile of a mind without alternative facial expression options. He’s not saying much, but his head, which slowly rotates 180 degrees from one end of the porch to the other, on repeat, indicates he’s got a lot to say. His eyes are like little suns eclipsed by giant UFOs. I look into them, and for the briefest of moments what I see is what he sees and what we see is the future, a dream or maybe both:

It is night on Interstate 10. Harper is behind the wheel, fidgeting with the iPod. The whole of Florida sits silently to his left. I sit to his right, and beyond me, ahead of us and in every endless direction, the United States of America. Also ahead of us, our destination: the hills of Tallahassee, the promise of some sort of dubstep music and couches on which to sleep.

“If one does what God does enough times, he becomes as God is.”

In a beginning, God created the heavens and the earth.

“If one does what God does enough times, he becomes as God is.”

In a beginning, man created the rhythm and the verse.

“I’m the one who brought the truth to the light / If you listening to me you couldn’t lose in a…”

I cringe. Harper skips through the stanzas, listening for a particular line.

“…nition of Toxic / Anyone who ever got close to me got sick.”

“Here it comes man, here it comes.”

“We like heavy metal, listening to Sepultura / Remain calm, study Islam and read Torahs.”

“Unhnhnhnh.” The song is stopped suddenly. I cringe. “…Sefer Torah. Remain calm, study Islam, read Torahs,” repeats Harper, to the best of his well-meaning abilities. He taps next a few more times. Shuffle lands on something permissible. But this song doesn’t last long either. We listen to disjointed fragments of verse, synth and beat until there, ahead of us, is the exit for Tallahassee.

Up a hill, down a street, around a bend, down a hill and Railroad Square is up ahead. We park in a dirt lot across from the Engine Room, where the dubsteppin’ is supposed to have already started. We produce IDs, pay cover and emerge onto the front porch, where somebody enthusiastically welcomes us. “Yo Ryan, meet my boy, Josh!” But I’m already giving Ryan a hug. “This is ‘your boy in Tally,’ Harper?” I ask. “Your boy Josh?” Ryan adds. “D’you forget about Miami?” “Aw man. “You’re rigggghhhhttt. Damn. Hahahahahahahaha. Sorry about that guys. Sick. Well. Let’s dance!”

Inside. Wah waahh waaahhh, wah waahh waaahhh. Bar. Wa waah waah, wa waah waah. Porch. Wah waahh waaahhh, wah waahh waaahhh. Bathroom. Wah waahh waaahhh, wah waahh waaahhh. Porch.

Up the steps floats a faerie I’ve definitely seen before. She walks over, bids hello to Ryan, hugs Harper, smiles at me. “Sarah. Mike Gordon. Jax Beach. You told me that you told your mother that you were going to Jacksonville to celebrate Rosh Hashanah. I’m Josh,” I say. Her eyes light. “Awww, yeah! And Miami!” she says. “Phish!”

Inside. Wah waahh waaahhh, wah waahh waaahhh. Bar. Wa waah waah, wa waah waah. Porch. Wah waahh waaahhh, wah waahh waaahhh. Bathroom. Wah waahh waaahhh, wah waahh waaahhh. Porch.

The night carries on. Friends disperse. Sarah needs a ride home. Harper obliges. Up a hill, around a bend, down a street. We arrive. Sarah invites us inside, offers us tea, washes our feet, whatever we need. Water boiling, she sits down at her laptop, scrolls. As. Bs. Ds. Gs. Ls. Ns. Os. Ps. Phs. Phish. Sarah picks a jam. “Mama sing sing.” And the music never stops.

The topic of tour comes up. How’s it done. How’s it not done. Sarah did Summer ’09. Sold homemade T-shirts, beer, water on lot. “Oh! I have leftover shirts,” she says while running upstairs to grab them. A muffled: “You gaughta check these out!” And returning: “I only have one medium left. But the larges are small larges. Is that cool?” she asks while throwing a T at me. “Cool for what?” “For you. You can each have one.” “No, no. We can’t take your shirts.” “No, seriously, it’s cool. We made all the money back. These are the extras. You should have them.”

I hold the stark dark enchanted-forest green cotton out in front of me. “SUMMER TOUR 2009” the back declares. I turn the shirt around. Below a deep-V neck, the shirt is covered in hand-drawn golden-green lines: A maze of swirling branches cascade into a thick trunk and then dripping roots.  Next to this tree, a thicket of words: “AND A TREE OF KNOWLEDGE IN YOUR SOUL WILL GROW.” I turn to Harper with a shocked smile of disbelief.

Harper blinks. It is night on the porch of the American Airlines Arena in Miami. I turn forward and look through the glass at a steady stream of disembodied chests, necks and faces. A breeze off the bay gathers the setbreak clutter and flings it to the other side of the porch. The paper, the plastic, the exhaust, the everything settles for a few moments, maybe a few minutes, before the wind picks up again and the debris is sent soaring across the concrete enclave.

Take a sip of water. Take a breath of air. Take a gulp of courage. Set IV is about to begin.