Golf Cart Driver


Thank God for the rain which has helped wash the dust and glow stick shards off these dirt roads. Of course, now it’s really muddy, which sucks if you’re wearing sandals.

I’m working third shift, which means headliner spots to the last late night dj set. It’s a hustle but if I didn’t do it they wouldn’t let me in for free. And I wouldn’t spend three hundred dollars on this year’s lineup.

I work the whole festival, up, down, don’t make no difference to me – does for some. Some won’t take frat dudes – hell, I don’t mind the bros.

All the freaks come out at night: hippies, festival sluts, backpack rappers, scene kids, alt. country hipsters, new wave homosexuals, juggalos, punks, and EDM fans.

Someday a real rain will come and wash all this patchouli off the road.

Each night when I return the golf cart to the tent I have to clean the glitter off the back seat. Sometimes I find a roach.

Six hours of work and still I cannot sleep. It’s hot as a sauna at seven in the morning. Why don’t they have this in September, when it would be reasonable outside?

All my life needed was a sense of direction, a sense of someplace to go. Or maybe one of those camel packs. They look useful.

I do not believe one should devote his life to morbid self-reflection, but should become a person like other people. Except all those people I’ve been talking bad about this entire time. I hate those people.



PASSENGER: Can you stop the golf cart?

We’re not to the five dollar shower stalls yet.

PASSENGER: Yeah, but, honestly, you’re kind of freaking me out. Like, I’m not exactly sober and you’re emanating some really bad vibes. No offense.


PASSENGER: I will gladly walk the rest of the way.

Where was I? Oh, yeah.

I first saw her at the glassblower’s tent outside Centeroo. She was wearing a yellow headband, selling an Allman Brother lookalike a bubbler.

She appeared like an angel out of this open port-a-potty. She is alone: they cannot touch her. I mean, they bump into her sometimes, there’s eighty thousand people here.


Yeah, boss.

WALKIE TALKIE: Meet me at the golf cart depot.



Is something wrong?

SUPERVISOR: I told you to knock off that creepy monologue shit. But there’s been three more complaints today. You’re freaking people out. They want to listen to music and party, not hear your psychobabble. Not to mention, there’s a young woman says you’ve been stalking her.

I’m not stalking her. I just drive by her tent a lot. And, anyway, she made eye contact with me.

SUPERVISOR: I’m going to have to ask you to turn in your wristband.

You’re firing me?

SUPERVISOR: You don’t work here, you’re just a volunteer. But I am kicking you out.

Can I drive the golf cart back to my car?

SUPERVISOR: Absolutely not. But you can ride in a golf cart. Driven by security. They’ll escort you from the premises.



Loneliness has followed me all my life: in gentrified dive bars, Ubers, combination bicycle-and-coffee shops, arthouse movie theaters, used book stores, dog parks. There is no escape. I am God’s lonely –

SECURITY GUARD: Please stop talking.

Sorry. Actually, that’s me over there. I drive the Honda Civic.

SECURITY GUARD: Okay. You have fifteen minutes to pack your tent. Then you’ll drive carefully off festival grounds. And not return. Don’t make us call the cops.

You don’t have to do that.

SECURITY GUARD: Hurry up, then. I’m missing a great jam sesh right now.



My whole life has been pointed in one direction. I see that now. There never has been any choice for me.

Screw Bonnaroo. I’m going to Burning Man.