i wrote this for howard good's class about a year ago. i still haven't decided what to do with it.

all i know is that i like it.

    "I think a more accurate name would be 'Everyone-Looks-the-Same Fest,'" I say to Patty. Patty is my only friend crazy enough to drive across three states with me in a Hyundai to attend the Pitchfork Music Festival in Chicago.
      We're at Union Park, in a section of the city that smacks of Brooklyn before the hipsters took over. And yet, history repeats itself. I push back my side-swept bangs and survey the sauntering, designer beer-swigging mass of kids in Converse sneakers.
    Earlier, on the Green Line, we smirked as hordes of these kids got on at every stop. The locals were visibly confused. As a New Yorker, I had been terrified earlier in the day by the sheer volume of strangers who had talked to me on the street. Where I'm from, people tend to pay more attention to their iPods than strangers on the train. I winced when an older man leaned over and asked me, "Where all these people comin' from?"   
I don't blame him for asking. Union Park and Central Park resemble each other only in name. This is not a likely site for an event whose biggest sponsors consist of hipper-than-thou indie record labels and Whole Foods.
    Welcome to the Pitchfork Fest, two days of obscure and somewhat obscure live bands presented by The Indie Rock Magazine itself. I'd driven for two days, and I was not going to miss a second of it.
    On the main stage, toward the back of the park, John Darnielle of the Mountain Goats sings of childhood dance parties and lost loves in New Jersey, with a nasal twang sacred only in the world of indie rock. So enamored am I of this performance that I fail to notice the mass quantities of sweat pouring down my back, and the fact that I have only visited the high-class bathroom facilities once since my arrival.  My post-show bliss is quickly replaced with a mind-numbing headache and an overwhelming urge to be horizontal.
    Patty hadn't signed up for this. I am sprawled in the grass near the first aid tent, alternately trying to get up and watch Art Brut's set and collapsing in groans and threats of suicide. The cheap-ass in me can't comprehend the concept of giving up half of a two-day pass because of some silly little dehydration episode. I attempt to stand up. I immediately regret this decision and become one with some cigarette butts and discarded flyers on the ground.     A disgruntled member of the "first aid staff' squints at me incredulously.
    "You been drinkin'?"
    I try to explain that while normally I'm quite a fan of cold beverages, I didn't think it was a wise decision to knock 'em back on the day of Chicago's highest heat index. I am grudgingly offered a free bottle of water, but I only succeed in swallowing a few drops and whining at Patty. She puts her face in her hands. Back to the Green Line. Stone fucking sober, I might add.
    But this was no afternoon train to salvation. I stare at the horizon. I think about John Darnielle. I try to sing "Sometimes a Pony Gets Depressed" by the Silver Jews, but as soon as I open my mouth, I realize I am terrified about what may come out. I make a beeline for the metal doors as we screech to a halt.
    "Heidi, this isn't our stop."
    "NEED. . . A. . . BATHROOM."
    Cut to my head over a none-too-clean toilet in a Filene's basement bathroom. I am having performance anxiety. I have just run out of the most anticipated event of my summer and I am actually worried about that lady in the flowered dress in the next stall hearing me puke my guts out. Priorities.
    After several failed attempts at The Great Gastrointestinal Resurrection, I run out of the store and sit yoga-style on the filthy sidewalk. If I stand up and walk, I want to throw up and die. If I sit down, I want to heave and only mildly wound myself.
    I call my mother. This is not a good idea.  My mother is always convinced I'm dying of the plague when I cough during our phone conversations, and has in the past recommended various tea and herbal remedies before I have a chance to explain that I'm just choking on my coffee. All I get out of the conversation is something along the lines of "get thee to a hospital," so I gather my sorry self and manage to climb up the stairs of an L train stop.
    Ten stairs feel like a freaking Swiss Alp, and no, I don't live up to my namesake. Patty can't understand anything I'm muttering, other than "Paaaattttyyyyyy, fix it," and I slump down on the floor of the rickety structure, which shakes violently as each train passes through. I am convinced they are doing it on purpose.
    I don't remember giving the station attendant my name or address, but I stare lovingly into the eyes of a paramedic, who, in my altered state, vaguely resembles Jake Gyllenhaal. Despite my humiliating circumstances, I feel a little wave of self-importance wash over me as we lurch through the streets of Chicago. Patty stares at me, wide-eyed, and I hope her sense of worry for me is overpowering her desire to check the festival schedule to find out who she's missing. If it's the Walkmen, our friendship may be in jeopardy.
    I blink, and realize I'm in a wheelchair. I'm scanning the waiting room with droopy lids and an invisible anvil repeatedly falling on my head, and my delusions of grandeur fade. I may want to bash my face in, but from the sight of these other suckers, it looks like that wasn't a choice for some. Instead of compassion and worry, I'm filled with rage.
    Oh, and irresponsibility. It has now been three hours since my parents were informed that I was being transported to the hospital in a city 3,000 miles from home. For all they know, I have been kidnapped by thieves disguised as ambulance drivers and incorporated into the seediest of Chicago crime syndicates. Weakly, I fumble for my cell phone, and as Patty darts outside to call my father, I feel a sudden affinity for the bathroom. Staggering out of my wheelchair, I push past nurses and patients in hot pursuit of a porcelain goddess.
    Apparently, giving the nurse a graphic portrayal of what I'd eaten wasn't quite enough to knock anyone out of their spot in line, so I again retired to my wheelchair and angrily flung a thin blanket over my head. I threw it off again as Patty told me that my father graciously pardoned us from drinking at the concert.
     "WHY DOES EVERYONE ASSUME I'M DRUNK!?" I bellow.
    Some nosy Midwesterners turn and stare.
    "Look," I hiss to Patty. "If we were in New York, I could have an extra limb growing out of my head and no one would even notice."
    Patty shrugs and looks mildly pained, a familiar facial expression of one dealing with a lunatic. I decide I have no use for her and demand painkillers from a nurse, and not surprisingly, my belligerent ass is denied. It is safe to say I am an outraged concertgoer without much of a cause.
    When I am finally admitted into the emergency room, I'm too impressed to gripe.
    "Patty. Patty. We're totally on like, ER or something."
    The doctors are entirely too good-looking, entirely too young, and every nationality is equally represented. I'm rolled into a private curtained room and I stare up, wide-eyed, at the perfectly chiseled features of one of the three (count 'em) doctors who attend to me in my whirlwind tour of Chicago's finest hospital, or so they say. I explain that I've been at an outdoor festival, and that no, I haven't touched a drop, and yes, I may not have had enough water. I spare them my rage when asked The Drinking Question because I'm eyeing the IV bag that promises to heal all suffering.
    The needle goes in and I check out. I've been waiting for my head to clear for about five hours now, and I drift off, humming "How a Resurrection Really Feels," by The Hold Steady. They're not playing Pitchfork Fest, but I'll see them in October if I get out of this slick city alive.
    I awake to an unfamiliar feeling: a need to use the bathroom for its intended purpose. I shuffle to the bathroom in my fashionable hospital gown, dangling my IV bag, and Patty bites her lips to keep from laughing. Keep in mind, my metamorphosis from fresh-faced road trip buddy to needy grouch had robbed me of some charm and favor. When I return, a grandmotherly nurse informs me that I'm well enough to go home, and I blow that needle a kiss as she pulls it out.
    The Northeastern Memorial Hospital's lobby and main entrance resembles that of a swank hotel, complete with an abundance of unnecessary space and cathedral ceilings. The receptionist calls a cab with the touch of a button, and it arrives within minutes. I'm flooded with saline and feeling like a new girl. I look sideways at Patty as the cabs whisks us through the Chicago streets. We pass a Green Line stop and I bite my lip, thinking that the Silver Jews must be getting on stage right about now.
    "Wow ... it's only like, 11:30," I venture.
    "Don't even fucking think about it."