Tuesday, 10 June 2003 | Field Day, part 1

I don't have a credit card; I severed the magic plastic with a pair of scissors the moment I paid it off, spreading the shards like seeds into different trash cans. At the time, I wasn't aware that I'd be missing that card almost two years later—not to pay bills or buy something extravagant—but to simply rent a car so that I could drive to a concert in New Jersey. But more than that, I was annoyed that it was required, annoyed that I was being punished for not operating in the world of credit. And frustrated that all three of us were handicapped by some small requirement: me, for not having a credit card; Veritee, for not being 25; and Scott, for not having a driver's license.

We stood on a wet sidewalk punching numbers into cell phones, wishing we could morph into one person, into one car-renting superhero. There was no train we could take to Giants stadium, we were carrying items that would be confiscated at the gate (such as my umbrella), and we had missed the last bus.

We ended up taking a taxi, after dropping off our "illicit" items at the hotel bar where Scott works. Our cab driver wore a pinstriped suit and a round Charlie Chaplin hat, and he liberally passed out paper towels while we ate sandwiches, perhaps to be friendly or to protect the interior of his car. He honked and complained about the traffic and the bad drivers. He jokingly tried to sell me his hat when I told him I liked it. He let us out into the middle of the parking lot, spilling us out into the steady rain.

On the way to the first gate, probably at the end of Liz Phair's set, we passed three people sitting in cloth chairs that had umbrellas duct taped to their backs. Two guys and a girl. They were stationed there like sirens, singing songs of shelter, fruit, beer, and cupcakes. We accepted, and missed a little more of the concert.

The people at the gate weren't as friendly. Apparently there were lots of items considered illicit, such as black plastic bags and non-disposable cameras, and, if you're male, you aren't allowed to carry a bag in at all. Incidentally, I had lined my cloth bag with plastic bags (which happened to be black) to keep my things from getting wet, but I was made to give them up. Scott had to give up his cloth bag entirely, although, oddly, he was allowed to keep everything else he'd brought (minus his digital camera); apparently his belongings were okay as long as they weren't stored in either a cloth bag carried by a male or a black plastic bag carried by anyone.

Veritee and I then split Scott's things between our bags, upon which I was told I'd better "watch it, because [my] bag was turning into a 'bag' instead of a 'purse,'" as it began to fatten and get heavy. One merciful woman (at the third gate we tried to penetrate) let me hang onto my camera. She whispered in a low, deep voice, "Look, I'm not trying to bust your balls. You can keep it, but don't take it out of your bag, or they'll confiscate it." I nodded and guzzled my soda, which I wasn't allowed to bring in.

(Part 2 | Part 3)