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Ricardo Mays crossed the alley with a quickness in his step. He approached the ringing payphone at the northernmost point of the Barry Farm Dwellings, a notorious government housing yard in Washington D.C.

“’Lo?” said Ricardo.
“You said you had a li’l somethin’ to tell me.”
“Uh huh. I’m not tryin’ talk on the phone, same spot as before a’ight?”
“A’ight. Five minutes”
“Five.”

Mays ended the call and walked with an exaggerated limp. It was the hottest summer to date. Children played on their respective stoops. A fire hydrant had burst and children were circling it to escape the July sun. Word had spread about a music festival that was going to make a significant cultural impact and be talked about for decades to come; the largest ever to hit the country. Jefferson Airplane was headlining and Jimi Hendrix was scheduled to close the festival on the third day. Thousands of wayward teens, promoters and junk-heads alike were going to converge on a sleepy upstate New York town for three days of depraved debauchery and drug use.