In Dublin, I bid my father farewell and hopped on a plane headed for New York. Accompanying me was my college best friend. Equipped with student work visas and a vague plan, we aimed to earn enough money to spend the summer in California. We dreamt of swimming in the Pacific Ocean and strolling across the iconic Golden Gate Bridge.
After visiting my cousin in Manhattan, we jetted off to San Francisco. Unfortunately, the weather was gloomy and chilly. The hostel we stayed at on Market Street dampened our spirits. Thankfully, we managed to find lodging in Berkeley, sharing a tiny room on the top floor of a house with two Irish girls. Our sleeping arrangements consisted of carpeted floors, and we had to share a bathroom with a group of students. Sleep eluded us for many nights until I stumbled upon a thin foam mattress in a thrift store, which I promptly lugged upstairs.
We quickly fell in love with the lively atmosphere of Berkeley and spent as much time as we could exploring its vibrant music stores, bookshops, and cafes. Despite being in 1998, the earthy scent of Nag Champa lingered in the air, reminiscent of the hippie era.
I spent a few weeks commuting on the BART train to a monotonous telemarketing job in San Francisco. I then had a short stint at a mediocre burger joint near Union Square. In Berkeley, I found work at Blondie’s Pizza, which I quite enjoyed. However, the pay for all these jobs was meager, so I kept searching for better opportunities.
One Wednesday afternoon, a flyer caught my eye on the window of a yellow building near Mission Street. The flyer advertised a job at a company called Peachy’s Puffs, seeking young women to sell cigarettes, sweets, and novelty items at various events and clubs in the area. Fueled by curiosity and the need for money, I entered the dingy office. Glamour shots of women resembling long-gone movie stars adorned the walls. The job interview was brusque and straightforward. Seated behind a cluttered desk was a dark-haired man who told me to twirl around. “You’ve got a pretty cute body!” he exclaimed, appraising me from head to toe. I proceeded to fill out paperwork as he instructed me to return on Friday dressed in a nice dress. He also told me to purchase new shoes and a flashlight. Before I left, he scribbled an address on a scrap of paper and urged me to obtain a vendor’s permit nearby.
Excitedly, I shared news of the upcoming Furthur Festival with my friends. They were thrilled on my behalf, as tickets for the event were scarce and pricey. The Other Ones, a band comprised mostly of Grateful Dead members, would be headlining. They planned to hitch a ride to Mountain View, where the festival was taking place, and camp outside the gates of the Shoreline Amphitheater to enjoy the music for free.
On Friday, I returned to the shabby San Francisco office, donning a pink vintage frock I had purchased for $15 in Haight-Ashbury. I paired it with my trusty worn combat boots, unable to justify spending money on new shoes. Unfortunately, my appearance failed to impress the man who hired me. He examined me with an indifferent expression, handed me a heavy tray loaded with candy, and begrudgingly instructed me to board the idling minivan outside.
Anxiously, I climbed into the van. Seated in the back were three young women adorned with colorful makeup, flashy low-cut belly tops, short pleated skirts, and platform sandals. They sat upright, trays resting on their knees, eyeing my chunky old boots disdainfully. Right before the driver closed the door, a woman in a red flapper dress joined us.
As we embarked on the lengthy drive to Mountain View, I marveled at the sky-high prices of the candy. Who in their right mind would pay $5 for a pack of M&M’s? Yet, I was expected to sell my entire tray of goods, or else I wouldn’t earn a dime.
Traffic grew congested as we neared the festival grounds, and I started to grasp the magnitude of the event. This gathering was a movement, drawing thousands of individuals of all ages. Many donned flowing skirts, summer dresses, tie-dye shirts, and sandals, embodying the spirit of modern-day hippies. Along the road, a few colorfully painted Volkswagen buses added to the scene. Everyone seemed to radiate joy.
Once inside the gates, atop a grassy hill, I set my overflowing tray down. Music blared from massive speakers. I sat beside Nubia, one of my new co-workers, and together we watched people dance in the California sunshine, their bodies carefree and elated.
I couldn’t help but reflect on how reserved the Irish are on the dance floor, unless they’re fueled by alcohol. Here, the crowd pulsated with energy, vitality, and intoxication. Elderly men with long white beards spun around with barefoot children, and dreadlocks bobbed on exposed shoulders.
When Rusted Root took the stage, Nubia and I could no longer resist the music’s allure. We leaped to our feet and danced with uninhibited enthusiasm. The air carried the scent of patchouli. Eventually, Nubia retrieved her tray and resumed work, but I couldn’t tear myself away from the celebration. I hadn’t sold much candy, but it didn’t matter to me.
As Hot Tuna began to perform, a few individuals approached me. They smiled and picked out candy packets from my assortment, inquiring about their prices. Many shook their heads at the steep cost and walked away. “Overpriced,” I commented to the next customer. “A rip-off,” I remarked to another. And then, I started giving away the candy.
My gestures were met with warm embraces and expressions of love. People called out to their friends, beckoning them over.
Night descended upon us as the Other Ones took the stage. Their soothing melodies felt like spiritual hymns as I danced in the chilly evening air. My candy dwindled, but my circle of friends expanded.
Grateful for the M&M’s I had bestowed upon her and recognizing my cold state, a kind young woman removed a green woolen blanket from her shoulders and draped it around me. She introduced herself as Rose, revealing that her Irish grandmother had knitted the blanket. Despite my protests, she insisted I keep it. Together, we posed for photographs, our smiles wide and bodies intertwined.
That day, I earned no money. In fact, I owed Peachy’s Puffs $40, which I promptly paid. Every penny was well worth it.
Carmel Breathnach is a talented writer and educator based in Portland, Oregon. Her work has been featured in esteemed publications such as The Irish Times, Huffington Post, and Beyond.
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