T he band I’m in is playing a festival, our first in three years. We were first meant to play here in 2020, but it got cancelled because of Covid. We were rescheduled for 2021, but the festival was cancelled again. It is strange to be keeping this appointment after so much time has passed – it’s like being catapulted into a future where everything is the same, except there is no money.
“You have to pay for everything with your wristband,” says the fiddle player when I arrive. He and his wife have been camping at the festival for three days, and he looks like a man possessed of hard-won experience. His eyes have a glazed, faraway look, and he’s basically dressed for skiing.
“You’re supposed to download an app,” he says. “But I couldn’t figure it out, so I found a tent where some guy does it for you.”
“Problem solved,” I say. But it turns out he has insufficient funds on his wrist to pay for his food, and my food, and the food of the other four people at the table.