Jerry Garcia's Free Market

I just returned from a convention of young capitalists in Washington. They came from all over the nation and from a number of foriegn lands to Fitzgerald Kennedy stadium on the banks of the Potomac river to hold a workshop on how lassiez-faire capitalism can be an efficient, benevolent, happy way to spend a life.

Jerry Garcia was the keynote speaker, or vocalist, as the case may be.

The gathering, of course, was a two-night stand by the Grateful Dead, who are currently out on their annual summer tour, and while the primary cause of the gathering was probably the music, the scene in the parking lot was just as entertaining and educational, from an economic strandpoint.

As the escalator at the Metro's Stadium/Armory stop churned out Dead-heads into the muggy District afternoon, capitalism's sores ran openly. Professional scalpers wanted double the face value of tickets. Sadly, they had learned the some of the tour lingo and snapped, "I've got your miracle right here for 40 bucks." But the real Dead-head, with Friedman in mind and set lists in hand, pressed on; miracles are not bought from people draped in gold and beepers.

Passing the shiny carts of commercial food and the the yells describing the warmth of cigarettes and the coolness of soda, the real Deadhead walked toward the stadium. He had tickets; they were ordered through Grateful Dead Ticket Sales (GDTS) so as to avoid the outrageous service charges that Ticketmaster attaches to most events while their operators drone on in what is rarely recognizable as English. Pearl Jam, currently in self-imposed stadium exile due to differences with Ticketmaster, would do well to adopt a policy similar to the Dead's; start a hotline and provide a mechanism whereby fans can order tickets directly from the band's organization.

Ambling down the hill, the Dead-head saw that even the police had become intoxicated with the spirit of revelry and had let their guard down somewhat, which is to say they were all sitting on the hoods of cruisers watching all the people go by. They realized that they had been pulled off the streets of the nation's most violent city to guard people who most pressing problem was whether or Dark Star was going to be played tonight. They were happy.

But the Deadhead was hungry. Fortunately, he had many options down in the parking lot. Other Deadheads, in need of gas money to the next shows in Pittsburgh, had gone to Safeway and bought bagels, cream cheese and sandwich material. Tabouli, falafels and other exotic delights were made to order by chefs who made up in love what they lacked in equipment. But in the end the Deadhead was sold by the faded blue in a young woman's washedout eyes while she mouthed "One grilled cheese sandwich, just for you." Sure, the ingredients weren't worth more than 20 cents, but the profits would be all be poured right into the gas tank of the rusting VW Bus behind her makeshift kitchen. You could hear it in her soft, "Thanks a lot, man."

Drugs could easily be purchased, and the dealers would gladly give a sample of the goods to anyone who looked like they were seriously interested. Beer flowed freely as well, with service "Wait, I'll reach way down here so you get the coldest one we got, buddy" figured into a markup that would be standard at any bar.

People shared what they had with those who had not. They passed bowls, ballons, set lists and stories.

Clothing could be purchased as well. Most of the shirts were so original and beautiful they made the Deadhead want to buy them all, from the simplest peace symbol to the intricate fusion of Sesame Street characters and the Shakedown Street album cover. And only 15 dollars, half of what you would pay for a garment commemortating your presence at one of the Eagles premium rehersal sessions that are passing for concerts this summer.

There was no effort to crack down on "unlicensed" merchandise, nor was there any effort to check for health violations in the Hibachis framed in blue tapestries on an rickety table. No one was getting rich, they were just getting to the next show and feeding and clothing fellow humans in the process. Unrestrained capitalism, without fetter or regulation turns ugly when loosed upon industrial production.

But the dream of a free-market Utopia, at least in the service industries, is alive and well and following the Grateful Dead around this land. If you get the chance, check it out when it comes to a stadium or arena near you. The love that Deadheads have for each other and for the society they have created keeps profit down and spirits high. And, as Jerry Garcia himself can tell you, without love in a dream it'll never come true.