The first sign of trouble was the lineup outside Ferns Flower Shop.
Fern noticed it shortly after nine on Friday morning. It stretched from her front door, past Joe’s Coffee Shop and halfway toward Wing Dings.
Nearly everyone in it was carrying a folding chair, a cooler or the exhausted expression of someone who had spent twenty minutes looking for a campsite that was directly in front of them.
At the head of the line stood Nugs behind a folding table. He wore a homemade lanyard and had arranged six rolls of green tape beside a handwritten sign:
LUCKY NOW ALL-ACCESS WRISTBANDS — $5
Underneath, in considerably smaller writing, it said:
Access subject to availability, geography and doors.
“What are you doing?” Fern asked.
“Helping with festival overflow,” said Nugs. “People see a table, a lanyard and wristbands. It calms them.”
He tore off a strip of green tape and wrapped it around a customer’s wrist.
“Does this get me into Music in the Fields?” the customer asked.
Nugs looked wounded by the suggestion.
“Sir, this is an all-access wristband for Lucky Now. I would never claim authority over another field.”
Fern picked up his sign and read it twice.
“You’re charging five dollars to let people walk around town?”
“Not just walk around,” said Nugs. “They can enter participating sidewalks.”
His first customer stared at the strip of tape around his wrist.
“What exactly can I access?”
Nugs pointed across the street.
“Joe’s has a public entrance. Wing Dings lets you smell the wings from outside. The Opening Soon Store offers unlimited window viewing. And On the Rob is available as our remote venue.”
“Is there transportation?”
“There is a road.”
Fern made Nugs add NOT A FESTIVAL TICKET to the sign.
He wrote it at the bottom in letters so small that Fern accused him of using punctuation.
The sensible thing would have been for the idea to collapse immediately.
Instead, Joe accepted the green wristbands.
He had not agreed to participate, exactly. The first band-holder simply walked into Joe’s Coffee Shop, held up a wrist and asked what it included.
Joe looked at the growing crowd outside, looked at his empty tip jar and offered ten cents off a large coffee.
Within minutes, Joe had created a brown COFFEE ACCESS wristband.
It was required to receive the discount attached to the green wristband.
The multiple owners of Wing Dings saw people leaving Joe’s with two wristbands and feared they were falling behind. After a hurried meeting in the doorway, they introduced three of their own:
Orange for mild wings.
Red for medium wings.
Black for anyone willing to sign a waiver and stop asking what was in the sauce.
Nobody could agree which wrist the bands belonged on, so customers were issued duplicates.
By lunchtime, Lucky Now had developed an economy based entirely on coloured tape.
Nugs expanded his folding table into the Wristband Exchange.
For two dollars, he reorganized people’s bands by colour. For another dollar, he upgraded them to “express wrist order,” which was exactly the same arrangement but on the other arm.
Fern watched him wrap seven bands around a man who only wanted directions to the arena.
“You haven’t answered his question,” she said.
“I gave him navigation access.”
“That’s purple tape.”
“Exactly. He can now ask again without waiting.”
The Mayor arrived shortly after noon carrying his coffee.
Nugs immediately issued him complimentary municipal, ceremonial, executive, sponsor and beverage wristbands. The Mayor accepted all five because refusing a sponsor band felt, in his words, “economically unfriendly.”
Unfortunately, the bands were applied across his elbow.
The Mayor attempted to raise his coffee, but his arm would no longer bend far enough. He lowered his head toward the cup, reconsidered the dignity of the position and addressed the gathering instead.
“What we are witnessing,” he announced, “is a spontaneous wearable economy.”
“Your coffee is getting cold,” Fern told him.
“Economic growth often involves sacrifice.”
At twelve forty-seven, Officer Dave “By-The-Book” Barlow arrived to investigate a complaint about unauthorized festival credentials.
He stepped from his cruiser in full uniform, wearing his tie and polished silver pig tie clip.
The crowd immediately assumed he was security and formed a neat line in front of him.
Barlow inspected the first green wristband.
“Who issued this?”
Thirty people pointed at Nugs.
Nugs raised his lanyard as though it were a legal defence.
“Before we use words like ‘issued,’” he said, “I prefer ‘locally applied.’”
Barlow examined the sign, the folding table and one of the rolls of tape.
“Are these counterfeit festival wristbands?”
“Absolutely not,” said Nugs. “They are genuine Lucky Now wristbands. Every one is made from authentic tape.”
“What does ‘all access’ mean?”
“They provide access to everything the wearer was already allowed to access.”
Barlow stared at him.
“So they do nothing.”
“Seamlessly.”
While Barlow wrote in his notebook, Millie wandered beneath the table.
The female chocolate Lab emerged with a loose gold VIP band hanging from her mouth. She approached Barlow, lifted her head and deposited it neatly over his silver pig tie clip.
Someone in the crowd gasped.
“The pig is VIP.”
Within seconds, people were taking pictures of the tie clip.
Nugs moved a second sign onto the table:
OFFICIAL VIP PIG VIEWING — GREEN BAND REQUIRED
Barlow looked down at the gold band dangling from his tie.
“My tie clip is not an attraction.”
“Then why does it have better credentials than you?” Nugs asked.
Barlow confiscated the second sign.
Nugs charged a dollar to watch him do it.
The wristband situation deteriorated rapidly after that.
Joe introduced a blue band for washroom access, then had to create a white band allowing people to remove the blue band without losing their coffee discount.
Wing Dings launched a silver band that meant either extra sauce or no extra sauce, depending on which owner had sold it.
Someone placed a green wristband around a parking meter. For the next hour, nobody parked there because they assumed it was reserved for performers.
Millie acquired four bands around her collar and began walking freely between every business in town.
This convinced visitors she was an official festival guide.
A group followed her for three blocks before discovering that the tour ended behind Wing Dings beside a dropped chicken wing.
At the edge of town, On the Rob created a fuel-access wristband.
It did not include fuel. It merely confirmed that fuel could be purchased nearby at the posted price.
Nugs called it “the premium remote experience.”
Then Glady arrived.
She wanted one coffee.
Joe explained that the green band permitted entry, the brown band activated the discount and the blue band covered facilities. Because Glady had arrived after noon, she would also require a yellow afternoon-validation strip.
Glady looked at Joe.
She looked at Nugs.
She looked at the Mayor, who was still attempting to reach his coffee without bending his bandaged elbow.
“This was irresponsible.”
Nugs pointed excitedly toward her.
“Complaints are included with platinum access.”
Glady took the scissors from his table.
One by one, people began holding out their arms.
She cut through green, brown, red, orange, blue, white, silver and purple tape.
Every snip weakened the Lucky Now wristband economy.
Joe abandoned washroom validation. Wing Dings returned to asking customers what sauce they wanted. The Mayor’s elbow was liberated, although his coffee was now cold enough to remember winter.
Barlow ordered Nugs to return the money.
Nugs looked at the cashbox, then at the crowd.
“What if every five-dollar band becomes five dollars in actual town vouchers?”
Fern folded her arms.
“Backed by what?”
Nugs slowly pushed the cashbox toward her.
With help from Joe and the multiple owners of Wing Dings, Fern converted the useless wristbands into a small Lucky Now festival trail.
Every green band became valid for coffee, snacks and a discount at Ferns Flower Shop for adults legally permitted to shop there. Whatever money remained would go to a local community fundraiser.
The visitors cheered.
Joe poured fresh coffee. Wing Dings started another batch. Even Barlow allowed the gold band to remain on his silver pig tie clip until the last photograph had been taken.
Nugs stood proudly beside his empty cashbox.
“Exactly as planned,” he said.
Fern handed him a roll of tape and pointed toward the mess covering Main Street.
“Cleanup access.”
Late that afternoon, the crowd reached the Opening Soon Store.
A brand-new notice had appeared behind the locked glass:
WRISTBAND HOLDERS ONLY
Everyone raised a green wrist.
The door remained locked.
Below the notice, someone had added a second sign:
ACCEPTING ALL ACCESS. PROVIDING NO ACCESS. OPENING SOON.
Glady read it, turned toward Nugs and held out her hand.
“Five dollars.”
“For what?” he asked.
“For allowing you to leave.”
Nugs paid immediately.