Box Office Will Call (Window 9), pre-dawn

I was getting the hang of graveyard shifts in The Box after working a few more nights of them. At this point, midway through the week’s event, I had seen so many party-goers, revelers, and ravers pour through the Gate each day that I could barely fathom the final population—80,000. In one week’s time, Black Rock City would swell to the sixth largest city in the state of Nevada. Which isn’t saying much, considering most of Nevada is an inhospitable dustball.

I’d almost forgotten what it was like less than a week ago, when just the early builders and camp crews were allowed in. Then, the stories shared through the Box Office windows were especially wild—blowouts, breakdowns, police; disaster. Now, the stories are lighter: wide-eyed, giddy guests rolling in, ready to start their adventures. The first-timers were especially bewildered, but by far some of the most enthusiastic.

I fed off the energy of this new crowd. It was gleeful, manic, and festive in the Will Call queue—people steadily shuffling up to a fully staffed operation, 24 open windows—clutching their printouts, passports and IDs, eager to be allowed into this human zoo. The surge of international guests was especially surprising—many revelers from Europe and Russia and South America were rolling into town in rental SUVs, fresh off a red-eye flight, followed by a 12-hour red-eye drive from LAX.

. . .

One point of pride for the people working the Box Office: you’re the first face of Burning Man that the arriving guests see. Creating positive experiences for them is literally in the handbook:

“Try to make the participant’s day.”

Let’s be honest—this gig is glorified customer service. You sit at a terminal in an air-conditioned shipping container, hand over tickets that cost anywhere between $0 and $3,000, and do your best to troubleshoot whatever mess people show up with. Mix-ups between birth names and nicknames. Botched transfers. A typo in the email. Alleged missed mail deliveries. Your job in The Box is to sort out the bullshit from the genuine while they stand in the dust and sweat, rattled from travel, frustrated from the 3-to-8 hour Gate wait, probably already high. All a good Boxxie had to do was abide by the handbook rules:

“Remember, you have a choice about the attitude you project to the participants.”

I did my best to stay affable, charming, and to keep the line moving. But I had one exchange that night that stuck with me, something that really dispelled the illusion of this whole dumb festival.

A guy named “Cricket”—a first-timer—was waved over to my window. He handed me his ID and a fishy printout of a Craigslist post, telling me he’d bought the ticket months ago and it should be waiting for him at Will Call. I didn’t think he was trying to scam me, instead, it seemed pretty clear right away that someone else had scammed him.

I looked up the info he gave me and frowned at my terminal screen. The ticket was flagged, deactivated. A definite scam. The money he paypal’d was long gone, and he was about to be turned away from the biggest party in a 600-mile radius. His friends, who had no problems getting their tickets, formed a semi-circle behind him. I had to break the bad news to the whole group. 

“Sorry, bud. This ticket was faked. There was never a real ticket.”

He froze, mouth agape. He said he paid $1,400 for it.

The group started murmuring and shooting each other worried glances. He didn’t leave my window. He just stood there, one hand resting on the frame, like it was supporting all his weight.

Between us, my eyes were the first to glisten. I felt his pain, viscerally, but still had to do the job of making this participant’s day.

“I’m sorry you got scammed. That’s brutal.”

No response. A thousand-yard stare. His brain and gut were locked on to a single horror: he made it to Burning Man and now he wasn’t going to Burning Man.

I tried again. “I won’t send you back to Gerlach yet. There’s another way you can get in.”

That shook him out of it a little bit. He looked up at me, forlorn and desperate.

“Radical self-reliance,” I said. “Ask around. Be resourceful. Someone out there might have an extra ticket. You never know.”

That was my plan—send him back into the staging lot, the degenerate D-Lot, with a single shred of hope. I had seen other attendees drop off spare tickets during my previous shifts—radically gifting a free pass to the event—so I knew that kind of charity was out there somewhere. I didn’t have the power to just hand him a free ticket myself; he would have to find his own inner resolve.

I reached my arm out to offer him a moment of solidarity and a bro-handshake. He clutched my hand, hard, and pulled me halfway through the window for a long, awkward shoulder-to-shoulder hug.

“Okay,” he said with determination. He said it a second time, firmer, like he had to convince himself. He slipped out from our half-embrace, turned on his heel, and left with his crew. They disappeared into the pre-dawn twilight, fading from view in a swirl of dust.

I felt hopeful that he’d find his way. The rest of the shift passed smoothly, and the whole Box Crew made merry as we processed burner after burner through the Gate in the pre-dawn hours, filling the already buzzing city with a new vibrant liveliness—this whole party was just getting started, and the shift in energy was intense and palpable.

To be scammed out of nearly a month of rent, though—that sucks. Some vulture out there knew how to exploit the aftermarket, and Cricket was the unfortunate victim. According to the “rules” of Black Rock City, it’s supposed to be principles over profit. Decommodification and gifting. Radical community. But behold what takes their place when those ideals fail: Radical Individualism. Personal suffering, exploitation-based profit, and a general distrust of the whole thing. Out in the default world, the gears of capitalism grind on, untouched by the magic of this hippy fantasyland. Whatever our scammer did to seem legit “earned” them a grand-and-a-half. There might be a sucker born every minute, sure, but I have to believe that the karma accumulated from scamming suckers is not good. 

Still, though, I imagined Cricket and his friends knocking on RV doors, pleading with people in the Gate line, maybe even busking in the dust while holding a handmade sign:

)*( please help our friend burn )*(

Who knows? Maybe the playa would provide. Maybe he’d be safe in camp before sunrise.

I didn’t have to wonder very long. Forty-five minutes later, he came straight back to Window 9.

He said—with grimace and chagrin—that he’d found someone to transfer him a ticket.

This time, so close to the event, it cost him two grand.

He didn’t have the same delighted energy the others had on their way through Will Call. He looked deflated, fleeced and not exactly feeling the love of the Ten Principles.

But, with Cricket’s new transaction, my console blinked green in digital approval. I handed over his ticket, map, and city guide in a much more solemn routine.

“Welcome home?” I said, completely unsure of it.

He nodded, “Yeah, I guess.”

Between this and the original scam, Cricket had now spent $3,400 on one ticket to a radical, decommodified, leave-no-trace party in the desert.

And as Cricket and his friends left the Will Call window for the last time and walked back to their vehicle together, I could see the Burning Man illusion for what it was—a profit-motivated party that had spiraled far out of the original creator’s control.

5:45 & F, late afternoon

Reconciling the “rules” of this place has left me twisted and confused.

I’d finished my final graveyard shift, slept through the worst of the mid-day desert heat, and was finally free to explore the city with no further obligations as a volunteer staff member. Box Camp buzzed with chaotic energy—other Boxxies like myself had burned through their required hours and were itching to cut loose and go wild.

I strode through camp more confidently now, feeling much closer to being a jaded veteran than a fresh-faced virgin, looking for the party. I found Beasy and his gal, Berry, with a dozen others, all mounted on bikes and circled at the edge of camp.

“Heeeyyy, 404!” Beasy called. “Y’all done with your shifts? Wanna ride out with us?”

Up to this point, my Burning Man experience had been pretty limited: stuck in camp, working, or wandering solo. This was a chance to feel that communal magic I kept hearing about.

“Sure, why not?” I hustled to the bike rack and grabbed my favorite ride: that salmon-pink beach cruiser I had grown quite fond of.

I was the last one out of camp, chasing the dust cloud of my campmates: Beasy, Berry, Mother Goose, Con Queso, Boomer—all Box Office crew. Some I had met on prolonged shifts in the Will Call together, some I barely knew. We rolled out like a cartoon biker gang, three wide, four deep, coasting across the lakebed. The attitude was light and care-free and there was plenty of daylight left to enjoy a gentle ride on the smooth playa. Sometimes, the wind did the pedaling for you. With a stiff breeze at your back, bicycling out here felt more like sailing. We rode along with the winds, past the city teeming with art and adventure, out towards the deep playa structures.

We moved as a group from one point of interest to the next, stopping just long enough to mingle at the foot of a sculpture, gaze at it, nod approvingly, and drift on to the next thing. It reminded me of the drunk kids I watched sprint through the labyrinth, but we were without that level of volatility. Less frantic, more sedated, more reserved, more jaded. We’d roll up to whatever mid-playa art piece caught the eye, dismount, shuffle around in a loose cloud, and before anyone could form a thought deeper than “cool” or “I saw this last year,” someone else would point toward the horizon and call the next stop.

“Enjoying the art,” I thought. Sure. But this kinda felt more like collecting a stamp. A way to pull rank, earn cred, and say “oh yeah, I saw that” in some future conversation. Don’t get me wrong, I love exploring, I love museums, but for whatever reason, this semi-guided tour group was not doing it for me. Perhaps I was craving something more intimate, perhaps I was hungry for a more tactile experience.

Somewhere around the third stop, I didn’t get off my bike. I wanted to stay in the saddle, content to linger on the smooth rolling sensation of the fat beach cruiser tires on the flat white crust. I pedaled in slow circles, barely moving. Still checking out the art, sure, but feeling more immersed in it while riding on the bike. So far I think I was enjoying the bike riding much more than the bike stopping.

That same old feeling crept into my bones: someone here doesn’t belong.

Boomer, our camp logistics lead, must’ve picked up on it. He brought his big black low-rider cruiser alongside mine, grinning with all his teeth, and started riding literal circles around me.

“We ride in tight circles here,” he said, eyes hidden behind massive mirrored shades.

An interloping drone buzzed overhead to investigate the art, hovering just above us, digitally leering and loud.

“I’m getting that,” I muttered, glaring at the drone.

The urge to flee hit me hard; that deep, visceral need to leave. But I still wanted to play it cool and not have a freakout about it. I obviously was not feeling connected to camp, why blame them for it? I knew how I felt, and maybe this was a continued on-playa quest to find where “my people” are.

I had no need to make drama, no need to cause a scene or throw a tantrum. Just politely ghost them—smile, wave, and vanish.

Before I could start my slinking away, a boisterous shout erupted from within the group: “SNACK PACK!”

A chorus replied: “DIM SUM!”

Laughter. Some inside joke I didn’t understand. The drone overhead scuttled off with its distinct buzzing whine.

Beasy walked his bike over to fill me in. “That’s code—bathroom break. We’re heading to the portos.” He nodded at me, making an effort to reel me back into the group, but it just wasn’t clicking. Perhaps after so many days of this communal effort I was ready for some self-reliance. If only I had some code language to express it without sounding like a jerk. I nodded and got back into formation as our biker group set off, lingering a little longer at the art, trailing behind everybody else.

As we rolled toward the nearest bank of blue portos, I asked Beasy, “Got any tips for biking in the deep playa?”

Beasy thought a second. “Watch out for soft spots.”

It sounded metaphorical. Maybe it would come in handy later.

The portos would be the last stop on the tour for me. I peeled off in a big loop, calling back over my shoulder, “Sometimes you have to make your own path.”

The truth of the matter was that consuming the art this way felt empty and I wasn’t really enjoying myself. I wasn’t feeling immersed and I certainly wasn't connecting with anything or anyone. I just felt like another drone and not part of the group, merely hovering over it.

I pumped the single-speed bike’s pedals as fast as I could go and sped into my own exile, ripping across the dusty white flat. The festival here was in full swing, and yet why did I feel so alone?

Is it humanly possible to build a society with no outgroups? Is this radical inclusion principle even theoretically possible?

People clique up, it’s what we do. We form in-groups and out-groups by necessity and we all have very carefully calibrated social detectors to make these calculations on the fly. We protect our own. We don’t want any trouble from strangers. Trust takes time to build, and time out here is scarce and pressurized. So, at least from what I experienced, people fall back on an instinct that feels good: form a pack, put yourself in the in-group, and ride in the tight circle. When you’re inside, it feels safe. When you’re outside one, well, you better find something to get inside, because your very survival might depend on it.

I don’t think real, literal self-reliance can exist out here. Even in Box Camp, a volunteer camp, there’s a currency of contribution. A quota of commitment. Timesheets. Paid staff. Individual effort is converted into capital—both financial and social. In this case, a volunteer isn’t working for themselves, they’re working for The Org. Half the crew doesn’t call it Burning Man—they “joke” and call it Working Man. But I see the reality of it: picking up shift after shift, never really leaving camp, and complaining about how working so much sucks. Apparently even the workaholics from the default world come out here to seriously indulge in their favorite vice.

So, a question: What’s does the purest form of self-reliance look like out here?

. . .

While on a charter flight across Nevada to file some last-minute mining claims for a two-bit mineral exploration company (long story), I was able to sit in the cockpit, wear a fancy pair of aviator headphones, and chat with the pilot. I have no idea what tangent brought it up, but the pilot told me he once flew Joseph Gordon-Levitt out to the event. 

“Really nice guy,” he said. “He rode up front in the co-pilot’s seat and even signed some autographs for my kids.” 

He continued while we cruised along somewhere above Austin, NV at 30,000 feet.

“I picked him up at LAX and dropped him off directly on playa. The only thing he had were the clothes on his back and an acoustic guitar.”

No gear, no food. I thought. Just pure celebrity survival through wit and grit, and in JGL’s case, an incredible case of charm. 

That story stuck with me. Could I do that? Walk into some random camp and say, “Mind if I hang out? Eat your food? Sleep in your RV?”

While I had driven myself, camped directly on-playa in a Coleman tent, and hauled about 40 pounds of canned food, there are other people out here who have all those messy logistics taken care of for them. 

The celebrity’s version of radical self-reliance: you don’t need anything if someone else provides it for you.

. . .

Perhaps this radical self-reliance trip is about managing fear. For some (myself included), there is a great lingering fear of showing a need to another and having them reject you. The fear that their answer will be no, and that alone will make you an outcast. Just because you were foolish enough to ask for something you needed. In this survivalist carnival, a place that promises inclusion, exile might be a punishment tantamount to death.

But, somewhere buried in my confused navel gazing is a glimmer of something hopeful: Self-reliance isn’t about isolating yourself and shunning society. At its best, it’s about building something on your own so that others may experience it. That’s the magic dissonance. You’re alone and out there doing The Thing for yourself and doing for others at the same time. I guess that’s why the old-school Burners still believe the saying “the playa provides.”

If you have faith, if your heart is in the right place, the universe will generate exactly what you need at the exact right time for it. But it’s not the desert lakebed that gives—it’s the people on it.

You just have to rely on yourself to find them.

After leaving the Box Camp bike tour, I blasted across the playa on the beach cruiser in full sail, again on my own. Not clicking with the clique didn’t feel great, but I was reassured by the thought of a bardish JGL disembarking from his chartered flight, perfectly content to croon for strangers.