But that last part is the equivalent of a pinkie swear, and during the hours that I spend at Lollapalooza day one, I see fewer masked attendees than I do people dressed in see-through underwear.

But that’s by choice—people who are presumably vaguely aware of the risks and decided to say “Fuck it.” What about the people for whom this isn’t fun, but a job?

Whether it was the artists performing, the grounds crew working the fields, or the vendors serving up food and drink, the concerns over safely being part of a massive event during a time of rising COVID rates (thanks to the Delta variant and the far-too-common problem of still-unvaccinated people) inevitably run up against the harsh necessities of needing to make a living.

Chicago band Post Animal kicked things off for the Tito’s stage, and despite it being an opening slot at 12:30 p.m., there’s already a giant crowd on the northeast corner of the festival grounds.

“I mean, we’re all vaccinated,” Allison says, “I just hope that everybody—especially when they get together, or go into stores and stuff during their time in Chicago—is responsible.

We’re taking it one day at a time.” The band members all agree that there’s a certain security in being able to get on stage, play, and get off, without much worry of having to interact in close quarters with other people, something I suggest I’m already uncomfortable with here.

And anyone, I think, would feel safer outdoors than indoors, since you can figure out how you want to social distance outside.” It’s a solid point, and one that seems to suggest that Lollapalooza and other upcoming festivals will go on as planned.

But I was curious what feelings about safety were held by the people who are actually be putting themselves on the grounds, whether working concessions or guiding foot traffic.

(Last names of employees and attendees are being omitted at the request of the interviewees.) “We’re vaxxed and wearing masks, and being inside [our own building on the festival grounds] helps keep some distance.” Grace, one of her employees, chimes in: “Plus, there’s a table between us and the people here, which creates some safe distance—and I’m wearing a mask anyway.

Dominick, who’s working one of the cocktail lounges scattered around the fest, tells me that while he’s not worried about his safety, that’s largely because he’s keeping his mask on from the moment he sets foot on the grounds to the time he leaves at night.

Of the people I speak to, often dressed (or undressed, as the case may be) in loud, colorful costumes, they all agree that just being here is a treat.

I know there’s the Delta variant, but it’s still unlikely you’ll get it.” Another festivalgoer, James, puts it more bluntly: “Look, it’s as safe as they can make it.

Life has to go on, you know?” It’s not perfect, they all seem to reason, but if they feel safe, everyone should.

Unfortunately, there’s just not many ways to feel very safe here.

Unfortunately, that’s not a responsible decision—not really, anyway, if you understand the threat isn’t just to you.

It’s around the time that Jimmy Eat World is launching into a spirited dinnertime set, and despite my nostalgia for a band of my youth, the people continually bumping into me even at my remote perch are dissolving my will.

I had hoped to stick around (to see Kim Petras, and then Miley Cyrus, god love her) but it’s not worth the risk of long COVID—or even short COVID.