War and Watermelon Read Online Free PDF Page B

in it over her ear.
    They say they started out on Tuesday from Grand Rapids, Michigan. “Haven’t brushed our teeth since then,” says one of the guys with a laugh.
    â€œI have,” says Annie. She shows me her teeth. “Yesterday.”
    â€œOkay if we light up?” says the girl next to Skippy.
    â€œSure,” says Ryan. “Just keep the windows open.”
    The cigarette she lights is obviously not tobacco. I’ve never smelled it before, but I’m not stupid. It’s pot. Skippy and Jenny take drags on it, but Ryan says not while he’s driving.
    Skippy reaches across the girls and tries to hand it to me, but I shake my head. I catch Ryan’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “No way,” he says to Skippy. “Keep that thing away from him.”
    Not like I was tempted. “Anybody want Tang?” I ask.
    â€œAbsolutely,” says Annie.
    I realize right away that we don’t have any cups. So I hold the cooler up, stick my mouth under the nozzle, and push the button to get a direct squirt. It’s basically orange-colored sugar water—fortified with Vitamin C! We pass the dispenser around the car, and everybody takes hits from it.
    Traffic continues to build, and the reports on the radio say that the concert crowd is already way bigger than anyone expected. We figured we’d get tickets at the gate, but I’m starting to wonder if we’ll get in at all. The people running the show actually issued a radio alert telling anybody still on the road to turn back, but no way we’re stopping. I mean, these hitchhikers have been on the road for three days to get to this thing. The van ahead of us is from Maryland, and the car behind us has Ohio plates and is packed to the gills with hippies. Everybody’s moving in one direction, but very slowly now.
    I feel a surge of nervous energy thinking about it. Hippies and dancing and rock music and me! Biggest event of my life, for sure. Let’s get there!
    After another hour the car is moving only about twenty feet a minute because of the traffic. As we come to the top of a hill we can see an endless stream of vehicles ahead of us. Most of the cars are parked along the shoulders, and there are people walking on both sides of the road.
    â€œAre we there?” I ask.
    â€œDoubt it,” Ryan says. “We must be getting close, though.”
    We inch forward for another few minutes, and then we’re at a standstill. Ryan keeps the car running, but we all get out. The male hitchhikers step into the woods to take a leak. Jenny and the two girls stand near the back of the car and start laughing at them, because they’re barely off the road. I follow Ryan as he walks toward a group standing by another car.
    â€œWe close?” he asks.
    â€œIt’s probably two miles to 17B,” a fat guy with a huge beard says. “Most people are hoofing it from here.”
    â€œHow far when we get to 17B?”
    The guy shrugs. “Not much. Maybe another mile.”
    Ryan looks at me. “Up for a three-mile walk?”
    â€œWhat?” I say, like it’s no big deal. “You’re talking to a football player here. I can take anything.”
    We walk back to the car and Ryan pulls it off the road, lining it up behind a brown van with Pennsylvania plates and a STOP THIS IMMORAL WAR bumper sticker. “Good a place as any,” he says.
    I glance at Ryan’s watch. It’s five minutes to eight. We’re a long way from Bergen County, New Jersey, that’s for sure.
    We all start walking. I carry the jug of Tang and Ryan takes the bag of sandwiches. Skippy and Jenny grab the flashlights.
    Soon the four of us are a hundred yards ahead of the hitchhikers. Skippy keeps looking back. “Neither one of them was wearing a bra,” he says.
    â€œThey’re totally stoned,” Ryan says. He glances at Jenny and smiles. “Don’t get any ideas about taking yours