War and Watermelon

by Rich Wallace

  “Sure we will,” says Jenny. She yawns. We hear a low rumble of thunder and start walking again.

  We pass a white wooden church packed with people. Light is shining from the stained-glass windows. There’s a bonfire in the dirt parking lot, and some hippies are dancing around it.

  In about twenty minutes we start to hear music way in the distance and we feel a few drops of rain. We turn onto a dirt road and start moving faster.

  “That’s Ravi Shankar, I bet,” Ryan says.

  Never heard of him, but I get a chill anyway. Must be significant if Ryan thinks so. The music sounds tinny and weird to me, but we’re still a good distance away.

  The rain becomes steady, then turns into a downpour. But the air is warm and we’re overheated from walking so far, so it feels good. I can smell wood smoke and swamp.

  We reach the top of a hill and there’s this huge valley below us, and it’s absolutely filled with people. Unbelievable. There’s a stage way down at the far end throwing light onto the hill. People are sliding down the muddy slope on their butts. Everybody is dancing and spinning and yelling.

  “Jesus,” Ryan whispers. “We made it.”

  We just stand there with our mouths hanging open, staring at the throng of people packed shoulder to shoulder on every inch of the hill. Even in the partial darkness, I can tell that there has to be way more than sixty thousand here. That’s about how many you’d get at a Mets game, and this crowd looks like it would fill Shea Stadium more than twice over. Everybody seems to have long hair and bare feet and scruffy dungarees and peace signs and headbands and tie-dye shirts. That is, if they’re wearing shirts at all. A lot of people aren’t.

  The crowd is waving their arms and chanting, “No rain! No rain!” between songs, but it’s coming down in buckets. It’s dripping down my face, and my sneakers are full of mud. I join in—“No rain!”—but who cares? Let it come down. I start laughing for no reason. Just happy.

  We make our way down the hill; there’s no sign of a ticket booth. It hasn’t been raining long, but the grass is already slick. It smells like cow manure.

  The closer we get to the stage, the denser the crowd, but there are flashes of lightning, so some people head for cover. We get to within twenty yards of the stage. There are people sitting in the mud with pretty much all of their clothes off, smoking marijuana and laughing. You hear lots of shouting about the war between songs. About ending it.

  The guy onstage is singing a sort of familiar song, saying how he sees the morning light after staying up till dawn.

  “Yeah!” Ryan yells. “That’ll be us in the morning.”

  “We’ll be dead meat in the morning,” I say, but I don’t care. Ryan is part of this thing, part of the reason for it, part of this throng that doesn’t want to kill or be killed for that immoral war. I’m not even sure what immoral means, but it isn’t good.

  There’s no place I’d rather be than in this muddy field with him.

  Ryan laughs. “Dad’s gonna kill us. But what can you do?” He starts clapping his hands really hard. “Enjoy it, Brody! That’s Arlo Guthrie a piss length away from us, singing a Bob Dylan song! Can you stand it?”

  He’s right. Forget about tomorrow. This is the coolest thing I’ve ever done in my life.

  A while later I feel that Tang again. I’ve always had a small bladder. “Ryan, I gotta take a leak,” I say.

  He laughs and points up the hill. “Find yourself a tree with roots,” he says.

  I look up at the massive crowd and wonder how I’ll ever find my way back to Ryan in the darkness. But there are small campfires on the hill, and the strobes from the stage are bright. I glance around for some landmarks—a guy in a sleeveless leather vest, a woman in a yellow sun hat—then trudge up the hill.

  It takes several minutes to get clear of the crowd, and I just duck behind an overflowing trash barrel and piss. As I’m walking back I hear a familiar voice. “It’s that kid,” she says.

  It’s the two girls we picked up hitchhiking. I don’t see the guys, but then again, I don’t look around much. Not only aren’t they wearing bras; they aren’t wearing anything up top. First time I’ve seen the real thing in person. “Brady!” Annie says. She’s wet with rain and spattered with mud.

  “Brody,” I say, my voice coming out all squeaky.

  “Isn’t this outasight?” She puts her hand on my shoulder, as if she’s about to hug me. I think I’d pass out if she did.

  The other one is hurrying across the hill and Annie yells, “Wait up,” and follows, not even looking back at me or saying good-bye.

  It takes a few minutes to find Ryan and Jenny and Skippy, but I feel pretty safe among all these peaceniks. When I reach them, they’re sitting in a circle with a white guy with a big Afro and sunglasses and a huge woman with a red bandanna, and they’re passing around a joint and a bottle of wine. Arlo Guthrie is singing “Amazing Grace,” and there’s a flash of lightning way in the distance. The rain is still steady.

  I take off my shirt and make a little pillow and lie back in the soaking wet grass. Sooner or later I nod off.

  SATURDAY, AUGUST 16:

  What We’re Made Of

  Ryan nudges me awake just as Joan Baez is taking the stage wearing a greenish hippie dress with fringe and some kind of scarf and carrying an acoustic guitar. Jenny is jumping up and down and the crowd is roaring.

  I couldn’t have been asleep for more than fifteen minutes, but I feel wide awake immediately. I listen to Baez’s folky protest music, but I mostly look around and can’t believe there are this many people in one place who seem so different from everybody I’ve ever known. I mean, the war always seemed so far away until Ryan and Dad started fighting about it, and this whole idea of protesting and peacing out and standing up to the government just isn’t the way it goes back home. You do what they say, right or wrong. Of course, an awful lot of these people are just here to get wasted. Skippy, for one, is lying facedown in the grass, partied out.

  But I’m in the midst of more people than I’ve ever seen in one place, and none of them cares what their parents think right now or if anybody’s staring at their breasts or whether a cop might come by and slap handcuffs on ’em for smoking weed. I can practically hear my dad: “Bunch of freeloading idiots. ‘Peace and love, la-di-da.’ Just wait till they have to get real jobs and haircuts. That’ll be an amazing grace.”

  Ryan puts his arm around my shoulder and leans into my ear. “Things are changing right before our eyes,” he says. He starts clapping his hands and whooping. “Stop the war!” he yells.

  I yell, too. Anything to keep Ryan from going.

  The concert ends for the night about the same time the rain does, sometime around three in the morning.

  “We gotta haul ass,” Ryan says. “We are so screwed when Dad gets ahold of us.”

  The good news—if you can call it that—is that nobody else is leaving the grounds at this hour, so we can make some time. There are people sleeping in heaps in the mud, but there are also lots of little tents pitched on the hill and other people rolled up in sleeping bags.

  A guy with long stringy hair is handing out leaflets that say GET OUT OF ’NAM NOW, and we all take one. Ryan gives the guy a raised-fist salute and says, “Peace, brother.”

  We pass a pond and hear people splashing and laughing, and a naked guy and woman walk across the road right in front of us, saying, “Bath time!”

  The dirt road is a total mud hole, but it gets better when we reach the highway.

  I duck into the cemetery again to retrieve the cooler, and they all follow me. “Thanks, Johnny,” I say to the tombstone.

  Ryan shines the flashlight on a gravestone just across from Townsend’s. “Here’s why what we did was right,” he says. “Why you never pass up a chance for an experience like this.”

  The stone is simple:LITTLE HARRY

  Born April 27, 1884

  Died May 21, 1884

  “You never know when you’ll take your l
ast breath,” Ryan says. “Grab your life and shake it.”

  It takes another two hours to reach the car, and we eat my mother’s peanut butter sandwiches on the way. They’re soggy from the rain, but we haven’t eaten much since that pot roast.

  The sun comes up, and there are patches of clear sky between the clouds.

  There aren’t a whole lot of abandoned cars behind us, so we’re able to back the car up for about a quarter mile, then turn around and head for Port Jervis.

  We pull into Aunt Lizzie’s driveway a little before seven.

  She’s up, and the house smells like coffee and toast. Ryan calls home and luckily he gets Mom, who had called the New York State Police—twice—and was told about the impossibility of communication at the concert and that the Thruway was closed because of Woodstock traffic.

  So me and Ryan and Skippy sit on the couch wearing fluffy pink towels around our naked bodies while Aunt Lizzie washes our mud-soaked clothes. We watch The Jetsons and Magilla Gorilla, then eat homemade pancakes and fried eggs. Jenny falls asleep in an armchair, wearing nothing but a purple bathrobe. She’s content; Joan Baez closed the show last night.

  “I have a football game at one,” I say, yawning for the hundredth time. We’re more than an hour from home.

  “No sweat,” Ryan says. He looks happier than I’ve ever seen him. And that’s saying something.

  “Today we’ll see what you’re made of,” Coach Epstein barks as we huddle up around him. “See how you handle yourselves against another team.”

  The players from Lodi are doing jumping jacks at the end of the field. This is a “controlled” scrimmage, not really a game, so we’re still at the dirt practice field behind the high school and we’re wearing our gray practice jerseys. Our real home games will be on Saturday nights under the lights at the athletic field next to the swim club. First one is only two weeks away.

  Coach lowers his voice and looks around. “Don’t let the chocolate ones scare you,” he says. “They go down the same as anybody else when you hit ’em.”

  I look over at the Lodi players and see that they’ve got four black guys. We don’t have any. There’s not one black kid living in our town.

  I try not to yawn but I can’t help it.

  “Am I boring you, Mr. Winslow?” Coach asks.

  Some of the guys laugh.

  “Sorry,” I say, wiping my mouth. We got home in time for me to brush my teeth, eat a hamburger, and get into my uniform. No sleep except for maybe fifteen minutes in the grass last night.

  “Discipline, boys,” Coach says. “We’re an army; that should be your mind-set.”

  It doesn’t matter that I’m so tired, because I spend the entire afternoon kneeling on the sideline, watching. It’s raining on and off, and the grassless field is a mess.

  I know the coaches aren’t happy that I skipped practice yesterday, but I did bring a written excuse from my mother today. After that run I made in practice the other day, I would think they’d give me some playing time.

  Tony gets in at linebacker for a handful of plays, then he kneels next to me. His uniform is covered with mud like everybody else’s—except for mine and Joey Salinardi’s, that is.

  Across the field, there are three or four Lodi players who haven’t gotten in yet, either. We keep glancing at each other and sizing one another up. The scrimmage has been dead even.

  Finally Coach Epstein waves me and Tony and Joey onto the field. It’s our ball, and we huddle up around Coach. In a controlled scrimmage, the coaches stay on the field and call the plays.

  Same formation as in practice: Joey at quarterback, Tony at fullback, and me behind them at tailback. Coach calls that forty-six pitch and I feel a shiver. Salinardi catches my eye and whispers, “Break this one.”

  I glance at the defensive line, particularly the tackle and the end I’ll be trying to cut between.

  I immediately realize that I’ve made a dumb mistake, looking right at the hole I’ll be heading for. Maybe they didn’t notice.

  Salinardi takes the snap, and I hesitate for a second before cutting right. The pitch is bad—low and almost behind me—but I should be able to grab it anyway. I don’t.

  The nose of the football hits me in the shin and falls straight down, then bounces away. I pivot and reach, but the defensive tackle is already on me, knocking me to the ground. I scramble to my feet, but a Lodi player scoops up the ball with a clear field ahead of him. I’m the only one with a shot at preventing a touchdown.

  Not much of a shot. The guy is seven yards ahead of me in a full run. I chase him all the way to the end zone but never get any closer.

  Coach Epstein blows his whistle. “That’s all!” he yells. “Nice job by both teams.”

  So I got in for one stupid play and totally blew it.

  “My fault,” Salinardi says to me as we walk off the field. But nobody else will see it that way. I fumbled. I got knocked down. They scored. It’s as simple as that, and it cost us the scrimmage.

  At least I look like I played. I got as much mud on my uniform as if I’d played the whole time. Big deal.

  “What happened?” Tony asks me as we run our laps.

  “I don’t know. The ball didn’t get to me.”

  “It hit you.”

  “Wrong place.”

  “Still should have grabbed it. I bet we would have had ten more plays if we’d kept possession.”

  “You think?”

  “Yeah. I would have carried on the next play. I guarantee it.”

  “Sorry.”

  Nobody else says anything to me, but there’s nothing worse than costing your team a game. They worked all afternoon and kept things even, and then I got in for one play and wrecked the whole thing.

  I bet the coaches are wishing they’d cut me when they had the chance.

  “You walking home?” Tony asks.

  We’ve walked home together after every practice. “How else would I get there? A helicopter?”

  The cheerleaders showed up toward the end of the scrimmage, so guys like Esposito and Ferrante are hanging out by them, laughing and acting all cool.

  I just want to get out of here. I’m exhausted.

  And I’m the worst player on this team.

  SUNDAY, AUGUST 17

  Woodstock Flock

  By Brody Winslow

  Marching

  Not to battle

  Marching

  All night long

  Marching

  Past barns and cattle

  Marching

  To hear a song

  Marching

  With my brother

  Marching

  With thousands more

  Marching

  To hear another

  Marching

  Against the war

  MONDAY, AUGUST 18:

  Playing It Smooth

  There’s a long line at the water fountain after practice, so me and Tony just head up to Fisher’s for soda. The coaches set up our kicking teams today, since the opening game is coming up. They put me at end on the kickoff squad because I’m fast and elusive.

  My job is to sprint straight down the field and then do a box-and-in, making a hard right turn when I reach the twenty-yard line, cutting off the sideline.

  They cut the laps down to two and we do only three wind sprints, but we’re all soaked with sweat and dying of thirst by the end anyway.

  We run into Janet and Patty, the girls from the swim club.

  Well, we don’t exactly run into them. They’re sitting at Fisher’s counter drinking milk shakes. I go to the cooler for bottles of soda. Tony walks over to the girls and sets his helmet on the stool next to Patty. I’d rather just ignore them, and I’m sure they’d prefer that, too.

  “Nice and cool in here,” Tony says. “Man, it was brutal out there in the sun, knocking people down all afternoon.”

  Patty gives half a nod and keeps looking at her milk shake. Janet swivels on her stool so she’s partly facing Tony. She smile
s a lot more often than Patty. “Swim club’s staying open late tonight,” she says. “Night swim.”

  “That’s good,” Tony says. “We’ll be there.”

  “Us, too.”

  The swim club usually closes at seven, but when it’s this hot they sometimes stretch it to nine or even ten.

  “I’m just gonna lie on the bottom of the pool for like ten minutes and cool off,” Tony says.

  Patty frowns. “Sure.”

  “I got great lungs,” he says. He picks up his helmet. “So, we’ll see you there. I just gotta stop home and eat and shave, maybe have a beer or two. See ya.”

  Janet says, “See ya.” Patty doesn’t.

  Tony’s trying to make himself look taller as he pays for his soda. He doesn’t look back as we leave the store, but as soon as we hit the sidewalk he goes, “Man, this is gonna be great.”

  “What is?”

  “Tonight, stupid. Didn’t you hear them?”

  I just look at him. He swings his helmet at me and hits my shoulder pads. “Night swim? They’re wondering if we’re gonna be there? What are you, blind?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Just follow my lead, okay?” He juts his thumb back in the direction we came. “They want us, Brody. You couldn’t see that?”

  All I could see was Patty acting like she wished Tony would go away. And I can’t imagine anybody “wanting” us with our scrawny bodies and clueless personalities. I mean, I couldn’t act cool even if I wanted to—I don’t know how. I’ve tried in front of the mirror.

  Janet only mentioned the night swim because Tony said how hot he was.

  But I’ll go along. A night swim is a good excuse to get out of the house for the evening. Why spoil it by pursuing two girls who’d rather we keep our distance?

  Ryan’s at Shop-Rite and Dad’s working late, so Mom fries me up a hamburger and some leftover potatoes. She says it’s no problem if I go swimming with Tony tonight.

  I read a Mad magazine while I eat, but then I pick up the Herald-News. I usually only read the sports and the comics, but tonight I scan the front page for the heck of it. Two big battles yesterday in Da Nang; lots of soldiers killed. The second-strongest hurricane ever recorded is hitting the southern states. The Mets are on the front page, too, for a change. They swept two straight doubleheaders from the Padres the past couple of days.