It was nice at least to feel a little cooler, because there wasn’t much shade where Walker had dropped me off. I was sitting perched on my rolled-up sleeping bag, munching on one of Paula’s chocolate bars and wondering how I was going to get through Toledo. The map showed I had about sixty miles to get there, and then another sixty on to Detroit. But unless I was dead lucky, I wasn’t likely to get a ride through Toledo, and it was all ringed with expressways where I wouldn’t likely have much luck getting a ride and might get picked up by the cops. I might be able to get through town on local transit, but I had no idea how to do that, and I was a little nervous about asking too many questions, especially as I was definitely looking grubbier by the minute.
And then there was the matter of getting to Toledo at all. As each car appeared in the distance, I stood to thumb a ride, but no one stopped for about three-quarters of an hour. My unease was rising toward panic. Finally, an oldish brown Dodge van pulled up.
“Hey, hop in, man,” invited the guy in the passenger seat, leaning forward to let me into the back. The music was blaring full blast.
I climbed into the van and flopped into a back seat. Including the driver and the guy who had spoken to me, there were four guys in the car, all around twenty years old, all rocker types. The music in the van came from a boom box. It was Metallica. All right! All four guys had long hair, and one had on purple vinyl pants and royal blue leather boots. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and each of the guys held a can of beer in one hand—including the driver. Out of the frying pan, into the fire, I couldn’t help thinking. I hoped all of Mr. Walker’s blessings were enough to carry me to the end of this ride.
“Hey, man, want a beer?” asked purple pants.
I thought for a second. I didn’t really want a beer, but something told me that to not accept would appear unfriendly. “Sure. Thanks.”
“Where ya headed?” asked the first guy who had spoken. “My name’s Jeff, by the way.”
“Bud.” I shook his hand. This time I took my name from the beer can, and then I realized how ridiculous that was. “Uh, real name’s Walter, but everyone calls me Bud.”
“Hey. This Bud’s for you,” joked purple pants.
I tried to smile like I’d heard that joke at least twelve thousand times before. “I’m headed for Detroit.” Maybe these guys were going there, too. I snapped open the can of beer and looked at it. I had had beer before, of course. I hadn’t liked it much but I knew I couldn’t show that to these guys—they’d probably take it as a personal insult. I decided I’d mostly pretend to drink it and just take it really slowly. In Texas—probably everywhere—most guys my age had gotten drunk a few times at least, but I never had. It wasn’t that I was a wimp—well, not totally. I just could picture what would hit the fan if my dad ever caught me. He didn’t drink at all, but it wasn’t even that—it would have been the underage part of it. My dad has this real law-abiding way about him—well, now, of course I knew why. I guess I learned my “don’t-get-noticed” ways from him. I took a sip of the beer and was surprised to find that it tasted good. Sweetish, but not all sweet like pop. Very refreshing. I took another swig. Well, I guess it was like they said, it’s an acquired taste, and, somehow, I had acquired it. I took another swig. Boy, it tasted good.
“Bud? Hey, Bud?” Jeff was saying.
“Hm? Oh, sorry, man. Musta zoned out. Tired. What did you say?”
“We’re heading north, not going to Detroit, but we can take you to Ann Arbor. You can probably get there from there.”
Ann Arbor! That was way the other side of Toledo. I might make it over the border in time after all.
“What’s in Detroit?” asked the driver.
“Work. My brother got me a job there.”
“Work? In Detroit?” The driver seemed amazed.
“Actually, it’s more near Detroit than in,” I corrected myself, hoping I was convincing.
“What kind of work?” asked purple pants.
“Oh, man, don’t talk about work!” said the dark-haired guy, who had been silent up to now. “We’re on VA-CA-TION!”
The other three chimed in with yells and yahoos. Purple pants tried out a little air guitar.
I grinned and took another gulp of beer. It was the last gulp in the can.
“Aren’t you a little young? I mean, to be out of school, working ...?” the driver trailed off.
I tried to look bored. “I get that all the time. It’s such a hassle. And the only chicks you can get are like—” I cut myself off and made a face.
“’Nother beer?” asked purple pants, tossing it to me without waiting for an answer. “We’ve got lots.”
It wasn’t a very good idea. Somewhere inside, I knew it wasn’t a very good idea, but I couldn’t locate the exact place in my head where I had that piece of information. I snapped open the can.
The next part of the ride was a blur of “Road trip!” and high fives, air guitars and smoke. Not even an hour had gone by in the van when I began to feel strange. It was probably that smoke, maybe the beer, maybe not enough to eat, maybe the tension. But the cause didn’t matter as much as the effect. I was going to puke.
If I told these guys, would they stop and let me puke, and then let me get back in the car? Not likely. If I puked out the window, they’d probably kick me out, too. But I needed the ride through Toledo. Was there any way I could keep it down? I swallowed hard. I could feel that rolling feeling in my stomach. It would feel good to chuck up the beer and get on with it, but I couldn’t lose this ride. I swallowed again and burped slightly, carefully, to see if I could get rid of the nausea feeling. I could taste the beer and that sour taste that comes with puke. I swallowed, again.
“Hey, man!” purple pants yelled suddenly. “The kid’s gonna hurl! Pull over!” So much for the ride to Toledo.