On the Road to Woodstock Somewhere in New York
On the Road to Woodstock
Somewhere in New York
“Suzannah. Are you asleep?”
Seconds slipped by before I answered. “No. Just thinking.”
“About what?”
“How hungry I am,” I lied. I was sick of listening to her snide comments about my church and about Dad. I could hate him all I wanted, but she couldn’t.
“Me too. Let’s stop. We need gas anyway.”
Right before the New York border, we filled up at a 7-Eleven and stocked up on Milky Ways, peanut butter crackers, and Juicy Fruit gum.
We even bought suicide Slurpees, mixing together a little bit of each flavor.
After thrusting cash at the clerk, Livy dashed out the door, scurrying back to the car with both hands full.
Getting to her boyfriend was all she could think about.
I was barely inside the car when she peeled off and my door slammed shut. I nearly lost a foot.
Back on the road—a scenic two-lane highway dotted with cows, silos, and old farmhouses—my mind drifted, once again, to Mama.
I had wanted to call her from the pay phone at the 7-Eleven, but Livy was in a mad rush.
Besides, I was afraid he’d pick up. She was probably worried sick about me, though. I’d call her from Bethel.
After a big sip of my Slurpee, my mind switched to Gertie. At first, I’d been scared to call her. I didn’t want to let her down. She’d been a friend to me, and I was afraid she might disapprove of my quitting. Boy, was I wrong.
“Why, Suzannah, I declare. It’s about time you did something fun for yourself,” she had said when I called her the morning we left. “I heard Dick Cavett talking about that thing on the TV Tuesday night. Hippiefest, they’re calling it. Go enjoy yourself!”
She urged me to be mindful of the Hong Kong flu pandemic and reminded me that even President Johnson had contracted it the year before.
“It’s killed over a million people worldwide,” Gertie had said.
“Don’t share your drink.” Right before hanging up, she’d shocked the life out of me with one final admonition.
“You need to cut loose for a change. Strike a match when you get up there and burn your bra.”
I still had on my bra. But I had to admit I loved my new clothes. Livy had given me a pair of hip-hugger bell-bottoms and a cute pink baby doll top with puff sleeves. I’d almost made us late making sure the top was pressed.
As for Livy’s festival outfit: blue jean cutoffs, a suede V-neck top with fringe hanging from the sleeves, several strands of love beads draping her neck—even more on her wrists—leather sandals that crisscrossed and tied under her knees, and no bra. She looked like a hippie goddess.
“I can’t believe we’ve been together two days and you haven’t told me a thing about the boys at Union U,” she said. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
“No way.”
“Why do you say it like that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t you want a boyfriend?”
More than anything in the world, I wanted a boyfriend, but none of the boys I was interested in seemed interested in me. “Boys are untrustworthy,” I told her, propping my feet on the dash. I’d just leave it at that.
“I trust my boyfriend.”
Crossing my arms, I turned toward her. “How do you know you can trust him?”
As often as she had answers for everything, I could tell I’d stumped her. After thinking about it a few moments, she said, “Well, we think alike. We have the same ideology.”
“Cool. But give me one good reason you trust him.”
With her eyes pinned on the road, she gave my question more thought but got distracted upon noticing two guys ahead with their thumbs out.
She slowed down to fifty. “Wanna pick them up?” she asked, with a thrill in her raspy voice.
I hesitated just long enough for her to pass them by. “Maybe the next ones,” she said.
Ron picked up hitchhikers, but I never did. Too risky.
Before Livy decided to discuss the joys of hitchhiking, I turned the conversation back to trust. “You still haven’t answered my question.”
Livy gnawed on her bottom lip, like she was pondering another chess move. “He’s a Leo,” she actually said, like there was no more room for discussion. “Fiercely loyal. Brave. Sometimes stubborn, but always passionate.” She shimmied in her seat at the word passionate. “It’s my favorite sign.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Don’t tell me you don’t believe in astrology.” She gave me an incredulous stare.
“Okay, I won’t tell you.” I threw my palms up. “Come on, give me a real reason.”
A slight squint in her eyes told me she was wondering the same thing. “He’s never cheated on me.” She tapped the dashboard, as if that was her final answer.
“How do you know he’s never cheated on you?”
“I just know.”
I shrugged with a whatever-you-say look.
“Okay, I don’t know. But he sure knows how to please me, if you know what I mean.” She giggled and playfully honked the horn. “I’ve got all kinds of trust in him for that.” With a glance in my direction she added, “When he licks—”
I thrust my hand toward her. “I get the picture.”
Livy slid her fingers back and forth along the slick curve of the steering wheel. “So you may not want a boyfriend, but you’re on the pill, right?”
“Nope.”
She tilted her head. “Is that because you use another kind of birth control, or you’re not having sex?”
Should I lie? Or come clean? Surely she knew the truth. “Not having sex.”
The furrow between her brows deepened. “But you’ve had sex before . . .”
Despite the anxiety I felt about fessing up, I still shook my head no.
The shock, both in Livy’s voice and in her eyes, was thinly disguised when she dived in for her next question. “Maybe you haven’t gone all the way, but you’ve done other stuff. Surely, you’ve had an orgasm.”
Okay, now I had to lie. It was Livy asking the question.
She’d never understand my chaste existence.
And she’d scream if she knew I’d never even been French-kissed.
The only kisses I’d ever gotten were a few pecks at Emily Freeburg’s spin the bottle party in eighth grade. “Of course I have,” I said.
“But you’re a virgin.” She put a finger to her chin. “That’s interesting. Are you following your family rule about no sex before marriage? Or are you afraid of getting pregnant? The pill has changed that, you know.”
How on earth have we landed on this subject, and what can I do to get off it?
I would rather have poked a fork in my eye than keep this sex talk up.
“I’m . . . not sure,” I said. Of course I wanted to have sex.
I fantasized about it all the time. But staying out of hell seemed like the better choice.
Livy sat up straight, with a serious tone to her voice.
“I don’t think the church, or the state, has the right to tell a woman what she can or can’t do with her own body.
The pill gives us the freedom to have sex without worrying about pregnancy.
Even that liar President Johnson gave the pill the thumbs-up before he left office. You heard about that, didn’t you?”
“I think I heard it somewhere.” Another fib. I hadn’t heard.
“Can you believe the pill didn’t exist ten years ago?”
“Not really.” Truthfully, I couldn’t have cared less.
“Free love is beautiful, man.”
My mind swirled with questions. When did Livy adopt this free-thinking mindset? Going all the way with John Dearing our junior year was a wild thing to do, but nothing to this degree. She talked like she had sex often. “When did you . . . get like this?” I flat out asked her.
“When did I become a freak?”
“You’re not a freak, Livy. I’m asking when you turned into such a free love person?”
“Hey, I’m proud to be a freak. It’s not a bad thing. But to answer your question, I guess going to Radcliffe has helped me see things differently.” She narrowed her eyes. “Dammit. It’s the fuzz.”
The blinking blue lights at the roadblock ahead, with policemen positioned outside their cars, sent a stress signal to my heart too. I leaned into the dash. “Wonder what’s going on?”
Quite honestly, danger or not, I was thankful for the distraction. All the sex talk had me unnerved.
“Probably looking for drugs.” She mashed her foot on the brake, stopping behind several others who were waiting to pass through.
I grabbed her arm. “Tell me you don’t have pot in this car.”
“Not where they can find it.”
“Livy!” My body temperature dropped fifteen degrees.
“Chill out. They won’t stop me, man. Hand me my lipstick, please. It’s in my purse.”
Once we got up to the squad car, Pink a Pale Livy confidently poked her head out the window, resting her chin on the back of her hand. “Good morning, officer.”
From the way the cop beamed at her, I knew she was right.
Between her scratchy Southern accent and her inordinate beauty, he’d clearly rather search her than the car.
Without further ado, he waved us through but stopped the VW bus behind us.
I whipped around, and Livy watched through her rearview to see eight longhairs pouring out of the vehicle.
As Pally’s engine roared, picking up speed, Livy gave the fuzz a middle finger salute.
I was beginning to wonder what in the heck I’d gotten myself into. Pied Piper Liv had a way of convincing people to follow her to the ends of the earth. Especially me. She could convince me to do just about anything, even if it meant I’d get in big trouble.