“We better get the Monticello bus,” I said.

As Robin hoisted her backpack, an old black hearse drove up alongside us. An ankh was smeared in psychedelic paint on the hood, and a girl in her teens poked her head out the passenger-seat window.

“You got any dope?” she drawled, her head bobbing as if her neck, decorated with a choker of shark’s teeth, did not take orders from her brain. “Get us high, you get a ride to Woodstock.”

The rear seat was stacked with crates of record albums, and Robin was barely able to fit in.

“I’m Marty,” the girl said, sliding over to make room for me in front. “Martha for short.”

She started giggling at her little joke. Robin introduced us, and the driver, a guy no older than Marty, stepped on the gas. He was lanky with wiry bristles jutting from his pointy chin, and over his bare chest he wore a red-white-and-blue-striped vest that matched his pants.

“This is Sam,” said Marty.

“Uncle, no doubt,” Robin said, and Sam cracked up as if he were listening to Lenny Bruce.

The rain came as we booked west on Route 17. I lit a joint, then passed it. Marty, who was in a doeskin minidress, lifted her legs, planting her bare feet on the seat and giving me a bird’s-eye view of her zebra-striped panties.

Sam glanced in the rearview mirror and said to Robin, “What you two plannin’ to do at Woodstock?”

“Listen to music,” Robin said. “What’re you going to do?”

“Nembutals,” Sam replied. Then he looked at Marty with her spread knees. “Tell them what you’re gonna do, baby.”

“Ball a buncha strangers,” Marty said.

“She always does,” Sam said, his attention coming unglued from the road.

Robin, her voice wobbly with fright, said, “Sam, could you watch—”

“At least give Gordon a blow job,” Sam told Marty. “You gotta be polite.”

“Maybe,” she answered.

“I said do it!” Sam shouted, grasping her nape and forcing her face toward my lap. Marty swung at him, and Sam’s other hand slipped off the steering wheel. He slammed on the brakes, the tires sizzling on the wet highway. The hearse spun, and I heard the high-pitched complaint of glass headlights cracking, the dull thud of crunching metal, and my body was jolted by the impact. The hearse had sideswiped a tree along the shoulder and stalled, facing the wrong direction on 17.

“Turn this fucking thing around!” I yelled at Sam.

“Mellow out, man,” he said, restarting the engine, hanging a U, and taking off down 17.

I glanced at Robin. Her usual chip-on-the-shoulder toughness was missing. I reached back to squeeze her hand, and she held on for an extra beat before releasing my fingers.

We drove in silence till the rain stopped. Then Sam said to me, “So, you wanna ball my old lady?”

“Not now,” I said.

“She ain’t good enough for you?” he asked indignantly.

Robin came to the rescue by saying, “He can’t with you watching. It’s against his religion.”