Perking up with boyish curiosity, Sam said, “What religion?”

“He’s a mensch,” Robin said.

I was glad Robin thought I was a person of noble character, but apparently Sam was not up on his Yiddish because he asked, “Is that like Hindu or something?”

“Just like,” Robin said. “But you eat greasier food.”

“You ruin everything,” Marty complained. “Nobody wants me with you around.”

“He’s a mensch,” Sam said. “What can I do?”

“You can down me out,” Marty said. “Give me a Nembutal.”

“The aspirin bottle in the glove box,” he said.

Pouting, Marty took out a pill and swallowed it, then rested her head back on the seat and nodded off, remaining in that condition for what was indisputably her finest hour.

CARS AND vans were stuck on the shoulder of Route 17B, their tires whining in the mud. Thousands of kids had abandoned their vehicles and were hiking to the festival. Robin and I had jumped out of the hearse a mile back and climbed a hill above the traffic jam.

“People are strange,” she said.

I agreed, but I understood Sam’s hustle. Marty fucks me, she’s a slut, and he’s free to chase other chicks or pop his Nembutals in peace.

Was that what Glenna was doing with Robin and me?

“Do you know where we are?” Robin said.

I consulted my Texaco map and told her that we were near Route 55, about six miles from the party. Exhausted, Robin sat on the grass, slipped off her backpack, and exhaled sharply. Sweat was soaking through her guayabera, the damp cotton sticking to her breasts.

“We’ve gotta keep going,” I said, averting my eyes from her shirt and picking up her pack. “Let me carry this for you.”

“No guy’s ever carried anything for me before.”

I gave her a hand up. “Guys have helped you up before?”

“Mostly down,” she quipped.

“Ha-ha,” I said, hoping to discourage any more double entendres.

The sun was radiating an unmerciful iron light, and Robin had trouble keeping up, so I slowed to let her walk ahead.

“I got this hat last summer for Chicago,” she said on one of our frequent stops for her to rest. Robin had removed the indigo ribbon with white polka dots from the brim of her straw hat, and she was using it to mop the sweat off her forehead. “For the Democratic Convention.”

“Isn’t it kind of bourgeois for an SDSer?”

“Not if you don’t pay for it, Meyers. All you have to do is dress up, go to the concierge at the Plaza, and say you lost your hat. You give him a generic description, with an accent on straw. He dials the front desk, and since rich ladies love to shop, they’re always losing their shit so they can reshop for it. Nine times outta ten the concierge has a hat for you.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to ask your parents for the money?”

“Asking Esther and Phillie for stuff is a drag. They fork it over, but I have to answer a million questions about when I’m planning to get married.”