“What we need is another good war,” he said to the fat man, although they were not acquainted.

“I’ve been saying that for years.” The fat man couldn’t have agreed more. “No one understands what it’s like.”

“How could they?” Pigeon said, peering inside the bag, unable to find a chip bigger than a dime.

“My name’s Bubba,” Bubba said as he continued his sweep with the binoculars.

“I’m Pigeon.”

“Nice to meet you.”

Pigeon homed in on another kid who dropped his bubble gum on the sidewalk after three chews, when there was still plenty of flavor left. A woman in jogging clothes stepped on it.

“Thanks a lot!” she called out to the kid as he popped open a can of Orange Crush and walked off.

She lifted her foot and stared at strings of pink gum leading to a blob fixed to the tread of her right Saucony running shoe.

“I hate you!” she screamed at the kid as people walked around her, looking for a spot with a decent view. “I hate all children! I hate people!”

“That would piss me off, too,” Pigeon said. “Nobody cares anymore.”

Bubba focused on Smudge and his wife opening lawn chairs in a yard no more than fifty feet to Bubba’s right.

“He probably doesn’t even know those people,” Bubba mumbled with fresh fury. “Just helps himself like he does with everything in life.”

“All the world’s like that now,” Pigeon said.

“He knows I’m here, too,” Bubba said. “The son of a bitch knows he owes me a thousand dollars. Says he has amnesia, doesn’t remember the bet, so it doesn’t count.”

“I don’t know what happened to honesty,” Pigeon said.

Bubba watched Smudge open a checkered tablecloth and spread it out in the grass. He set down a blue ice chest, opened the lid and rummaged.

Pigeon searched in vain for a cigarette butt. He could tell the price had shot way up. People were smoking closer to the filter, leaving nothing for him.

He was shocked yesterday morning when he was picking his way along Main Street, downtown, and observed on the Dow Jones electronic message board outside Scott & Stringfellow brokers that the price per pack had increased another two dollars and eleven cents. If only Pigeon had bought more when he had the money from the pawn shop. He could have done some quick trading. He’d probably be rich.

Even as Pigeon was thinking that, Bubba reached into his shirt pocket for a pack. He shook out a cigarette without lowering the binoculars.

“Those Merit Ultimas any good?” Pigeon asked as Bubba lit up. “That’s one I haven’t tried yet.”

“Oh yeah,” Bubba said. “Anything Philip Morris makes is the best.”

“I’ve always thought so. How are those different from regular Merits?” Pigeon slyly asked.

“Want to try one?”

“That would be nice,” Pigeon said as Bubba passed him the pack. “Why, thank you very much.”

Wailing police sirens and the thunder of cops on motorcycles sounded in the distance, signaling that the parade was starting. Weed was so excited his knees were shaking.