Music blasted the long-haired and unshaven. The milling crowds ignored the swelter of an August day, enthralled by the festival of sound at the dairy farm. A slim twenty-something wandered among slug bugs, shag-carpeted vans, and faux-wood station wagons. Mud covered her bell bottoms and tie-dyed shirt. Her flip-flops lay ditched in the throng after avoiding the two men who followed.
“Hey, hot stuff,” a guy with a mop-top longer than hers wavered nearby.
She wrapped her arms around her waist.
He sidled near, his breath reeking, his clothes matted. “Babe, don’t get bent. Hang with me; I’ll take you home.” He slung an arm around her shoulders.
“Get your funky hands off me.” She shoved him away.
The mop-top lay in the mud. “Don’t be a square.”
She mumbled, “You’re blitzed. Bug off.”
Her gaze skimmed the sea of bodies, despair reflected in her face. Her friend split hours ago with some long-haired freak. At the farm’s exit, she stood and stuck out her thumb.
A dark-colored sedan approached, slowing to a halt. She leaned over.
“Where are you headed?” the driver asked, his beard and hair trimmed, his clothes clean.
“Bus station in Bethel.”
He shook his head. “Sorry. That’s out of my way.”
The two guys she dodged earlier walked toward her with grins on their faces.
She turned to the driver. “Please, mister. I got to ditch this gig.”
He spotted the men and leaned over, pushing the door open. “Get in.”
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