Free War and Watermelon by Rich Wallace

It got so bad in the car he almost puked.”
    I turn and look at the station wagon. Even from eight feet away I can smell it. “It is pretty bad.”
    â€œIt’s disgusting. But nobody’s even moved the car since we got back.”
    Mom walks to the swim club every day, and she does the food shopping on Friday mornings. Dad got his beer for the week on Saturday afternoon when the melon was still intact. So the thing had the better part of a week to go bad in there without anybody noticing.
    Dad comes out of the house with a bucket of soapy water and a brush. He’s also got two cans of Rheingold and one of Shop-Rite lemon soda cradled against his chest. He puts the bucket next to the car and hands me the soda. He nods to Ryan and sets a beer on the hood of the car, then pops open his own and takes a long swig.
    Ryan starts scrubbing. Dad sits on the curb next to me with a giant grin. He holds up his beer and says, “Cheers, LaZekiel.”
    â€œYou got an opener?” I ask. The beers have pop-tops, but the soda doesn’t.
    He nods and reaches into the pocket of his shorts for the opener. “Put some elbow grease into that,” he says to Ryan, but his voice is way different now, like he’s joking around.
    â€œNothing like the smell of rotten melon on a summer evening,” Ryan says. “It’s kind of poetic, you know? The moon, the crickets, the unbelievably nauseating aroma.”
    â€œIt’s one of the true natural wonders,” Dad says, going along with the new direction of the conversation. He stands and steps over to the car, inspecting Ryan’s work.
    â€œDump that in the gutter,” Dad says, pointing to the bucket. “Sit down and take a load off.”
    Ryan dumps the suds, and the water rushes down the hill. “That one mine?” he asks, pointing to the beer on the hood.
    â€œIf you want it.”
    â€œI do.”
    So we sit on the curb, our legs stretched out into the street, and look up at the stars. Dad points out constellations.
    â€œThere’s Orion,” he says. “And the Big Dipper, of course.” He motions toward the horizon with his beer. “That one’s Brody, the horse’s ass. And over there”—he points above the neighbor’s house—“that’s Ryan, the wandering knucklehead.”
    â€œAnybody know how the Mets did?” Ryan asks.
    â€œThey were losing the last I checked,” Dad replies. “They’ve won six straight, though.”
    â€œDon’t blink,” I say. “Before you know it they’ll lose six in a row.”
    Dad leans back and winks at Ryan. “How’d your little brother turn into such a pessimist?” he asks.
    â€œBeats me,” Ryan says. “Come on, Brody. You gotta believe. This is their season. I’m feeling it.”
    A car goes by, way too fast for this street, and we pull our legs in. “Slow down, Henry!” Dad says. He calls every bad driver Henry. I don’t know if that’s out of the Bible or what. Maybe he saves all the biblical names for me.
    Ryan takes a swig of his beer. “I don’t want to kill people,” he says softly, jumping into that conversation they’ve been having all summer. It’s always there, even if a week goes by without any real talking. “I sure as hell don’t want to be forced to kill people.”
    Dad hesitates and looks down the hill. “You have an option,” he says.
    â€œYeah,” Ryan says softly, “but that’s being forced on me, too. I’m not ready for college. Cowards avoid conflict. I’m not avoiding anything.”
    Dad shakes his head slowly. “Well, I guess you’re trying to make sense. . . . Not quite succeeding, though.”
    We’re quiet until the cans are empty. The crickets are even louder now. The night feels cooler for a change, but the mosquitoes are swarming anyway.
    â€œIt’d be different