Paper Towns pdfdrive com

Hour Two
I’m still driving. We turn north, onto I-95, snaking our way up Florida, near the
coast but not quite on it. It is all pine trees here, too skinny for their height, built
like I am. But there is mostly just the road, passing cars and occasionally being
passed by them, always having to remember who is in front of you and who
behind, who is approaching and who is drifting away.
Lacey and Ben are sitting together on the bench seat now, and Radar is in the
wayback, and they’re all playing a retarded version of I Spy in which they are
only allowed to spy things that cannot physically be seen.
“I Spy with my little eye something tragically hip,” Radar says.
“Is it the way Ben smiles mostly with the right side of his mouth?” asks
Lacey.
“No,” says Radar. “Also don’t be so gooey about Ben. It’s gross.”
“Is it the idea of wearing nothing under your graduation gown and then
having to drive to New York while all the people in passing cars assume you’re
wearing a dress?”
“No,” says Radar. “That’s just tragic.”
Lacey smiles. “You’ll learn to like dresses. You get to enjoy the breeze.”
“Oh, I know!” I say from the front. “You spy a twenty-four-hour road trip in
a minivan. Hip because road trips always are; tragic because the gas we’re
guzzling will destroy the planet.”
Radar says no, and they keep guessing. I am driving and going seventy-two
and praying not to get a ticket and playing Metaphysical I Spy. The tragically hip
thing turns out to be failing to turn in your rented graduation robes on time. I

---

blow past a cop parked on the grass median. I grip the steering wheel hard with
both hands, feeling sure he’ll race up to pull us over. But he doesn’t. Maybe he
knows I’m only speeding because I have to.
Hour Three
Ben is sitting shotgun again. I’m still driving. We’re all hungry. Lacey
distributes one piece of wintergreen gum to each of us, but it’s cold comfort.
She’s writing a gigantic list of everything we’re going to buy at the BP when we
stop for the first time. This had better be one extraordinarily well-stocked BP
station, because we are going to clear the bitch out.
Ben keeps bouncing his legs up and down.
“Will you stop that?”
“I’ve had to pee for three hours.”
“You’ve mentioned that.”
“I can feel the pee all the way up to my rib cage,” he says. “I am honestly full
of pee. Bro, right now, seventy percent of my body weight is pee.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, barely cracking a smile. It’s funny and all, but I’m tired.
“I feel like I might start crying, and that I’m going to cry pee.”
That gets me. I laugh a little.
The next time I glance over, a few minutes later, Ben has a hand tight around
his crotch, the fabric of the gown bunched up.
“What the hell?” I ask.
“Dude, I have to go. I’m pinching off the flow.” He turns around then.
“Radar, how long till we stop?”
“We have to go at least a hundred forty-three more miles in order to keep it
down to four stops, which means about one hour and fifty-eight-point-five
minutes if Q keeps pace.”
“I’m keeping up!” I shout. We are just north of Jacksonville, getting close to
Georgia.
“I can’t make it, Radar. Get me something to pee in.”
The chorus erupts: NO. Absolutely not. Just hold it like a man. Hold it like a
Victorian lady holds on to her maidenhead. Hold it with dignity and grace, like
the president of the United States is supposed to hold the fate of the free world.
“GIVE ME SOMETHING OR I WILL PEE ON THIS SEAT. AND

---

HURRY!”
“Oh, Christ,” Radar says as he unbuckles his seat belt. He climbs into the
wayback, and then reaches down and opens the cooler. He returns to his seat,
leans forward, and hands Ben a beer.
“Thank God it’s a twist off,” Ben says, gathering a handful of robe and then
opening the bottle. Ben rolls down the window, and I watch out the side-view
mirror as the beer floats past the car and splashes onto the interstate. Ben
manages to get the bottle underneath his robe without showing us the world’s
purportedly largest balls, and then we all sit and wait, too disgusted to look.
Lacey is just saying, “Can’t you just hold it,” when we all hear it. I have
never heard the sound before, but I recognize it anyway: it is the sound of pee
hitting the bottom of a beer bottle. It sounds almost like music. Revolting music
with a very fast beat. I glance over and I can see the relief in Ben’s eyes. He is
smiling, staring into the middle distance.
“The longer you wait, the better it feels,” he says. The sound soon changes
from the clinking of pee-on-bottle to the blopping of pee-on-pee. And then,
slowly, Ben’s smile fades.
“Bro, I think I need another bottle,” he says suddenly.
“Another bottle STAT,” I shout.
“Another bottle coming up!” In a flash, I can see Radar bent over the
backseat, his head in the cooler, digging a bottle out of the ice. He opens it with
his bare hand, cracks one of the back windows open, and pours the beer out
through the crack. Then he leaps to the front, his head between Ben and me, and
holds the bottle out for Ben, whose eyes are darting around in panic.
“The, uh, exchange is going to be, uh, complicated,” Ben says. There’s a lot
of fumbling going on beneath that robe, and I’m trying not to imagine what’s
happening when out from underneath a robe comes a Miller Lite bottle filled
with pee (which looks astoundingly similar to Miller Lite). Ben deposits the full
bottle in the cup holder, grabs the new one from Radar, and then sighs with
relief.
The rest of us, meanwhile, are left to contemplate the pee in the cup holder.
The road is not particularly bumpy, but the shocks on the minivan leave
something to be desired, so the pee swishes back and forth at the top of the
bottle.
“Ben, if you get pee in my brand-new car, I am going to cut your balls off.”
Still peeing, Ben looks over at me, smirking. “You’re gonna need a hell of a
big knife, bro.” And then finally I hear the stream slow. He’s soon finished, and

---

then in one swift motion he throws the new bottle out the window. The full one
follows.
Lacey is fake-gagging—or maybe really gagging. Radar says, “God, did you
wake up this morning and drink eighteen gallons of water?”
But Ben is beaming. He is holding his fists in the air, triumphant, and he is
shouting, “Not a drop on the seat! I’m Ben Starling. First clarinet, WPHS
Marching Band. Keg Stand Record Holder. Pee-in-the-car champion. I shook up
the world! I must be the greatest!”
Thirty-five minutes later, as our third hour comes to a close, he asks in a
small voice, “When are we stopping again?”
“One hour and three minutes, if Q keeps pace,” Radar answers.
“Okay,” Ben says. “Okay. Good. Because I have to pee.”