“Me, too.” I should’ve asked her out on the spot. Ordinarily, I wasn’t so lame, but I was afraid she’d say no, and not only because she was good-looking enough to frighten just about any guy. It was that talking about the future with her had made me feel as though I’d actually have one, and if she said no, then what would I have?

“Is that it?” Glenna asked. “We’re done?”

“I’ll have to check your quotes with you when I’m finished.”

She hesitated. Then she said, “Give me a call.”

EAGER TO see Glenna again, and with the deadline for the article two days away, I decided chemical assistance was required and went to see my best friend, Todd Elhoff. He was perched on his regular stool at the far end of the counter in the Sugar Bowl, a noisy, smoky hangout across from the Brooklyn College campus.

We had grown up next door to each other on Fifty-Ninth Street, right off Ralph Avenue. Unlike me, Todd had graduated from Brooklyn on schedule. Long term he planned to go to Hollywood and get into the movie business. Short term he worked at Incense & Peppermints, a head shop in the East Village, where he swapped his hours for the studio apartment above the store. He made his real bread by dealing ups, downs, mescaline, and acid to more of Brooklyn College than would have pleased the dean of students.

“What’s happenin’, Meyers?” Todd said, as I sat on the stool next to him. “Man, it was in the Voice today. Jimi’s coming to the Fillmore. You in?”

“I’m in.” Todd was a fanatic on the subject of Hendrix, which accounted for his wild Jewish Afro, fringed, white-leather vest, and frilly, tie-dyed shirt with puffy gambler’s sleeves.

He gave me a Marlboro, stuck one in his mouth, and lit us both up. “How’s your Long Island Press thing going?”

“Have to pull an all-nighter.”

Todd said, “Two black beauties to go,” and reached down to the floor, dunking his hand into one of the complimentary airline flight bags he always carried—this one from Pan Am.

“Hey, Meyers,” he said, pressing the pills into my open palm. “Now that you’re a reporter, you can forget about joining the army.”

Todd was the only person I’d told about wanting to check out the war. He said I must be mentally handicapped. Todd didn’t have to sweat the draft. Last summer, we were playing ball at Manhattan Beach when he landed wrong after grabbing a rebound and tore the ligaments in his left knee, which got him an operation, eight weeks on crutches, and a 4-F classification from our draft board.

I put away the speed and said, “Met someone who’d be worth staying home for.”

“That mean you and me won’t be doubling up on Gina and Marie Ianolli anymore?”

“She’s amazing. Not just for a roller-coaster ride. Let me know about the Hendrix tickets.”

As I got off the stool, Todd said, “Meyers, guys get fucked permanently in Vietnam. You better wait for the movie.”