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Title Page

Dedication

Thursday, June 26

Just east of Worcester, the greenish paisley clouds morph into the faces of Washington, Lincoln, and a couple of their pals.

Every sound SOUNDS LOUDER: The wind whistling in through Odysseus’s vent windows. The hum of tires on the Mass Pike. The Hammond organ of Procol Harum splashing through the speakers.

Next to me, Robin draws her knees up under her chin and hugs them. Strands of her long hair vine away in the breeze. Robin is Botticelli’s Venus on a passenger seat, only with dark-brown hair and eyes. She is Juliet to my Romeo, Olive Oyl to my Popeye, Lady to my Tramp, the lady I love.

Alas, my heart is as heavy as an anvil. Tomorrow she will depart for the Canadian wilderness, vanishing from my life for two full months. Dreading the thought of this summer without her, I reach over, take her slim hand in mine, and squeeze.

Don’t go north, my love. There’s still time to change your mind. Surely you must feel the same?

But with businesslike deftness, Robin guides my hand back to Odysseus’s steering wheel and says, “Are you sure you can drive, Lucas?”

The question does not come unexpectedly out of yonder filigreed blue. An hour ago, back in Cambridge, we were loitering beside a brick wall on which was scrawled “Make Love Not War” and “Bring the Troops Home.” A barefoot, glassy-eyed freak with Jesus hair and beard wandered by. After clocking Odysseus, Robin, and me, he dug into his pocket and produced a wrinkled baggie filled with tiny orange barrel-shaped tabs. He then uttered those most magical of inducements: “Free, man.”

From the shape and color of the tabs I swiftly deduced that the offering was Orange Sunshine. Fabled West Coast acid, said to rival Owsley as the purest ever produced for mass consumption. Without a second thought, I plucked a barrel out of the baggie and swallowed.

Now, on the Mass Pike, as we poke along at Odysseus’s maximum velocity of fifty-eight mph, the industrial rhythm of the tires has a symphonic quality. In the cockpit, sonic tides ebb and flow — faint, louder, LOUD, less loud, faint. Out in the distance, the greenish cloud-faces of President Washington & Co. grin down from the heavens. Mount Rushmore, indeed!

In the meantime, I am tasked with reassuring my ladylove that even in my thoroughly dosed state I am capable of maintaining both altitude and a steady flight path. (I always meant to teach her to drive a stick, but like so many of my intentions, it was left unrealized.) “Have no fear, my daffodil, I am in complete control of the sit —” This would be the very moment a humongous eighteen-wheeler barrels past, intent on blowing us off the road. With a panicked gasp, Robin grabs my thigh and squeezes while I wrestle my boxy German tin can back into the lane.

The back of the 18-wheeler,