Doing laps in the parking lot, I imagine hightailing it up to Canada. Ever since that phone call with Robin, I’ve dwelled in a state of nonstop anxiety awaiting the letter she’s promised. There are moments now when I regret not continuing north by any means possible the day after Odysseus perished. Even if I’d arrived at Camp Juliette a day or two late, even if I couldn’t actually spend time with Robin, it would have been a huge gesture of my feelings for her. Lucas Hoffman at the end of The Graduate, hammering my fists against the church window and shouting, “Robin! Robin!”

What if the dreaded letter contains the worst news imaginable? (Dear John — I mean, Lucas — I’m sorry to do this in a letter, but . . .) Then there’ll be one more option besides Canada, prison, or chopping off a finger — I could throw some clothes in my knapsack, jump on this cycle, and light out for the great unknown, a fugitive from “justice” (as if there’s justice in killing innocent civilians), the powerful claws of the draft system left grasping at my dust.

Alan’s gone to camp. The house of dashed dreams is eerily still without the sound of the TV. The shag carpet in the den is matted and slightly threadbare in the place where he usually sits. Another thin white air-mail envelope from Chris (Thank God! He’s still alive!) is on my desk, my address crossed out and the Bay Shore one written in. But before I read the letter, I chew two Tums to settle an anxious stomach, then open the window and spend a few quality moments with Mr. Water Pipe. I really have been cutting back on my consumption of grass, but given the anxiety of having another letter from Chris to read, plus everything else that feels like it’s going off the rails in my life, a modest self-medicating buzz should be permissible.

7/12/69

Loogie,

I’m so tired of trying to make it through each day alive. It’s hell over here. WE ARE NEVER GONNA WIN THIS WAR. Everyone knows it. Everyone’s just trying to stay alive until they can get out.

To make it worse I got the worst case of jungle rot. Everyone’s got it on their hands and feet. Your toes itch like crazy and the skin between them melts down to the red and oozes all the time. Now I got it in my crotch too. They tell us to practice good foot hygiene with air drying and powder. Whatever fucktard military desk jockey came up with that crap never spent a week tromping through rice paddies with the temperature at 120 degrees and 95% humidity. I can’t even remember the last time my feet were dry. Powder? The second you shake it out of the bottle, it turns into white mud.