In the showroom office, the stale scent of grease and tire rubber hangs in the air. Late-afternoon sunlight filters through the filmy plate-glass windows. While Lou fills out the paperwork, I smoke a cigarette and think about writing another letter to Robin. But what else is there to say? The thing is, I have this yearning to write . . . something. Maybe I’ll send Chris a letter telling him what’s going on with Robin. Or what about a diary? (Locked and hidden from my parents, of course.)

The paperwork is complete. I pay for the cycle with the last few hundred bucks in my savings account. Lou explains that it will take three or four days to get the insurance and registration. After that I can take possession of the BSA. He dabs his face with that yellowed handkerchief and asks if I have any friends “who are like me” and appreciate cycles built with old-world craftsmanship and tradition. I get the feeling he hopes that the counterculture will flock to European motorcycles the way we’ve flocked to VW microbuses, Volvos, and Saabs.

Later, Tinsley picks me up to see Easy Rider. A couple of nights ago, while we waited to get off on the leftover acid from Arno’s vial, she told me that as a result of going (however briefly) with Barry and me to Canada without permission, she’d been grounded. But what the rich call grounded must be different from what the rest of us think it is, because here we are going to the movies. (Could it be literally grounded, as in “You’re not allowed to use the family airplane”?)

Before going in, we get high behind the theater. (I’m not the wasteful type. In order to cut back on smoking weed, I first need to use up my current stash. Besides, this is the first time I’ve turned on in a while. It’s true that Tinsley and I did trip a couple of days ago, but no ganja was consumed.)

Having burned through a fatty, we enter the theater in an improper state of mind. Tinsley places on my lap the flowery shawl I’d assumed she brought in case the air-conditioning is too cold. Next thing I know, she takes my hand and slides it under the fringed leather bag on her lap. Once my hand is properly positioned there, she slides her hand under the flowery shawl.

Princess Tinsley of Lapland and her risk taking. Maybe she needs it. I’m not sure I do, but why spoil her fun? Thus, the movie isn’t the only thing we find stimulating. (Have the folks sitting behind us noticed our quickened breaths?)