Arno lights a cigarette. “I take it back. You’re the fruitcake.”

“At least he believes in something. What do you believe in?”

“Turn on, tune in, drop out, man.” Arno facetiously repeats the mantra of the LSD guru Timothy Leary. And by extension everyone like me who’d rather make love, not war.

“Seriously, Arno, besides making money, what do you believe in?”

“I’m against the war,” he says defensively.

“Join the crowd. But have you done anything about it?”

“What have you done?” Arno shoots back. “Other than go on a couple of protest marches with your hot girlfriend and her parents.”

On the radio, Jim Morrison has gotten to the part where the narrator tells his father he wants to kill him and tells his mother he wants to AAAAAAAAARGH her. People always stop to listen to that. What have I done about the war? To be honest, other than try to save my own ass from going, not much more than Arno’s done. But maybe I could do more. Over the past month, I’ve learned a lot. If I can find a way to stay out of the war, maybe I could become a draft counselor like Charles. That’s the thing about not getting high as much as I used to. I suddenly have a lot more time on my hands. (Yeah, yeah. I know I just polished off the roach, but that’s not a real high — just a little buzz.)

“When did you get a motorcycle license?” Arno asks in the lot behind Wilkinson Motorsports. Lou gave me the registration and insurance papers, and I just put the tag on the BSA. The cycle is now officially mine. Before entering traffic for the first time, I want to take a few more practice laps.

I buckle the helmet strap. “I have a permit.”

“How’s that work with motorcycles?”

“You’re supposed to be supervised by someone with a motorcycle license. They’re supposed to be within a quarter mile.”

“Know anyone with a motorcycle license?”

“Know anyone with an LSD license? Got a permit to sell two thousand hits at the music festival?”

“That’s different.”

“Right. I get stopped without a motorcycle license, the worst I’ll get is a ticket. You get picked up with that much acid, you’re guaranteed fifteen years in the slammer.”

“Not gonna happen. I’m only gonna sell to freaks.”

“Ever hear of undercover narcs?”

“Think I can’t tell the difference?”

“Arno, what do you think ‘undercover’ means? The whole point is to not be able to tell the difference.”

“Bite me, Lucas.”

I ride around the parking lot in a wide circle. Why do I keep picking fights with him? Is it because I’m ticked off about the royal mess I’ve made of my life and have no one else to vent at? Is it because we’ve been friends for so long that I know he’s the one person I can dump on without fear of rejection? Each time I pass him in the lot, he dishes it right back at me.