We join a crowd watching a Corvair do donuts, the acrid smoke of burning rubber in our noses. Clouds of white billow from the wheel wells while the car spins in a tight circle. This teenage ritual sacrifice of tires dates back to the aforementioned days of spit curls and engineer boots. Is Arno right? Will people someday look upon long hair, bell-bottoms, and peace symbols with the same amused disdain that we feel watching these nutjobs shred tread and transmissions?

The Corvair gives way to a souped-up Nash Rambler that draws chuckles from the crowd. By now there must be forty people watching.

And one of them is Tinsley, about thirty feet to my right. She’s turning her head away when I spot her, which makes me think that she saw me first. A guy with longish hair, bushy sideburns, and a thick black mustache is standing close behind her. He’s wearing jeans and a leather vest with no shirt underneath. His chest is covered with curly dark hair.

His hands are on her shoulders.

Sunday, August 10

“How would you feel if your mom and I got divorced?”

When I roared into the garage on the BSA a few minutes ago, the paterfamilias came out of the house. He’d been gone all weekend without explanation. I guess with Alan at camp, he doesn’t feel the need for pretenses anymore. I was sure he was going to give me grief about having a motorcycle. Instead, he suggested a stroll.

So he wants to get divorced. What am I supposed to say? Gee, Dad, sounds fantastic. Really happy for you. Come to think of it, except for the fact that you show up here to sleep and change clothes, it kind of feels like you’re already divorced. But all the same, thanks for asking.

“Why?” It’s a stupid question, but I want to hear him answer it.

“It’s hard to explain,” he says.

“Give it a try.” The words probably surprise me as much as they surprise him. Have I ever given the paterfamilias an order before? I expect him to react, but he doesn’t. Then it hits me: Is it possible that, thanks to the Great Bathtub Turd Incident, he’s realized that I no longer need to bow before his bluster?

He stares off. Still not much eye contact. Whenever our eyes met in the past, it always felt like he was looking inside me for all that should have been there but wasn’t: The desire to win. The desire to become a capitalist tool. The desire to be golden. Now I just can’t look at him, period.