“Zach and I were goofin’ on you, man.” Barry chuckles and tugs on the kite string.

Goofin’ on Lucas was a regular pastime when I was in my prepubescence and Barry was my idol. Barry was edgy and daring. He had one of the first skateboards, wooden, pointed at the front like a miniature surfboard. There was a big chip in the nose where he said he’d crashed into a curb. At that age, being able to say you’d crashed into anything was a mark of distinction.

He was also athletic. You wouldn’t believe how far he could throw a football at nine years old. He had a pull-up bar in the doorway of his room and could do a dozen pull-ups and chin-ups. He could ride a bike balancing on the back wheel, walk a few steps on his hands, clap between push-ups.

I idolized him; he did his best to ignore me. I was weak, physically timid, athletically unexceptional, prone to daydreaming. Hardly able to do a pull-up, and after five push-ups, I’d be as swaybacked as an old horse. I once watched, fascinated, while Barry — unaware of me — admired himself in a mirror. At that age, when I looked in the mirror, I failed to see anything worth admiring.

But even as a kid, there was a dark side to Barry. He could be pensive, moody, even morose. On those rare occasions when he submitted to my company — usually under duress at some family get-together — he might suddenly take a swing at me for no reason. Back then, I even found his unpredictable violence admirable. And to me, those brooding silences and sudden bursts of ferocity bespoke inner depth, although now I suspect that they were merely moments when his frustration at being stuck with his nerdy cousin boiled over.

No bra arouses

The imagination.

One can’t help but wonder:

Panties?

Overhead, thick gray clouds have begun to gather. Lucas the Very Stoned can feel the dampness in the air. Maybe they should split, but that second round of tokes on the hash joint has left them all too zonked to consider movement without suitable cause.

Lucas turns on his side, props up his head, and tries to read a chapter entitled “Trout Fishing in America with the FBI,” but the sentences don’t begin with capital letters, and thanks to the hash, Brautigan’s words have become difficult to string together into sentences.

Tinsley aims her camera at him. It says LEICA on it. A brand he’s never heard of. The shutter clicks. Something stirs inside him. The hash has poked holes in the testosterone dam. Thoughts of cupping her breasts in his hands, the excited spark of her nipples against his palms. But wait . . . What happened to the letter he was going to write to Robin?