“Brian Jones? Ever heard of the Rolling Stones?”

He shook his head.

I don’t know what threw me more: that Alan had no idea who Mick Jagger and crew were, or that someone as talented and famous as Brian Jones would so carelessly throw it all away when so many guys in Nam were spending each day desperately trying to stay alive.

“Think I’m strange?” Tinsley asks, bringing me back from my musings.

“Because you’re sitting in a parking lot using an ancient way of figuring things out?”

“That and other things.”

Is she referring to the incident at the junior high? Are we finally going to address the elephant in the parking lot? But before I can say Yeah, that thing with your breast seemed a bit unusual, something stops me. Instead I go with “Jim Morrison said people are strange —”

“When you’re a stranger.” Tinsley finishes the line.

Our eyes meet, and there’s that connection again. Brautigan and Morrison — the high priests of our tribe. Either could have written the line She does what she pleases with whomever pleases her.

Tinsley tosses the coins again. I think about Robin. It’s been eleven days since she left, the longest we’ve ever been apart. I’ve written to her every day. Sometimes twice. I’ve always enjoyed jotting down little snippets of poetry and whatnot, but this summer, for the first time, writing has become a salve on the stinging gash of separation. Only so far there’s been no reply from my ladylove. (The change of address hasn’t gone into effect yet, because yesterday the new issue of Rolling Stone arrived with Jim Morrison — speak of the devil — on the cover.) Is it the fault of the Royal Molasses Canada Post that no missive from Robin has yet arrived? Is Camp Juliette so deep in the sticks that the mail has to be flown in and out? I’ve read that in situations like that, the mail can only go out once a week.

I ache for a letter from her, reassurance that things are okay. The memory of the morning she departed replays constantly in my head, and not in a good way. The startled look on her face when I unexpectedly showed up. Her eyes filling with tears as she rolled up the window. I was so overcome with sadness at that moment that I wasn’t processing much. But something about that morning has begun to prey on my thoughts. She didn’t look pleased when I showed up. Didn’t wave as she left. Didn’t even look back.

Tinsley gathers the coins and puts them in a small drawstring sack. She plucks the cigarette from my fingers and takes a drag. “Ever been to the Planting Fields?”

“Never heard of them.”

“You’ll dig it.” She gets to her feet and reaches down to help me up.