An unexpected sense of failure envelops me. Is it possible that I’m a phony, a pretender to those of my countercultural kind, as bogus as those plastic heads in the church basement the other night?

On July 8, 1969, Lucas Baker, self-styled rebel, socialist, and druggie, was horrified to discover that despite all his long-haired antiestablishment airs, he was, deep down, pitifully middle-class.

I remove my hand from her lap. “Tinsley, I think you’re incredibly attractive, and sexy and interesting, and I know this probably won’t make any sense to you, but even if this is the first day of the rest of my life, it’s a life in which I want to be faithful.”

On the way back to the factory, we listen to more Crosby, Stills & Nash. Whenever our eyes meet, Tinsley smiles in a way that doesn’t seem forced. In fact, she appears totally cool with my decision. I find myself mystified and fascinated by her. She may be a postcard hippie, but she’s still not like anyone I’ve encountered before.

By the time we return to the parking lot and Odysseus, it’s getting dark.

“Thanks for introducing me to the Planting Fields.”

“You’re welcome!” Tinsley replies cheerfully, and even plants a kiss on my cheek.

I climb out of the Spitfire, but before I step away, there’s one last question on my mind: “The Encyclopaedia Britannica or the World Book?”

The question hangs in the warm evening air for a moment. Admittedly it’s come from far out in left field.

Tinsley scowls. “Sorry?”

“Which one do you have?”

“Neither,” she says.

“You have some other encyclopedia?”

“No, we don’t have one.”

Amazing.

Wednesday, July 9

Finally! On my desk is a letter from Robin in a white envelope with a blue stamp of a lady wearing a tiara. Like a desperate addict who’s finally found his fix, I rip it open. Inside are folded sheets of lined paper torn from a spiral notebook.

6/27/69

Dear Lucas,

I suppose you can tell from the jumpiness of my handwriting that I’m writing this on the bus. Thank you for that sweet letter you gave me this morning. What a nice surprise! I’ve read it twice and thought a lot about us. In fact, it’s all I’ve thought about since I got on the bus.

We’re just passing Plattsburgh and I’ve been sitting here with this notebook on my lap for hours thinking about what I want to say. I’ve even cried a few times, as you can probably tell from the water spots.

Now, after all that thinking, I’m writing, but I don’t know if I will ever send this to you. Maybe I’ll change my mind. I think I will wait a few days before I send it. Oh, God, you probably don’t care about that. You’re probably wondering what I’ve been crying about.