“Fell asleep under the sunlamp. My parents were giving me grief about being so pale.” He does one of his nasal imitations: “‘How can you be so pale when you’re outside caddying every day?’ ‘Some sun would be good for you.’”

“Does it hurt?” I ask.

“Only when someone asks a stupid question.”

We pile into the GTO. Despite Arno’s roasted epidermis, the car pulsates with excited anticipation. We are going to see Led Zeppelin, the wailingest, heaviest, nastiest band in all the land.

“Anyone want to drop?” I ask from the back seat. “Dazed and Confused” is blasting on the tape deck. After three days of nonstop despair over Robin, I yearn for psychedelic reprieve. I know I wrote that I wasn’t going to trip anymore, and I intend to keep my word. But before I made that pledge, I’d made myself a promise to save this righteous acid for this special occasion. As of tomorrow, I’m quitting acid for good.

“Whatcha got?” Arno asks, purely from a business point of view. He’s only dropped acid once. Never wanted to do it again.

“Windowpane.” I hold up two paper-thin squares of gelatin for him to see in the rearview.

“Too bad it’s not Owsley.”

“There’s other good acid besides Owsley.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Want a taste?” I ask Milton.

He shakes his head. He’s never tripped.

“Come on, man, just this once,” I urge him. “I’ve got enough for both of us. Tonight would be the coolest first trip ever. Led Zeppelin on acid. Something to tell your grandchildren about.”

“Unless they’re born without ears,” Arno says. There’s a rumor that LSD scrambles your chromosomes and results in abnormal babies.

Milton won’t budge. “Sorry, Lucas. It’s not happening.”

“Oh, well. Better living through chemistry, mis amigos.” I place the acid on my tongue and sit back.

Arno points through the windshield. The sun is low and orange in the sky. “Hey, Lucas, look. Gonna stare at it till you go blind?”

“Don’t be a tool.”

“Who’s the tool?” Arno says. “Now instead of enjoying the concert, we’re gonna have to make sure you don’t climb up a tree and try to fly.”

“If acid’s that bad, why are you planning to sell it at the music festival?” I ask.

“Hey, I’m not telling anyone to take it,” Arno says. “I’m just making it available in case they’re stupid enough to want to.”

“You and Dow Chemical,” I taunt, then do an imitation of my own: “‘Just because we make napalm, it’s not our fault if the army uses it to incinerate thousands of Vietnamese women and children.’”