“Hey, what’s going on with the draft, Lucas?” Arno says, deflecting. “Hear about the guy who got Four-F’ed by smearing peanut butter around his butt hole? When he bent over and spread his cheeks at the physical, the army doctor asked, ‘What’s that?’ The guy stuck his finger back there, then put it in his mouth and said, ‘Hm, tastes like peanut butter.’”

“Very funny, Arno.”

Milton looks over the seat at me. “What’s the latest?”

The latest is I don’t want to think about the draft while I’m on the launchpad at Cape Windowpane, counting down to liftoff. The Selective Service Special Form for Conscientious Objector came in the mail yesterday. Here’s how it begins:

1. Do you believe in a Supreme Being? [ ] Yes [ ] No

2. Describe the nature of your belief.

3. Explain how, when, and from whom or from what source you received the training and acquired your belief.

4. Give the name and present address of the individual upon whom you rely most for religious guidance.

There may not be any atheists in foxholes, but I’m not in a foxhole . . . yet. I spoke to Charles on the phone last night. He said not to sweat. We’ll meet on Monday to discuss it.

“It’s under control,” I tell Milton, uncomfortably aware that it’s not. “What do you hear from Rudy?”

“He’s really depressed. Can’t find a decent piano. When you’re at his level, every day that you don’t practice you lose a little bit. At this point, he thinks it’ll take months to get back to where he was.”

If you get back to where you were, aren’t you still where you are? Or are you where you were before you got back?

I think liftoff may have begun.

The first time I tripped was November of junior year. Grass had been on the scene for a couple of years, but psychedelic drugs like mescaline, peyote, and LSD were just beginning to find purchase in the suburban New York high-school landscape. The three of us got together early on a Saturday morning at the house of a kid named Stuart. Arno, Stuart, and I dropped. Milton came along to chaperone.

Because of all the stories about people going apeshit while tripping, Stuart wouldn’t let us in his house. So after we dropped, we climbed up on his roof and watched planes become huge silver hawks, and clouds turn into pink and green faces. We walked to a nearby pond and tossed rocks into the glassy water while Milton expounded on how the ever-widening ripples mirrored the ever-expanding universe. (Maybe he doesn’t need acid to trip.) We wandered over to the country club to play tennis even though the nets had been taken down for the winter. Each bouncing white ball was trailed by dozens of round white afterimages.