“Look, you want the acid or not?” Impatient Abe snaps. The ominous tone in his voice is only outdone by the reddish menace in his eyes.

Or maybe he has pinkeye.

Arno hands over a small wad. The late great president quickly fans five Ben Franklins, then crushes them in his fist. “Be right back.” He vanishes into the dark.

Even on a double dose of Windowpane, Lucas the Blitzed senses the extraordinary nature of what’s just gone down. He’s never even seen a hundred-dollar bill before. But it’s Milton who gets to the point. “You . . . just gave . . . five hundred dollars . . . to . . . a stranger?”

“He came highly recommended,” Arno says defensively.

“By Good Housekeeping?” asks Lucas.

“Shut your face!”

Loud cheers and applause erupt from the other side of the wall around the skating rink.

“B.B. must’ve finished his set,” says Milton. “Let’s go.”

Still wearing the red-and-white cap, Arno doesn’t move. “Can’t. Gotta wait here for Clyde.”

In the midst of all the noise and movement, a lull descends. Have we heard Arno correctly? Did he actually say he’s not going to see Led Zeppelin?

“Are you serious?” asks Lucas the Dumbfounded.

“Are you tripping?” snaps Arno.

“We’ll save you a seat,” Milton says.

Keeping a tight grip on Milton’s shirttail, I follow while he leads the way through the tightly pressed wriggling bodies. Sometimes a trip is a carefree frolic through soft, flowery meadows, but tonight’s trip has begun to feel more like a high-wire act. Undefined menace lurks at the fringes of my peripheral vision, keeping me on edge as we are pushed forward by so many sperms trying to swim past the tall wooden walls, yearning to enter Led Ovum. Inside, the floor of Wollman Rink is an unruly sea of freaks and folding metal chairs. Milton snags three toward the back, in front of the bleachers. I’m profoundly glad to sit. Being erect while peaking on acid leaves so much unpredictable space between one’s head and the ground.

All around us, people loudly chatter. The sense of anticipation is palpable. The Who and Led Zeppelin are the biggest rock acts on the planet. On the stage, roadies push equipment this way and that. The Four Tops’ “Standing in the Shadows of Love” is being piped through the PA system. The audience is standing in the shadows of houselights. Waves of voices roll forward and smash against the stage in mammoth splashes of rainbow audio foam. Next to me, Milton is reading a magazine. I think it’s Life. The page he’s looking at says “One Week’s Dad” and has dozens of little black-and-white pictures of fathers.