“The thinking in Washington has changed,” Charles says. He’s not quite as scornful tonight as he was two weeks ago. “Up till now, seventy percent of the guys getting drafted have been poor, working-class, or minority. Nixon’s figured out that it’s bad political mojo if they’re the only ones dying in Nam. Because what does that make the college student deferment? Just another way to maintain the status quo, dig? You know that blacks and minorities die at twice the rate of whites over there?”

“Seriously? Why?” I ask.

Charles flicks his ash and gazes at a bright-yellow poster on the wall of a flower with the words WAR IS NOT HEALTHY FOR CHILDREN AND OTHER LIVING THINGS. “Why? Because whites get promoted to officer positions and blacks don’t. So while you white boys are behind the lines giving orders, my black brothers are up front catching lead.”

He may not be as hostile as he was two weeks ago, but he still sounds angry and resentful — with good reason.

“Listen, man, would you prefer I found someone else to work with?” I ask, since it feels like that’s where he’s going.

Charles’s mouth falls partway open, and he looks at me with surprise. “No, man. I told you last time, my job is to help everyone. And as long as I’m here, that’s what I’m going to do. I just think you should dig what’s really going on.”

A little while later, sitting in Odysseus in the church parking lot, I wonder if what’s really going on is more than I can handle. If I’m going to have a chance of succeeding with the conscientious objector thing, Charles says I’ll need to do more research and have deeper and better-thought-out arguments. Everything is starting to feel overwhelming. If the ground was disintegrating before, now it feels like I’m surrounded by walls pressing in.

A moment like this calls for an infusion of ganja. I close Odysseus’s windows and fire up. It hasn’t been easy to keep my promise to Robin about cutting back, but I’m trying. It’s 9:30 p.m. and this is only my second joint of the day. I’ve only smoked half a dozen cigarettes, too. I pray it’ll count for something.

Darkness has fallen. Lucas the Pummeled holds the sweet smoke in his lungs. It’s been five days since Robin’s last letter. Oh, how he wishes she’d write again. Maybe she has. It’s been more than two weeks since he signed the change-of-address form. There could be a bunch of perfume-scented lavender envelopes sitting in a mailbox in Bay Shore. . . .

And while you’re building castles in the sky, goofball, why not add a personal note from Nixon exempting you from the draft?