“You don’t want to know, my man.” Charles takes another hit, leans his head back, and gazes up at the cartoon of Mr. Natural. “‘The whole universe is completely insane.’ Ain’t it the truth.” He reaches for the door handle. “Thanks for the smoke, Lucas. I’ll let you get home.”

He’s halfway out the door when he stops and looks back, his lips grimly pursed. “Listen, my man, I know it’s a bitch, but keep working the CO angle. We’ll give it our best shot. If it doesn’t work, you’ll still have some options.”

“Something besides federal prison or Canada?”

“Hey, don’t knock ’em. You’ll stay alive and you won’t have to fight in an immoral war.”

A fair point. But . . . “Any other possibilities?”

“You can always chop off a finger. But somehow you don’t strike me as the type.”

Sunday, July 20

“They went all the way to the moon to take a nap.” Arno’s stubby toes press against the edge of his desk while he reclines in his chair. A narrow ribbon of bluish incense snakes from a small brown ceramic pot nearby. It’s close to nine p.m. The lunar module touched down on the moon’s surface about six hours ago. On TV they’ve been saying that the astronauts are going to take a nap and then do a bunch of things inside the LM before they venture out.

A rolled-up towel is wedged against the bottom of the bedroom door. Arno’s holding a mirror in front of his face while conducting a blackhead search-and-destroy mission. The sunburn has pretty much faded. A few days ago, when his skin started peeling off in sheets, he really looked like a napalm victim.

I’m perched by the window, which is open just enough to keep the pinner we’re smoking outside. I’m still cutting down, but it would be awkward not to smoke with my friends. Arno would want to know why, and if I told him it was for Robin’s sake, he’d be sure to call me pussy whipped. Besides, we’re only getting mildly fried. In a little while, when we go watch TV with Arno’s parents, we can’t appear too wrecked.

Tommy is on Arno’s sound system. At home, I’ve got a record player the size of a small suitcase with a turntable and two little attached speakers. In comparison, Arno’s system is otherworldly: Kenwood stereo receiver, Garrard turntable, Acoustic Research speakers the size of milk crates. Plus a ton of albums filling the bookcase, stacked against the wall, and in two big piles in his closet.