Summer of '69 Read online

  6/27/69

  Dear Lucas,

  I suppose you can tell from the jumpiness of my handwriting that I’m writing this on the bus. Thank you for that sweet letter you gave me this morning. What a nice surprise! I’ve read it twice and thought a lot about us. In fact, it’s all I’ve thought about since I got on the bus.

  We’re just passing Plattsburgh and I’ve been sitting here with this notebook on my lap for hours thinking about what I want to say. I’ve even cried a few times, as you can probably tell from the water spots.

  Now, after all that thinking, I’m writing, but I don’t know if I will ever send this to you. Maybe I’ll change my mind. I think I will wait a few days before I send it. Oh, God, you probably don’t care about that. You’re probably wondering what I’ve been crying about.

  Here’s the reason: when it comes to you and me, I feel stuck and don’t know what to do. I love you, Lucas, but there’s so much about our relationship that I find disturbing. Some things have been bothering me for a while. Others didn’t begin to crystallize until we went to Maine.

  I have to be honest with you and with myself. I know you’d want me to. As you could probably tell, I didn’t enjoy the trip very much. I liked it when we could find a quiet place to read, but I didn’t like living in the microbus. I hated not being able to shower and feeling dirty all the time. (Sponge bathing in restaurant and gas station bathrooms really doesn’t cut it.) I wasn’t comfortable sleeping on Odysseus’s thin mattress. And I hated how mean people and the police were to us simply because of our hair and clothes. Well, and because of Odysseus.

  Do I sound like a bourgeois spoiled brat? I bet you think I do. And that’s also something I’m worried about. I know how you despise capitalism and middle-class values. You know how much I admire your beliefs, how you work every summer in that factory when you don’t have to and refuse to accept anything from your parents. But if that means you’ll always want to take vacations in your microbus and wash in public bathrooms and cook meals on a camp stove, I honestly wonder if I can share that lifestyle with you.

  Oh, Lucas, I’m sorry if it sounds like I’m coming down hard on you. But there’s more. The drugs. You know I don’t mind smoking grass once in a while. But not all the time. Until we went to Maine, I don’t think I realized how much you smoked. Starting nearly every day before noon? And you must sense that I’m not comfortable with you using LSD. I was so anxious and worried during the drive home.

  To be honest, Lucas, I think the phrase “not comfortable” describes how I’m feeling about us in general. There are many wonderful things about you. When we first started going together, I thought I could help you with some of the problems you were facing. Maybe I even imagined that I could change you.

  But I’ve realized that what’s happened is the opposite. You’ve changed me. And in ways I’m not happy about or comfortable with. (There’s that word again.) Maybe what I’m trying to say is that I’m worried about where all this is leading. What’s going to happen in a few months when we start college? Goddard sounds like the kind of school where everyone gets high. Do you really think you’ll be able to function at a college level if you’re stoned all the time? And when you come to Middlebury on the weekends, are you going to want to take LSD?

  I hope it doesn’t sound like I’m nagging. I’m just trying to be honest.

  Robin

  The spiral notebook pages end there. There’s a second letter, written on unlined light-blue stationery, but before I begin reading it, I need to take a deep breath and steady the queasy foreboding that’s spread through me. It feels like the floor is breaking apart beneath me. I’m not quite in free fall, but I could really use a solid handhold.

  Maybe the news gets better in the next letter.

  7/4/69

  Dear Lucas,

  Thank you for all the letters. The one about Goddard rejecting you came today (the Canadians don’t celebrate the 4th) and I’m so sorry and worried about you. What are you going to do about the draft? Is there any way to get out of going to Vietnam? Some way to fail the physical? Maybe Dr. Hill could write a letter?

  I’m sorry I haven’t written sooner. I have to be honest. It’s not just being super busy with the start of camp. It’s also the uncertainty I’m still feeling about us. I’m sorry to make you wait so long for a letter, but I haven’t been able to figure out how I feel or what to say. It makes me feel cruel, but I know you wouldn’t want me to lie and say everything is fine when it isn’t.

  You’ve been saying in your letters how much you’re looking forward to driving up and seeing me in a few weeks, but are you sure you want to come all this way? Shouldn’t you spend the time figuring out how to get out of the draft? I’ve gotten my schedule and I’ll only be able to take off one day to be with you. And I’ll have to be back in the bunk by ten p.m. Also, except for visiting day, they don’t allow noncampers on the property. If you come up, I’ll have to see you off camp property. There’s hardly anything around here except woods.

  Lucas, we both know how you sometimes procrastinate about important things. Please don’t put off doing something about the draft. Please don’t wait until it’s too late.

  Robin

  My hands are trembling. I’m shattered. If someone suddenly appeared out of nowhere and swung a two-by-four into my face, I couldn’t feel more blindsided. Chris has written about the Dear John letters some of the guys in his company have gotten. As if it isn’t horrible enough to get wrenched out of your life and shipped to a hellish jungle with a thousand ways to die, guys get letters from girlfriends saying they’ve met someone new. One guy got a Dear John letter from his wife after only three weeks.

  The postmark on Robin’s letter is July 5. It took four days to get here. She’s been gone almost two weeks, and I’ve written at least a dozen letters to her. In April, when her parents took her to Florida for Easter vacation, I received a long Shalimar-scented letter on lavender paper every day. Each one signed With All My Love, Robin.

  I bring the light-blue stationery close, but there’s not the slightest hint of perfume. And it’s signed simply Robin. Sounds like she began having doubts long before she left for camp. She once told me that I had blind spots, things that I didn’t see that were obvious to her. I know that’s true, but in this case, is the problem that I haven’t been seeing or that Robin’s been hiding her feelings?

  What does it matter now? My heart’s deflated and my eyes are watery. Guess you don’t have to be in Vietnam to receive a devastating Dear John letter. I squeeze the tears away with my thumb and forefinger. This is so unexpected, so out of the blue. I’m crushed, stunned by her ambivalence. Yes, the trip to Maine was a bummer, but I didn’t think it was that bad. And it’s not like this is the first, or even second, time Robin’s voiced discomfort with my “lifestyle” and beliefs. It’s not new to her. Why did she have to wait until she went away to share all these feelings? Was she afraid to tell me face-to-face? That’s so unlike her.

  I sit back, stare at the ceiling, feel my eyes fill with tears again. Let’s be honest. She did share her feelings. The time she told me about some river in Ohio that was so polluted it had caught fire a dozen times, and I insisted that was impossible. The next day she showed me the clipping from the newspaper. For several days after that she was remote and uncommunicative. I knew she was waiting for me to apologize. Why didn’t I?

  And that book about the environment that she asked me to read — Silent Spring or something. I didn’t get past the first chapter.

  And the time she and I sat on the grass at the duck pond all afternoon after I dropped a pink football-shaped tab of mescaline. Everything seemed insanely funny — the way a Frisbee bumped on an air current, the way the ducks did that thing where their heads go down in the water and their feathery butts point up into the air. I laughed and laughed until my lungs hurt, not realizing what a bore I was being.

  Why couldn’t I have been more sensitive and aware with Robin? Why couldn’t I have t
ried just a little harder?

  A wave of fresh tears erupts. My fist slams the desktop hard enough to make everything jump and rattle. For the past nine months, Robin has been my anchor, the rock-steady rhythm section of my life. Before her, I had no idea how reassuring the attention of someone so smart and caring could be. But now that I’ve felt it, been swaddled in it, she can’t just take it away. The tears become sobs. Shoulders trembling, I bury my face in my hands. Get ahold of yourself, man. . . .

  Besides, there’s a sliver of hope. The ground beneath me may have disintegrated, but like Wile E. Coyote in a Road Runner cartoon, I’m still suspended in that cartoon sky, churning my arms and legs. I know Robin. It was hard for her to get to the point where she could say she loved me. We started going together in October, and it wasn’t until March that the words managed to squeeze themselves through her lips. But once they were stated, I knew it was for real. So if she took that long to fall in love, she’s not going to fall out of love overnight, is she? Isn’t saying she feels uncertain a way of asking for reassurance?

  I wipe away the tears, take a steadying breath, and pick up a pen. Then change my mind and decide to use a pencil. I need to craft my response carefully.

  7/9/69

  Dear Robin,

  It was good to finally get your letters. I was starting to worry that maybe they don’t have regular mail up there in the hinterland. That they use carrier pigeons or the mail carriers travel by mooseback.

  Okay, enough joking. I guess you must have known that your letters were going to shake me up big-time. And I understand now why it took you so long to send them. I understand the way you feel about the Maine trip. I guess we forget that we live in an enlightened progressive bubble on Long Island. There are a lot of jerks and squares in the world (especially Maine). Like you said, if people and the cops had been nicer to us, we would have had a better time. And I dig how you feel about living out of Odysseus. It’s not for everyone. And it’s not like it’s something I always have to do, either. Next trip, I promise we’ll figure out better places to stay. I’ll make sure you get lots of opportunities to shower.

  If you’re thinking that’s the easy stuff to fix, I agree. What’s hard is trying to understand the way you’re feeling. I guess the problem is that you feel like you had two bad trips in one. First was the crappy way we were treated and the second was lunatic Lucas tripping during the drive back to Long Island.

  But the thing is, neither one of those bad trips was permanent. Do they really mean you have to doubt our entire relationship? We don’t have to go to Maine again, and I don’t have to take acid and drive again. In fact, I don’t have to take acid again, period. I’ve tripped plenty. Maybe enough is enough, you know?

  And I get the stuff about me smoking too much grass. I don’t entirely disagree. I think I should cut back on all forms of inhalation (except breathing, of course). All that smoke can’t be good for one’s health.

  Also, I appreciate your concern on the draft front. I’ve been talking to a draft counselor about something called a moral case for refusing to participate in war. Usually conscientious objector cases are based on religious beliefs like the Jehovah’s Witnesses or Quakers because they’re considered Peace Churches that have always been opposed to military service. But Charles, my draft counselor, is going to help me construct a case based on personal moral code and the just-war theories of Thomas Aquinas and secular thinkers like Camus (The Stranger, remember?), Thoreau, and Bertrand Russell.

  I’m hoping that once I’ve gotten past the draft problem, we can be together next year. I could move up to Waitsfield or Warren and work at a ski area.

  And as far as coming up to see you the week after next, I’m not worried about not being able to go on camp property as long as you can get off it. Even if it’s only for one day, it’ll be worth it. You know how much I love you, Robin. Seriously, I would come all that way even if it was just for a few hours.

  So my sweet, sweet sweetheart, please don’t make any drastic decisions about us and our future together. Not when we’re so far apart. I remember how long it took you to get to the point where you felt what we had was real. And once you got there, you were totally committed. That’s the way I still feel. I miss you like crazy. Love you like crazy. Seriously, if this is all you’re worried about (is there anything you haven’t brought up that I should know about?), I can fix it. Less grass smoking, no acid, and no more living out of Odysseus.

  Consider it done. Love you buckets and buckets. Counting the days till we’re together again.

  Love,

  Lucas

  Finished. First time in my life I’ve edited and revised a personal letter and then written a final draft. My eleventh-grade English teacher, Miss Landers, would be proud. She was always telling me I didn’t revise enough. (I didn’t revise, period.) My hand is cramped from all that penmanship. And yet, almost immediately I feel the urge to start another letter. But I catch myself. Be cool, man. Don’t overwhelm her. Don’t sound desperate even if that’s the way you feel.

  The truth is, I feel shredded. Shredded, empty, and hurting. It isn’t even dinnertime (not that I have an appetite), and there are hours to go until the welcoming oblivion of sleep. That mantra about today being the first day of the rest of your life may be true, but if today were to be the first day of a life without Robin, I’m not sure I’d want to live until tomorrow. I’m hoping that, sixteen days from now, I’ll truck on up there and make things right. But for now, out comes my Swiss Army knife. With the Phillips head, I unscrew the bottom of my stereo and pull some reds out of my stash.

  I don’t have a drug problem,

  Except when I don’t have drugs.

  “Don’t say anything,” Arno warns. His face is puffy and, except for a whitish band across his eyes, streaked the reddish-brown color of an overripe strawberry. He stinks of menthol and mothballs — the scent of Noxzema skin cream.

  I can’t stop staring. “What’d you do?”

  “Iodine and baby oil,” Milton says.

  Girls use that mixture to get darkly tanned fast, but it never comes out like this. Arno’s face looks like it’s been napalmed.

  “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. B
etter 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.’”

  “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.