"Why'n't you write your own story? Be more exciting."

"I have a better idea," Robin said.

She waited for Skip's reaction, watched him pick up his vodka, drink most of it and rattle the ice in the glass. He was with her but not paying attention to every word grinning in his beard now.

"Man, we let it rip, didn't we? Dope, sex, and rock and roll. Old Mao and Karl Marx tried to keep up but didn't stand a chance against Jimi Hendrix, man, the Doors, the Dead, Big Brother and Janis. Hey, and my all-time favorite outlaw band-you know the one it was? MC5. Jesus, those dudes, man…"

Robin heard the strolling trio coming to the end of "Don't Cry for Me, Argentina." She said, "How about the dynamite runs? Stoned out of your mind."

"You had to be," Skip said, "car full of high explosives.

That first time coming back from Yale, Michigan, M-19, two lanes, I kept seeing the road disappear, like a big hole would open up in front of us and I'd think, Oh, shit, we're gonna die. Except I knew I was tripping, so I'd hang onto the wheel like my knuckles were gonna pop.

But I'll tell you something, I never had what you'd call a bad trip in my life.

I mean dropping acid. The only bad trips I can remember is when I wasn 't stoned. Wake up in some goddamn holding cell with these assholes giving each other peace signs."

Robin said, "I could tell you were a little ripped when you walked in."