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red socks and the elastic tops of his Beatle boots, while the others milled around in the dirt, looking needful.
    â€œSo this is the famous Drop City,” Lester said, exhaling. His voice was so soft you had to strain to hear it, and that was a kind of trick, not so much an affectation as a device to make you pay attention.
    Verbie, who never shut up for long, said, “Yes it is.”
    â€œWe, uh—me and my amigos here—we heard all sorts of out of sight things about this place, like from the Diggers’ soup kitchen? You know, in the Fillmore?” Lester gave a quick glance around the porch, then handed the pipe to one of his amigos, and then it went around to all of them and back again up onto the porch, and it was exactly like two tribes meeting on the high plains, peace, brother, and circulate the pipe. “Is it really as cool as they say it is? Like all brothers are welcome?”
    The hippies on the porch fell all over themselves assuring him that that was the case, and everybody was thinking Hendrix, Buddy Miles, Free Huey, except Lester, because he just stretched out his legs and settled in.
    Now, though—now Ronnie was crashed by the pool, just taking the day off from everything and everybody, never mellower, the smallest little hit of mescaline wearing down the sharp edges of things. Reba’s kids—Che and Sunshine—were making a racket with one of those plastic trikes, humping it up and down the strip of concrete on the far side of the pool, and the communal horse—they called him Charley, Charley Horse, what else?—was stomping and snorting up a storm because some head from Daly City whose nameescaped Ronnie at the moment was trying to get him to jump a shrunken sun-blasted strip of oleander at the base of the lawn, but that was all right, that was nothing. Ronnie drank it all in, feeling magnanimous. He was Pan. He was stoned. The sun was in the sky and the earth was a good place, a groovy place, a place designed by some higher power— higher power—for the sensory awakening and spiritual uplift of every one of his brothers and sisters.

    Until nightfall, that is. The night came seething and festering up out of the shadows that bunched themselves in circus shapes at the feet of the trees and in the clotted scrub that chased the hillside round and round. He was feeling a little—well, a little jittery. There’d been an interlude there where he’d let things slide, a second hit of the mesc, a bottle of red wine and a couple of hits of something somebody had been smoking after dinner, and he hadn’t even made dinner, had he? Dinner. Big pots full of mush, women with their tits hanging, health and simplicity and the good rural life. The pool glistened like oil, like blood, in the fading light. He wasn’t hungry.
    He had a sudden urge to see Star, to just sit with her someplace quiet and talk about home, the little routines and reminiscences that had kept them going all the way across the flat shag of the Midwest and into the Rockies and beyond—Mr. Boscovich and tenth grade biology and how he would call everything material, as in these cells are constructed of cellular material, the way the books in the school library smelled of soap and burning leaves, the afternoon Robert Stellner, the straightest kid in the school, stuck his head in a bag of model airplane glue and carved the mysterious message Yahweh into his chest with a penknife while standing in front of the mirror in the boys’ room, all of that—but Star was up in the tree with the new guy all the time, and that rankled, it did, all the shit about Free Love and the Keristan Society notwithstanding. He pushed himself up off the pavement, but that was a bit much, so he sat back down again. The pavement was warm still, and that made him think of the rattlesnake somebodyhad seen out here just two nights ago. “They come for the warmth,” that’s how Norm had put