Homer was thankful his family didn't have any Christmastime relatives from the East to entertain, unlike so many of his colleagues and friends. All they would do would be spend endless days cycling through the mountains that ringed their city, then lounge in the solarium licking ice cream cones, laughing, and enjoying each other's company as the sun went down.

December 19, 1969. The UCLA campus thronged with thousands of packed bodies celebrating, laughing, crying, panicking. As Homer scanned the crowd, he got a sample of almost every type of person at the university, from jittery freshmen to indifferent sophomores to lovesick juniors to worrying seniors (nobody cared about the grad students, as always). Humanity sat on the steps, blocked stone paths, filled the gaps between old Romanesque buildings and new Modernist ones. Every inch of open space was either occupied by a figure or a shadow of one. As he half-"excuse me"d, half-jostled his way through the crowd, his eyes and ears took in a little of all hundred thousand emotions, and felt them intermixing and uniting to shout from the rooftops and echo off the hills:

"It's the end! There's nothing to do for the rest of the year!"

Homer made his way to a massive concrete parking structure. Two wiry young men sat in front of the entrance, smoking marijuana. Homer walked around them and walked into the garage. As he pressed the button to summon the elevator, curiosity compelled him to look around at the men. He saw a big, burly police officer towering over them and averted his eyes from the probable consequences. Then his elevator arrived and he stepped in and pressed the third floor.

His elevator came to the third floor and he traversed rows and columns of parked colors, looking for a glimpse of wine red amongst the riot of color. He could not resist the temptation to head to the window. He could not tell if he was looking at a parade or a riot. Above a wavy sea of blond, black, and brown sailed many black-and-white signs with brief, simple messages: BRING THE BOYS HOME. END RACISM. WOMEN ARE PEOPLE. By the path he had taken to get to his car an aspiring musician had now set up shop on a high stool and was singing indistinct ballads and accompanying them on a guitar. And he saw two handcuffed men being pushed across the road in front of the multilevel garage by a policeman.

His eyes caught a sight of the familiar color and he quickened his pace. He saw a ray of sunshine lighting up the interior of his new 1969 Ford Falcon station wagon. He got out his wallet. He flipped past a hundred-dollar bill, his draft card, and his driver's license to find a car key. He opened his car door, buckled his seat belt, got the engine running, and shut the door. As he drove down the ramp to the second and then the first story, he hoped silently he would see a familiar license plate. No such luck.

The 405. People joke that it's called that because cars on there move "four or five" miles per hour, and they take "four or five" hours to get anywhere. It cuts through the contours of the dry Santa Monica Mountains like an adiabat through isotherms, and leads from the  Los Angeles Basin to the San Fernando Valley. On this particular Friday, the only route between the Valley and the Basin was congested bumper to bumper.

Traffic inched forward slowly. After about half an hour, Homer allowed himself a quick whoop of celebration as he felt the freeway had stopped ascending and started descending. The cars began to move faster. Homer imagined himself almost coasting now. Then, after one turn, the houses and buildings that overspread the bottom of the Valley revealed themselves before him. It would all be smooth sailing from then, he knew. Cars would start exiting and then they'd get going.

Absentmindedly he drove past Van Nuys, and exited at Northridge. He drove for about three miles more and stopped at Valley State College. A crowd of hundreds was gathered at the curb, heedless of a flyer posted on a streetlamp beside that announced:
"ADVISORY FROM THE NATIONAL COMMUNICABLE DISEASE CENTER
"Due to the SECOND WAVE of the INFLUENZA PANDEMIC, all persons are advised to AVOID CROWDING and WEAR FACE MASKS.
"LOS ANGELES OFFICE, DECEMBER 1, 1969."

Homer searched the crowd as he slowed down. He saw a few strands of blonde hair being blown up in the air by wind. When their owner turned around to tie it into a bun, he got in a good long look at her. It was his sister, Claire.

Homer honked. She ran with the boy in her arms to the car, and opened the door, after blowing her admirer a kiss.

"Let's go," she beckoned, "do you have 'Fly Me to the Moon'?"

"In the glove compartment," Homer pointed, "let's hear it."

She opened the glove compartment and found a collection of over fifty tapes. She threw her hands into it, and found it after half a minute of searching. She loaded it into the 8-Track tape player.

Kaye Ballard's voice went with them as they got onto the 118 freeway. As they passed Chatsworth and crossed Santa Susana Pass, it began to get dark, and Homer turned on the headlights. "Leaving Los Angeles County" proclaimed a sign.

"Goodbye," joked Claire, "you won't be missed."

Simi Valley was not as dense, and the effect upon entering it therefore not as dramatic, as the San Fernando Valley. The freeway took them past the dry, treeless earth. And Ontario Tall Walls separated the freeway from the idyllic facades of those who lived behind them.

"This Christmas will be special," vowed Claire.

"Huh?"

"This one will be the best of all. We'll have so much fun. And you and I will be in charge of planning it. We'll go off cycling in the Santa Susana Mountains. And we'll take long walks on the beach at Oxnard. We'll eat so much ice cream - we'll each get one of these paint bucket sized pots and work on 'em all vacation. And we'll--oh, I can't imagine!"

After about ten miles Simi Valley was behind them. They then turned off to the campus of the brand-new Moorpark College, backed up precariously against the scrubby mountains behind it, now only darker outlines against Earth's shadow. They saw Claire's twin brother, Clement, sitting, despondent, on the unlit curb. They stopped. "What's the matter, Clem?" Claire stepped off the car and helped him up.

Clement threw two letters in the back.

Claire unbuckled her seat belt and opened them. She read, slowly, her eyes widening with every paragraph.

"THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES
To
CLEMENT RICHARD CARLSON
Simi Valley, Calif.
GREETING:
You are hereby ordered for induction into the Armed Forces of the United States, and to report at the Federal Building, 11000 Wilshire Boulevard, Los Angeles, CA 90024 on 6 January 1970 at 6:00 AM PST for forwarding to an Armed Forces Induction Station.

"...Bring enough clean clothes for 3 days. Bring enough money to last 1 month for personal purchases.

"This Local Board will furnish transportation, and meals and lodging when necessary, from the place of reporting to the induction station where you will be examined. If found qualified, you will be inducted into the Armed Forces. If found not qualified, return transportation and meals and lodging when necessary, will be furnished to the place of reporting.

"You may be found not qualified for induction. Keep this in mind in arranging your affairs, to prevent any undue hardship if you are not inducted. If employed...

"Willful failure to report at the place and hour of the day named in this Order subjects the violator to fine and imprisonment..."