Anyway, Gavin and I are at a party at one of the mansions, in the side yard, sitting up high on the crossbar of a swing set. We are beer-less and broke. Heâs got a black eye, a quick jab from his old man earlier. Heâs been telling me about the marathon. How at this point, near where we were sitting, on the other side of the hedge in â72, the pack had caught his dad. He finished as the fifth American and missed qualifying for Munich.â
I look up. Sheâs still awakeâinvolved even.
â
âHeartbreak Hill. Oh, well.â
He kind of sings it with a quavering voice. He wipes his nose with his hand. His right pupil is red with hemorrhaged blood. His sinus looks swollen. Inside the big house our classmates are talking about their college choices. Some are celebrating; others have already begun the process of burnishing the reputation of their safety school. My ex-girlfriend Sally is inside as well. I can see her.â
âShe white?â
âYeah. I can see her in the windowâmoon face, freckles, and blue pie-eyesâa concoction of German Berger and hardscrabble Irish. I can see her, the sensible part of her acquiescing to the momentâs demands. Gavin points at her.
âThatâs your true love. Hah.â
He elbows me.
âIâm kidding, man. Iâd love her, too.â
Gavin always wore an old corduroy coat as his top layer. He opens it, reaches into the torn lining and produces two tall boys. Heâs like,
âAfter a hard dayâs work.â
He hands me a can. I give him a cigarette. Heâs like,
âSymbiosis. Good show.â
So we open the beers and toast.
âTo oblivion.â
âGodspeed.â
âWe hear someone on the back porch.
âQuick,â
he says.
âNo evidence.â
We chug the beers and throw the empty cans into the bushes. Two girls we donât know walk toward us. They stop, confer with each other, then continue. Theyâre cute, but they look awkward, ridiculous, you know, like girls who havenât had sex trying to be sexy in front ofboys who refuse to recognize their libidos. I light our cigarettes. Theyâre there under us.
âHey,â
says one.
âDo you have anymore?â
So I toss the pack down and the lighter. âI thought you guys were athletes,â says the other. And sheâs really pretty, you know, like some wood nymph. But sheâs got a whiny voice and she watches her friend light up with all her teen disdain. I take a deep drag and exhale a thick formless cloud.â
âHow do they know?â
âHow do they know what?â
âWho you are.â
âEverybody knew who we were.â
Sheâs stunned by the perceived arrogance.
âItâs not like that,â I say. âWe were pretty good athletes. We did pretty well in school. You know, the poor kids usually mowed the rich kidsâ lawns. It wasnât that we were popular. We just stood out in groups like that.â
She laughs. She seems to have only one, but it serves as many. Itâs context dependent, but she wonât give the context. I canât tell if the laugh is born of amusement, irony, condescension. Itâs a yip-laugh, a hyena laughâbut cut short. I look up. The blues-boy is leading a mule down a dusty road. He approaches a chain gang.
âThen what?â She beckons with both hands.
âSo the smoker crosses her arms and holds the cigarette poised for another drag between her rigid index and middle fingers.
âYou know,â
says Gavin, pointing over the hedges into the street,
âmy dad ran this marathon smoking two packs a day.â
ââYeah,â
whines whiny in a sanctimonious tone,
âbut did he finish?â
They snicker at him. Girls were always snickering at him after he said something.â
âOh, they probably loved you. And you probably loved it.â
âNo. No, we didnât. We were just having some drinks and
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