The
only house where we ever drank ourselves under the table. David’s, with its
squeaky gate and diamond windows. Was it April, August? Nobody noticed.
Telephones plugged into walls. Ring for pizza. Fairport Convention and T-Rex
33and1/3rpm. So long, whole hours, since night before became morning after.
Adolescent high-nerved senses grew memories of autumnal streets, neater and
neater nature strips. Thud of indifferent football. Cool pool leaf floated on
aqua. Liquidambars fell in heaps, circles of yellow, Saturday sodden earth
smell. The dairy clanked, wineshop clinked. The week ahead was vague
insistences: Russian Revolution homework. Yes, literally, under the table.
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