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.