I’ve got about ten minutes to rethink our plan, which of course I’m not doing because I’m thinking what a cool trick this is, how it’ll make me famous in the high school and, who knows, beyond, it’ll get a rise out of Mike and maybe make me a celebrity, like on Allen Funt, get me a spot on the Battle of the Network Stars or something, like that’s the kind of famous I’d be, and that yeah, I’d like to touch a boob too this year, I’m due, I’m a nice guy and all, and I bet those actors on The Network Stars touch boobs all the time—Farrah Fawcett’s, Suzanne Somer’s, it’s like a boob buffet when you’re celebrity. Like Chachi.
They’re like wild dogs, she’ll explain. Don’t escalate the tension. Avoid eye contact and hurry past–which is what she’s doing when baseball cap says, “what, you don’t even say hi, bitch,” and I feel my shoulders tighten and a cold wave moves from my back to my scalp, and I stop and look at him. See, I’m not from the city. I grew up in Bigelow, Minnesota. Population 231.
Adventure, Larry thinks. That’s what he lacks. It was mostly a matter of bad luck, or bad timing, that he missed out on all the great events, even of his own time—he was too young for Vietnam, too old for the invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq.