Thanksgiving Eve

"Hey, let's find some 21-year-old *****."

"No," said Ryan M*****, "they're all fat."

"No," I said, "I want a good story. My friends in New York are *******."

"That'll be $1.75 for your gallon of beer," said our waitress.

"Your pitching arm is beautiful," I say. "That can't be accurate."'

"You know the owners."

"I will leave you $10 in tip because you are 21 and beautiful."

Tag Team back again. AC/DC earns royalties.

We see Wendy E******. "Is that Drew W********?"

Yes. Cocaine and powerlines, that was the story. It's like a Denis Johnson story without violence or heartache. M*** B***** has called us all. Jason owns a house in East Town, paid for less than the Thai food I ordered on Tuesday. Where I'm from, a gallon of beer costs a nickel and you can by a mansion for $10. Find 21-year-old *****? B** is unamused.

Kelly ******* shrieks at me. She will move to Portland. Ken Kesey spent some of his best years in Oregon.

"It's all done," I say. "[Redacted] is the worst thing to wish on anyone. It's hell on earth."

Tag Team, back again. Montell Jordan.

"Ryan M*****, Jason, you are all puss****." I drink down. Is that even my beer? It's unclear. Raspberry beret? Pregnancy. There's Wendy! Talking to Drew W********. I am a gentleman.

"Where do you live?"

"Central Park is far. Thompkins Square Park dog run."

"Wha?'

"Thompkins Square Park dog run."

"Wha? Hey, I knew your sister."

"She's a nice girl," I say.

On the way out I run into a kid. He goes to Michigan for undergrad. He yells when he sees my shirt. We briefly discuss college. I shout Ralph Williams's name. The kid gets excited, too. This will be my top moment all month.

J*** B******** doesn't want to listen to me, but when I was seventeen, he was the man. I'm drunk and it's late. I have a Miller Lite flashing necklace. Tomorrow, I'll give it to my eight-year-old cousin, right before I throw him.