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288 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1993


Lyla watched me think things over. When I looked up, she was looking into my eyes, and her mouth was open, just a little. I felt something happen between us, but I moved on.
….
After that we sat without speaking. Her homemade tape was playing Richard Thompson’s Gypsy Love Songs. The time went by like that, and the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. I liked her looks, and her honesty, and her intelligence. I liked everything about her.
The details of those years are unimportant and certainly not unusual. Billy had a ’69 Camaro (the last year that car made any difference) with a 327 under the hood and Hi-Jackers in the rear. There was a Pioneer eight-track mounted under the AM radio and two Superthruster speakers on the rear panel. On weekend nights we drank Schlitz from cans and raced that car up and down University Boulevard and Colesville Road, trolling for girls and parties. On the nights when we got too drunk the cops would pull us over and, in those days, simply tell us to get on home. Our friends enacted roughly the same ritual, and amazingly none of us died.
I closed my eyes and felt the bourbon numb my lips and gums and the back of my throat. I waited for the warmth to fill my chest and followed it with a deep pull of beer. The beer was cold and good, and a chip of ice slid down the neck and touched my hand as I drank.
…
I shook a cigarette out of Boyle’s pack. Boyle produced a Zippo from his jacket pocket and thumbed open its lid. I leaned toward the flame, hit it, and took a drag that burned deeply into my chest. My smoke found his and drifted up through the misty cones of light that opened out from the lamps above.