On the Fridays when the night lights illuminated the field at the private high school, Roommate and I ordered in and opened a bottle of wine. We turned down the lights, lit some candles, and turned the music up just enough to know what was playing.
The Concordia house was just outside the school zone boundaries, two blocks from stadium corner. Two-way streets were squeezed to narrow lanes for all the cars—the fans, the friends, players’ families and their friends. Doors slammed. Stereos blared. Horns honked. People screamed and crowds cheered.
The school was an exclusive college preparatory. There was money to spare, and the boys with too much of it gathered on the railroad-tie retaining wall at the dead-end of the street, just inside the shadow of the street light. Right outside my living room windows. Right outside higher fines for drugs and alcohol.
They popped their cans of Miller High Life and rolled their spliffs. They puffed and passed, talked big about fucking cheerleaders, when really they only got to second base. Roommate and I sat on the couch with the windows cracked just enough, puffing and passing our own.
Every once in a while a late arrival exercised the patience of driving five miles per hour searching for a parking spot that didn’t require a small fortune and a shuttle bus. The small crowd of deviants hushed, still as statues, and waited for the headlights to veer off away from the dead-end. They laughed. Roommate and I laughed with them. They thought they hadn’t been caught.
Roommate and I would look at each other, candle shadows dancing on the walls, music accompanying the mood, appetites satisfied on delicious local fare, or the occasional pizza, and we’d wrap our hands through the handles and throw open the windows and yell, “Hey! What do you think you’re doing?”
Boys dumped and dashed and we went outside to collect our takings—always beer, usually pot, and once mushrooms—and laughed til we pee’d in our own bushes.