Lights

We decided to snuff out all of the Christmas lights, house by house. We couldn't imagine why no one had thought of it during our four years of high school. We had gotten baseball bats slick with pumpkin flesh, set bottle rockets sputtering into the branches of oak trees, but not until now had we thought to steal my father's wire cutters and pile into Daniel's car like dogs in a kennel, sweaty and flushed in our wool coats.

Let's go to Churchill, Daniel said after we drank the dregs of a jug of wine stolen off a countertop. Churchill was the best-lit street in the neighborhood, a collection of ranch houses and two-stories, all beige or redbrick. We agreed, tired of idling in the pharmacy parking lot, the smell of the car heater acrid as burnt hair. Daniel unwrapped a chicken leg from an oily paper towel, leftovers from his dinner table. Jason took the wire cutters and was clipping a hole at the knee of his jeans. I watched from the front seat, taking in his matted blond hair, now long enough to tuck behind his ears.

Daniel and I had spoken to one another during our first few months of college, occasional phone calls about nervy roommates and alcohol so cheap it was capped with a sieve, but we hadn't heard from Jason since August. Early on I sent him a postcard of one of my university's austere stone buildings, lit by an orange sun. On the back, in my most sincere cursive, I wrote, Dear Jason, what did you eat for breakfast? I had cornflakes, Best, Adam, knowing it would make him laugh, but never received a response. I wanted to ask him about it when he slid into the seat next to me, but didn't. Sometimes you look like my dog, he said to me once, after I'd stripped the rubber from a stray bicycle tire and held it up like a prize, like you're always waiting for me to pat you on the head.

I leaned toward Daniel, flipping up the neck of his sweater to see whether his grandmother was still sewing labels in his clothes. He grabbed at my wrist when I found the soft cotton edges, familiar as my fingernails.

________

We drove past the white light of the town liquor store, all of us shouting Alert today, alive tomorrow! as we sped by the narrow office building where we'd taken driver's ed. It was nearing midnight, and the entire town appeared to be asleep, curtains drawn and blinds closed. At college I did not tell stories of these late-night drives, knowing that others would find them juvenile, but I was happy to be home, to be here. Daniel was taking the long route, his large, freckled hands loose on the wheel. Soon, we turned down the road that snaked along the lake. I looked out across the placid blackness, always comforted by the smell and sound of water. I began to roll down my windows, but they both yelled at me for letting in cold air.

I really need to take a piss, Daniel said, drumming his fingernails against the dashboard.

You always need to take a piss, you're like an old man or a three-year-old boy, I can't decide, I said. Daniel was the second eldest of four brothers, always mottled with bruises and wrung dry. He was attending a state school, and had received a full scholarship thanks to his baseball swing.

Hold on to the wheel and I'll pee into this wine jug, Daniel said, pulling the jug from the mat by his feet. I pushed it back down, but Daniel held me off with his long arms, unzipping with one hand. I attempted to grab the jug from him, laughing, still numb from the wine. But then there was a swerve, one that brought the scene into focus. Before I could protest, Jason lunged forward and plucked the jug from Daniel's hand. He rolled down the window and...