Summer ended and they all went back to school. They watched the conventions and got rowdy at Sarah Palin, and Ray said, “What a cunt!” as David laughed and Iris shushed them and Leah gave Iris a silent high-five.

The economy crashed, but because everybody was getting humanities degrees, they had all significantly burnished their mental armour for avoiding post-grad life questions anyway. Besides, the job market in Portland had already been shitballs, so really, it was like the rest of the country was just catching up. Or something.

“Two hundred fucking resumés for a fucking pie store,” Iris reminded everyone of summer’s help wanted sign.

Leah belched from a Hamm’s. “It says a lot,” she observed, “that I work at a vintage toy store, and everyone wants my job. And I hate my job. And I’m grateful for my job. And I hate that I’m grateful for my job.”

“That’s just Portland, though!” said Ray.

“Yeah,” muttered David, “well, maybe everyone will stop fucking moving here now.”

“Nah, give it a few years. Eighty-second’s gonna be the new hipster hot spot.”

“Get that fag future out of your mouth!” said David.

“Language!” said Iris.

Jokes aside, Connie did call David once melting down (“I can’t sell the house! It’s just my income now! What if I get laid off!”), prompting even gentle, it’s-not-that-bad David to say with exasperation, “Jesus, Mom, you’re a doctor now and I work for the government. We’d have to hit or fuck someone to lose our jobs!” Connie thought that was funny.

David meant it, though. He barely ever needed money from her. He was in school and had a secure gig; he wouldn’t be a drain on her. And she did have career security. “We’ll be all right,” he stressed to her. They would, they would, they would.

David’s classes? They were fine. He got mediocre grades because he did not work very hard. Luckily, his classes weren’t very hard, either. This caused extreme consternation to Ray, whose lawyer parents were lone among their crowd for making clear a thing or two about grades. Ray’s classes? Well, he was only at home when his girlfriend was busy, or he was sick of the library. He’d straggle out of his room to zombie-drink a glass of water and David would besiege him for a round of Smash, but it was always only one round. As David understood it, Ray’s hell course was about railroads. Just railroads. In any case, it was kicking his ass. And Iris’s classes? Oh boy. She was snowed under too, would call David as he bused back from work, eschewing pronouns to make her point: “Please. Come save. Just want blanket, wine, cute boy, and cigarette.”

David didn’t mind all this. Growing up, he’d never wanted for alone time. And it’d been strange, in the wake of the carnival-like summer, to reunite with solitude and find it blissful. He returned to plodding into trivia nights, smoking peacefully over pasta dinners and weirdo beers. Once, in a rare manic jailbreak as the election heated up, Ray ditched studying and dragged David and Leah out to a debate watch at a brew pub, and David put on a purple dress and the three of them got hammered with a crowd booming, “DRINK!” every time McCain prefaced his thundering with “My friends!”