“Don’t be a Portagee,” he said. “Those are the guys that just lost all their bread, dummy.”

That’s the way the old man was. Had decent intentions, I guess, but he always expressed them in a fucked-up way. I remember coming home from fifth grade with a so-so report card and the not-so-old man slapping me in the head and saying, “Okay, keep it up, Dildo. Next they’ll be sending you over to get killed in Vietnam. That’s right, kid. First they draft all the fucknuts who flunk out of school, and then they take the douchebags who bring home report cards like this. You want to get your head blowed off? Good, then keep it up. You’re well on your way.”

Before letting me out after the Shit Sandwich sermon, the old man informed me that my scholarship had been trimmed in accordance with the school’s recent cutbacks and, instead of my previous $500, I was going to have to cough up a grand. Attached to the form that outlined my payment plan was a letter pleading for more contributions to the Cornwall Academy Annual Fund.

Old C.A. was clearly wallowing in some rough financial straits. They were soliciting any kind of offering: memorial gifts, charitable gifts, trusts, stocks, property, anything. The school was even inaugurating a new program called the Cornwall Academy Friends of Austerity Fund. Morgan Brewster, the Annual Fund’s chairperson and author of the solicitation, was obviously shitting his pants. Several times in the letter he referred to a “threatening state of insolvency.” His closing sentence was, “The Academy can still have a prosperous and exciting future but your support is needed NOW!”

“Listen,” the old man said as I was leaving the house, “you only got to pay me thirty bucks but I do want that.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I appreciate it. Can I keep the bongos, too?”

“Get outta here, smart guy.”

At the Hilltop Cafe Mousy was sitting alone in a booth by the door. It was the first time I’d seen the guys since they’d driven down the Cape for Fourth of July weekend.

Mousy looked startled to see me. He seemed haggard, different.

“Would’ve been up here earlier but the load has been on my case,” I said.

“Huh.”

He stared out the window, silent. I tried to recall if I’d said anything over Fourth of July to piss him off. DeCenz and Tommy the Wire brought over a pitcher of ’Gansett and slid into the booth.

“You hear the news?” DeCenz said.

“No, what?”

I took a sip from Tommy’s glass.

“The Wire here is in love.”

“Oh, fuck you,” the Wire said, “I ain’t in love with nobody.”

“You sure?” DeCenz asked. “That’s not what she thinks.”

I couldn’t believe how different Mousy acted. He was slumped in his seat. Something out in the oil-stained parking lot had his attention.