Mousy Town told him he might as well—hurt himself—because we were facing an early death in the coming nuclear holocaust anyway. Most of the Suicide Hillers bought this. There were so many signs. The bear and the eagle, the Nicaraguan earthquake, all the volcanoes everywhere. Wars, famine, the Middle East. Mousy said that the nostalgia revival was merely mankind’s life flashing before its eyes. And, the kicker—Haley’s Comet was coming back around. He could practically hear the fuse fizzling in the distance. Which I believe now, seeing as Mousy would die so young.

Drugs Delaney disagreed. We were doomed all right, but it was because earth was going to collide with a mammoth meteorite sometime in early 1978. His cousin had received this hot tip from one of his teachers at “Reject”—that’s how everyone pronounced R.I.J.C.—which stood for Rhode Island Junior College. “They ain’t telling us though,” Drugs said, “’cause if everyone knew then what would stop guys from grabbing every girl’s tit that they passed on the street?”

The old man and Caveech hated Mousy’s guts. They called him “Spinach Chin” because of his beard. Caveech said, “All guys with fuzzy pusses are closet queens. That’s why they grow it. They’re afraid they look too much like broads.”

“What about Abe Lincoln?” I said.

“As queer as they come,” Caveech said.

Nunzio Cavichhi had been the old man’s paisan since they were child hoods. Caveech was as loud, definitely as bigoted, equally irked about life, but far more blubbery. At five foot eight he jolted the scales at 400 pounds, although he claimed he was only flirting with “three and a half yards.” Caveech was bald and his face slick and shiny. Deep folds around his mouth gave his jaw a puppety look. I never knew exactly what he did for a living, but he always did it in a three-piece suit. There was such a strain on his vest buttons that I figured they were sewn on with fishing line.

I didn’t try to defend Mousy from Caveech and the old man. I knew they were just pissed off that I was spending all my time on Suicide. Practically every night I got drunk at the Hilltop Cafe (fifteen cents a draught) and then I climbed a water tower. The drinking age in Rhody was eighteen, but it wasn’t strictly enforced in Pawtucket and pubic monsters like DeCenz and Mousy had been getting served since they were thirteen. The 240-foot-high cylindrical water tower on Suicide jutted skyward like a buoy in a sea of lights. Late at night we climbed it and peaked over the murk.