I peered under the table and then walked over to a closet door. I grabbed the glass doorknob and glanced suspiciously at Dave. Then I swung it open and scowled as if expecting to find Mort and Fundy crouched amongst his rugby equipment.

When I sat back down, Dave raised his beer and toasted to June 7th (Graduation Day). After five minutes of small talk, he asked me why I’d been pulling consistent As in his class when I was barely passing the rest of my courses. “Come on, Dunph,” he laughed, “you’re making me look bad.”

I felt embarrassed and shrugged. “Luck?”

“No way,” he said. He pulled out my last test paper and circled a thirty-step problem that I’d aced.

“I could’ve used cheat notes.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No.”

Dave watched me swig my beer. “Well?”

“I’m sorry, Dave, I’ll make it a point to flunk the next couple of tests.”

I gulped down the rest of my beer and stood to leave.

“Sit,” he said. “I’ll get you a refill.”

When he returned from the kitchen, I was still standing. He handed me another Miller.

“Would you please sit down and relax?” he said. “You’re making me nervous.”

I sat down wondering if he really had something important to say or if he just wanted a drinking buddy.

“Mr. Cole tells me that you don’t intend on going to college next year. Is that true?”

“Partially. Actually, I don’t intend on going to college any year.”

Dave seemed disturbed by that. He took butts from his top pocket, shook two or three halfway out and held the pack out to me. “You smoke?”

“Nope,” I said, accepting one, “but I’m trying to start.”

“You mind if I ask you a few questions?”

“Go ahead.”

He paused. “Do you really know yourself?”

“What do you mean ‘do I know myself’?”

“I just want you to be sure that you know what you’re doing. At least consider college as an option.”

“Listen, Dave, I’m not a moron.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“Well, trust me, college ain’t for me. And I’m not going to end up any worse off on account of missing it. I read a lot. I just don’t read the shit that I’m supposed to.”

“What do you read?”

“You know, the Times. The Providence Journal before I came here. And since I don’t like what I been reading, I don’t plan on participating. It’s not that I’m a radical, Dave, in fact, I’m just the opposite. I’m an ananarchist, an old-fashionist, whatever you want to call it. Let’s face it, it’s a strange, fucked-up world—I like normalcy. And please don’t give me the ‘one man can make a difference’ speech because he can’t and this ain’t the sixties.”