WE SAT THERE ON EAST SEVENTH, HUDDLED IN THE GUTTERLIGHT OF A SLEEPLESS CITY, WONDERING WHERE THE HELL TO GO NEXT LIKE YOUNG PHILOSOPHERS STRANDED IN THE ABSURD. LOLA WAS PISSED—THE BOUNCER AT BLUE AND GOLD HAD DENIED HER ENTRY WITH A RIDICULOUSLY CONVOLUTED JUSTIFICATION ABOUT SCANNING IDENTIFICATIONS AND SENDING THEM TO THE DMV, SOME PARANOID, BUREAUCRATIC NONSENSE LADLED ONTO US LIKE SLOP FROM A RUSTED LADLE. AT FIRST, WE ASSUMED HE WAS LETTING US OFF EASY, A GENTLE REJECTION. BUT NO. HE HAD DECEIVED US. FLAT-OUT. UNEQUIVOCALLY. A PERPETRATOR OF FALSEHOODS. A CHARLATAN IN A VINTAGE BAND TEE. 

SO THERE WE REMAINED, MAROONED ON EAST SEVENTH, DRINKING THE LAST OF THE CURIOUS DRINKS LOLA HAD PROCURED—SACCHARINE, ALCOHOLIC CONCOCTIONS WARM IN OUR HANDS. THE AIR WAS BRINY, HEAVY WITH THE PERFUME OF WILTING FLOWERS. A MAN WITH A BRIGHT YELLOW SEX PISTOLS SHIRT TUCKED INTO HIS PRISTINE-CONDITION WORKERS PANTS RAN OVER TO THE CONVENIENCE STORE WE HAD PERCHED ACROSS FROM. BESIDE HIM, A WOMAN—DELICATE, RAVISHING IN A WAY THAT FELT UNTOUCHABLE. THEY STOOD OUTSIDE THE CORNER STORE—RITUALISTIC, CIGARETTES LIKE CANDLES, UNTIL THE MAN HANDED THE WOMAN HIS AMERICAN SPIRIT AND HEADED INSIDE. SHE HELD IT IN HER OTHER HAND AND ADMIRED IT LIKE IT WAS AN ENGAGEMENT RING. 

HE CAME OUT EMPTY-HANDED, MAYBE? WHO KNOWS. MYSTERY MAN. THEY DRIFTED BACK TOWARD BLUE AND GOLD, A SURREALIST PARADE OF TWO. LOLA’S EYES FLASHED—“THAT’S HIM,” SHE DECLARED. “THAT’S THE FUCKING BARTENDER.” I RAISED AN EYEBROW, DOUBTFUL, UNTIL SHE TOLD ME HOW HE MOCKED HER FOR USING TWO FINGERS TO SUMMON HIM AT THE BAR. THAT FELT PLAUSIBLE—NO, THAT FELT INCONTROVERTIBLE. EXACTLY THE KIND OF PITHY, SUPERIOR THING HE’D SAY TO AFFIRM HIS DOMINANCE IN A DIMLY LIT ROOM.

THEY PASSED US SLOW, LIKE SHIPS. IZZY FINISHED HER DRINK—A SICKLY, MISBEGOTTEN BEVERAGE. LOLA AND I LAUGHED AT MY PITIFULLY FLOPPY CIGARETTE, A SYMBOL OF SOME DIMINISHED MASCULINITY. I LIT A NEW ONE. AND THEN THE WOMAN—THE LUMINOUS, SNEERING WOMAN—GLANCED OUR WAY AND SAID, WITH NO SHORTAGE OF DERISION: “COLLEGE," LIKE IT WAS A SLUR. THE MAN LAUGHED.

WHAT DID THAT EVEN MEAN? WHY THAT WORD? WHY NOW?

AS IF TO BE IN COLLEGE WAS TO BE INFERIOR, RIDICULOUS. AS IF SHE HERSELF HAD NEVER CROSSED THAT PRECINCT OF YOUTH AND UNCERTAINTY. SHE COULDN’T HAVE BEEN MUCH OLDER THAN US. MID-TWENTIES, MAYBE. BUT THE WAY SHE SAID IT—LIKE A CURSE, A REBUKE, A DIAGNOSIS. YES. THIS IS COLLEGE. THIS IS THE ADOLESCENT INFERNO. THIS IS OUR PLATO’S CAVE, OUR CATHARSIS. TO MOCK IT IS TO MOCK THE ALCHEMY OF BECOMING. I'D RATHER BE IN COLLEGE THAN STANDING OUTSIDE PRETENDING I’VE GOT IT ALL FIGURED OUT. 

PEACE AND LOVE.