June



It's hot, Jungle Hot, despite a pair of violent afternoon thunderstorms accompanied by a brief torrential downpour. And of course it's humid, of course, despite it being 9PM. That southern air. Those lightning bugs. Teenagers congregate everywhere. Around cars in the coffee house parking lot, atop platforms of playgrounds. Walking the suburbs, sitting on curbs, talking about pools and jobs and boys and girls and anything but school next year hey man it's still only June don't speak to me of any Septembers. The town's closing. 10PM. But where to take the rebellion? There's nowhere to go but Out. There's nowhere to get but Free. Pavement steams, broken by scattered trees. Oh what did you do before you could afford a nice dinner? Oh what did you do before you had your own place? It's gorgeous, so they walk. And the night symphony sings.



We used to be like that, a few years back. Before we locked ourselves up in air-conditioned boxes, alone, to text-strategize about when is comfortable to meet up with friends who dwell under a mere handful of miles away. Maybe three weeks from now, are you available then?



We roved.



...stumbling in giggling clumps through the woods by the light of cell phones, crafting inside jokes and dynamics and mini-rebellions that would inspire a dozen indie films, should any writer get wind of What Happened in Virginia. We turned parking lots into dance floors and papered houses into two-ply art installations. We quested for cases and six packs and pints and conjured bonfires from the rotting wood of abandoned houses. We spent four hours throwing pieces of brittle shingles at a rusty paint can just to see who was best.



And there was no one to call or text or Facebook because, in June, by 10PM, the whole world was right there.



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