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poor corsage,” said Shannon, cupping what remained of the flowers bunched together on her wrist.
    “Oh well,” she said, looking up at me with a smile. “Thanks for a great time.”
    “It
was
a great time,” I said, trying to keep the surprise out of my voice. “I’ll call you, okay?”
    Shannon nodded, and as she leaned against the door, I leaned against her, topping off an evening of good kisses with one final tongue-intensive one.
    I could have stood there all night, melding into the warmth of her green-ruffled body, but then the porch light came on, and if that isn’t a signal to leave, I don’t know what is.
             
    “Did you have a good time?” asked my mother, who was curled up on the couch, reading.
    “Sure,” I said, sitting next to her. “Whatcha reading?”
    She held up the book so I could read the title.
    “
Jane Eyre
? Again?”
    My mother smiled. “I don’t know if you can ever read
Jane Eyre
too many times.”
    “I feel that way about
Mad
magazine.”
    She pushed some hair off my forehead with her fingers; she’d been trying to rearrange my hair since I was a kid. When I reflexively tossed my head back out of her reach, she took my hand instead. I didn’t pull it away. I don’t know of many guys who’d sit holding hands with their mother, or at least any that would admit it, but hey, it wasn’t as if there were cameras in the room. My mind was all over the place, flashing on Shannon and the way her pillowy breasts felt pressed against my chest; on getting high with Kristi and how dope smoke tastes so raw in your throat, like a wet weed burning; on the lyrics to Paul McCartney’s “Uncle Albert/Admiral Halsey” which was all over the radio; on wondering if he ever thought,
What am I doing in Wings, man? I used to be a
Beatle
!
; on wondering how much my paycheck from Haugland’s would be because of working overtime last Saturday.
    We sat on my aunt’s corduroy couch for a long time, both of us staring into the fireplace, and our clasped hands were like our little anchor, holding us down as we flew off with our own crazy thoughts.

Three

    A letter to the editor in the
Ole Bulletin,
November
17, 1971:
    I have seen rudeness and immaturity before in school assemblies (who can forget the less than welcoming response to “Up with People!”) but never to the extent that was exhibited during Officer Jeffrey O’Conner’s “Drugs Are Dumb” program.
    We are seniors in high school! Is there any need to interrupt an interesting, informative program with comments like “Do you know where I can score a nickel bag?” or “Hi—I wish I was”? Those hecklers thought they were pretty funny to disrupt, but their bravado was nowhere to be found when Mr. Brietmayer asked them to stand and identify themselves!
    Let’s not let some drug-infatuated hoodlums taint others’ perception of our wonderful school. To those hoodlums who are bent on disruption and, more so, on tainting the good name of our school, I repeat Officer O’Conner’s lecture title: Drugs are dumb! And you’re the evidence!
    Katherine Bleursten

    A letter to the editor in the
Ole Bulletin,
November
24, 1971:

    Regarding K. Bleursten’s rant in last week’s paper: who died and made her our parents? I for one did not find the narc’s program to be interesting or informative, but rather a dull and
un
informed lecture that in no way addressed the reality of marijuana use. When is our government going to see that on the list of societal problems, the occasional use of pot is not one of them? We all need a little something to lighten our load; when Officer O’Conner pushes aside his after-hours beer or rum and Coke, I’ll ash my after-hours joint. Until then, I’ll be lighting up if for nothing else than to help myself forget that in my generation there are people like Katherine Bleursten.
    For obvious reasons I remain,
    Anonymous

    Memo to: Floyd Lutz, advisor to the
Ole Bulletin
    From: Robert Brietmayer,