where to start, and felt generally humiliated by my crumbling marriage, which they only knew about vaguely—mostly that it was something I didn’t want to talk about. . . Then Mark bent his head down toward Kara’s giggling, and I took that as my cue. I stumbled off to the bathroom, music thumping in my back teeth, and stepped up to a grimy urinal. I heard a stall door whip open, and then I was jolted by a sudden hand on my shoulder, which turned my pissing into an entirely conscious act. “Mike.” “Ah, hey Randy.” “How’s it hanging?” “Dude.” He was standing so close. I guess we were about to have a regular conversation. “You know, my brother took off on us in ’69. Didn’t even say goodbye. I guess he stole some canoe in Detroit, paddled his ass over. Next thing, we got a postcard from Canada—cartoon beaver smiling and waving on top of a pile of sticks—and just ‘From: Johnny’ with a smiley face in the ‘O’. Fuckin’ hippy.” I wasn’t sure why he was telling me this. Then I heard this loud unzip, and Randy stepped up to the urinal next to me. So I guess I have no idea what he’s been doing in here this whole time. He whistled for a second and then asked me: “So you buggin’ out?” “What?” “You heading North? You know something I don’t?”
Oxford Magazine
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