Susan and
Stephanie and I had forged a kind of instant
summer-camp bond - you know, it either fades or disappears entirely. It's probably
more important in
memory than fact.
We had wandered off the campus of the
tiny liberal-arts college where the conference was being held to
Albertson's, I think to buy
Pepsi and
peanut butter and
string cheese and
French bread, but it's been too long now to say for sure.
Two blocks away there was a
rodeo going on.
We crossed to the parking lot of the
dollar store. A
little red pickup came to a dead halt at the
stop sign just a few feet away from where we stood with our
grocery bags.
There was a
fat guy with a shaved head, probably 15 years our senior, riding in the bed of said
pickup. He yelled:
"Oh my God, my __________ itches."
A debate ensued, as Stephanie
distinctly heard him say,
"
My buttcrack itches," and Susan believed she heard,
"
My nustsack itches."
I hadn't been paying enough attention to
cast a vote, because I didn't realize he was
talking to us until
after he had gone.
It was more important in retrospect, which is why I still remember
what I was wearing that day: a
pink-and blue plaid skirt, which frequently incites the
Catholic schoolgirl symptom in certain
middle-aged men, a navy blue
V-neck tee, and little blue
slouch socks to match. I remember the way our three
shadows stretched and merged on the pavement ahead of us. I remember the heat, which was unbearable. I remember the smell of cowshit which was the city's
trademark.