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It was the summer of '79. The only reason I know that is because Peaches and Herb were crooning, or crackling rather, out of the stock stereo in my Plymouth Volare. I was 21, and it wasn't bad for a first car. That was quite a summer. Dad had been sick for a few years by then, and Mom wanted me to be there to help her take care of him. I won't lie, I was too selfish for that. I suspected it was my last summer before accepting adulthood and all the responsibility that I dreaded came with it, and frankly, I just wanted to have fun. Not to say I didn't spend any time at home, although in hindsight of course I feel guilty. I was caught somewhere between high school and hell, and as long as I could I planned on clinging to the same idiotic crowd that gathered back in our hometown every summer.

Every night was a repeat of the night before: we'd all get together, get drunk, some people would hook up while the rest of us made poking comments, out of disgust or jealousy, I'm not sure which......then we'd either pass out, or drive home. Like I said, a bunch of idiots. I wouldn't have admitted it then, but it wasn't so much that it was fun as it was that it got me out of the house and away from the impending stench of death that lurked there. I wasn't sure who looked worse: my father, who was slowly fading away, or my mother, who knew it.

July crawled into August and I knew I had to make a choice: either find a place or go back to school. Either way, I had to get a job. Having thus far avoided the menial chore of waking each morning to put in ...

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