We partied mostly for the simple pleasure of partying. There were pretences; there always are. But when I retreated to the relative seclusion of Harry's kitchen to hit up the rum bottle, I wasn't thinking of Lebanon. I wasn't thinking of Lebanon or Emil Jackson or any of that crap.
Harry's kitchen in Bethlehem was a familiar place; I've ended up there more times than I expected to, curled up on the floor, staring sideways at the fridge magnets that spout mysterious philosophies at me, hoping his parents weren't going to get home. Years after all that crap, with us cast in the role of responsible intellectuals, I didn't have to worry about his parents getting home. Had they shown up, they would've surely downed a shot with me and welcomed Harry home with open arms. They might've disapproved of Emil Jackson and the whole Baby Woodrose debauchery that was occurring in the basement, but that was beside the point.
When I walked back into the room Harry was sitting in, that bastard was......
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