Call it. D's holding the radio and looking to me for a pick on what song comes next. Certain bands are cop-outs. The Beatles, the Temptations, Gordon Lightfoot. So I go with a dark horse, Tom Jones' "She's a lady". I'd come to regret it by 1:00 but at the time, it seemed like a good idea. The rules are simple, your song or band comes on and you get that three and a half minutes to bask in your telekenetic glory. Then you pick another and the game goes on. If "Cherokee People" plays we all win. It's science.
It's 5:30 now and people are shuffling into the restaraunt in their Friday best. Graduation weekend means a ton of covers and an equal amount of stress. But here I am sitting around the house reading the village voice and waiting for the phone to ring. "WHERE ARE THE OTHER PEANUT BUTTER BOMBES!?!" "WE'RE OUT OF SUGAR HALOS!" "THE KITCHEN IS ON FIRE AND IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT. OH GOD, THE CUSTOMERS ARE ALL DEAD. THERE ARE JUST SO MANY BODIES." But so far it's just Tom Waits that I hear, the early years, and maybe once in a while Aaron typing in the next room. I have no control, only hope. Hope, silence, and Poncho's Lament.
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