After graduating from high school, the Kiwanis invited the seniors to a yacht club dinner as a reward for years of Key Club service. The food was passable, conversation with the red neck suits, surreal, and would have been unbearable if most of us weren’t stoned. After dinner, showing us around, I stood before life-sized oil portraits of the founders: my grand- father and great uncle, who never had a real job in his life. I debated sharing family lore of how they were bootlegging rum from Cuba and Canadian whiskey from up north. Business must have been good given Uncle Manny’s resume and our relative affluence during the depression. I thought: we were men now, in a smoke-filled room, sharing man talk, after a couple of three underage cocktails but decided some things are better left unsaid. In a few years, two of us would be busted for on campus drug sales, another would be a Green Beret and one guy dead. The rest of us would be draft dodging and heavily involved in perusing our college majors in substance abuse. It was the 60’s and we were hell-bent and crazy like everyone else. By the time Doug was 16 he was more junkyard dog than anything else. Spent half his time working the motor shop and the other half as lord of the landfill. Knew where all the stumble bums hid the good stuff like Mexican cigarettes you could get high from, naked women with men, white lightning tequila with the worm in the bottle. Said, “You weren’t a man if you didn’t eat the worm.” not that anyone had actually seen him do it. Still, he always had the goods people wanted. Those real fuck books, not the air- brushed commercial American bunny ears crap, the hard core stuff he’d sell you for a price. No one knew where in the hell he got them but I had a good idea. The musty odor was a dead give away, not that anyone cared about that, it was the pictures they wanted. Doug always sold out faster than he could steal them.