I can hear her voice still—piercing the milky sunlight with her nasal Chicago accent, perforating every amber-colored, late September daydream within miles that possesses the preposterous fortitude to stand up to her. And I feel the tiny hairs at the scruff of my neck stand tall with mock-petulance as I stall for time in my second-floor bedroom, all knotty pine and avocado shag rug. I can hear the urgency of her beckoning above the hum of my stoned, racing adolescent mind and the buzz of Billy Joel delivered from the aluminum speakers of a portable eight-track player. I stub out what"s left of a joint between my fingers and tuck it away between the mattress and bed frame as Long Island"s favorite son is having a heart attack-ack-ack-ack-ack-ack. Even as I avoid the window and fresh air, I
