We walked over to where Dan and I had perched in 1966. Eddie and I sat down on the stone bench. Eddie pulled off his backpack and reached inside. He produced two bottles of Rogue Dead Guy and a fancy Italian-made corkscrew and bottle opener.
“Eddie, I told you that I drank Coors on that night,” I reminded my pal.
“I’m sure any good beer will be fine. Don’t you think that Dead Guy is appropriate this evening?”
“Bring any chicken?” I asked.
“How about my signature barbeque chicken? If your alien angels are attracted to chicken and beer, we’ll have a gaggle here in minutes,” Eddie promised, as he passed me a breast.
The sky had no clouds that evening. The sun had set without fanfare. Nothing dramatic occurred as the sky turned black. Though it was painful for me, Eddie and I munched on o
