And afterward one day, I'm not keen on bicycles any longer, not even the crazy bone-juddering slalom down Gun Hill. Rather I lie in an obscured room tuning in again and again to The Stones' Let It Bleed, attempting to comprehend verses that guarantee a totally different sort of rush. That is the genuine distinction between Alonzo and me, the music. While he actually chirrups along to pop tunes on the radio, I'm captivated by Their Satanic Majesties. Expecting fellowship as a natural side effect, I have taped a shading banner to my room divider, showing the band in eyeliner and candy-hued glossy silk shirts, hands folded over one another's heads and necks, and shoulders.
My mom is frightened.
They look like poofs, she says. They resemble a lot of junkies.
Covertly excited, I say nothing:
