An Even Bigger Butterfly, Part 2.
I was the pride of the litter, I am certain. One older sister had recently graduated from Albertus Magnus, which thought it was Junior Ivy; the other was attending NYU, Columbia, and Quinnipiac almost simultaneously. I was about to enter my fourth semester as a freshman at Southern Connecticut State U., and to paraphrase Hank Williams, Jr., all my loser friends were coming over tonight.
I dressed in my finest t-shirt and jeans, and resplendent in my comic shop finery, sought out my loci.
A locus is, in technical definition, a place of concentrated activity. In my years of throwing parties, I learned that I could never catch everyone at home, work, school, or on a coke run to the loading docks by the New Haven Terminal. Patience and persistence are the keys to recruiting fellow ne'er-do-wells... but knowing where they go for coffee to hammer back last night's hangover doesn't hurt. This brought me downtown to the Daily Caffe, a place of much magic and the occasional chick who would talk to me (if only to get Steinmetz' number, which I gave out using the digits of his local newspaper, The Hour...I figured they'd heard of him.)
As I whirled back my black trench to enter the Caffe, I was ambushed by a deathly-pale blonde lightning strike.
Coffee is good, but Monica was even better.