TGSNT, Part 2.
Jen's house was an old Colonial with a big front porch, a sizable front lawn, and no driveway to speak of, all nestled into the shadow of West Rock. There was a party there nearly every day during that spring, and the attendance at each was considerable. As such, everyone parked on the lawn (how or if she got her security deposit back is anybody's guess; I'd wager there was kismet involved, as there always is with Jen). I slid out of the Olds like the suave cat that I am and approached the front porch. There was a small flock of bar hens there, including Jen and her friend D. D was drinking from a 2-liter bottle of MD2020 (which, until that year, had been known as Mad Dog 2020 for awfully good reason), and it was obvious that she was en route to permanent cellular damage. I dropped off my beer in Jen's fridge and scampered back to the porch. By this point, D's lunch was back to visit, and she was holding court by the far porch rail. As a sensitive modern guy, I am often found holding the gastrically-challenged's hair out of the carnage...and this was no different. Fortunately, she had really good hair (thinner hair will pull out, often leaving the already-beleaguered chunderer looking like a cancer patient) and strong shoulders (I once had a girl dislocate a shoulder while straining against mine in mid-void...you never forget that "pop" sound, or feeling, ever.) She was a pretty girl, too, despite her peristaltic difficulties.
In what seemed like an eternity, she finished purging the malt-beverage/motor oil from her system. Already spent, she decided (wisely, we all agreed) that this was a good time to brush her teeth and go to bed. Ever the gentleman, I could not demur when she asked me to keep her company.
It was hardly past sundown, but when you hide in the cowl of a mountain, it gets dark fast.