2002-11-17 - 1:49 p.m.

here's me, circa June 1998:

After another half-hearted kick into the woodpile, I didn�t chase after the ball. I called out to the dog, as if she could understand me, �All right, Molly, that�s it. No more soccer for you.� I went over and scooped her up, patting her little body as I carried her inside. I could feel her chest heaving under my arm.

Molly spilled out of my hands and wandered off to the living room. I just stood there. I couldn�t think quite what to do. I went over to fridge and opened it up. The same milk, the same old pot roast that had been there since Saturday. The week was passing slowly. Finally I dragged the Coke bottle out of the back.

I got out a cup and started to fill it up. Then I decided I needed something more than this. I went to get some rum. I�d resisted the alcohol cabinet up until now, the familiar old family cabinet with the mysterious bottles that never got opened. Now I reached in, past the Cr�me de Menthe and the round blue bottle that looked like a giant jewel, until I found some rum. I took it to the kitchen to top off the cup.

I smacked the concoction against my lips; I could already imagine feeling a little different. Then I took the rum and put it back into the closet, exactly where it had been so they�d never tell.

It seemed so silly, feeling like I was sneaking a drink. I took it around to the back door. The dog was already curled up on the couch. Then I went outside, into my wooded Long Island back yard, a little patch of land surrounded by other patches of land, everything in its place, and sat on the concrete step.

I tried to enjoy myself as I sipped my drink. I tried not to look too much at the old swingset or the broken down sandbox, or the familiar clothesline and woodpile. Instead I tried to look up at these trees that hung over it all, trees that could be from anywhere and anytime, not just here and now. Then I gave up and looked back at this house that was all mine until they got back Sunday, and told myself, this is the life. Or at least, this is okay, this is what is supposed to happen, some day soon you will get a job and your life will be ready to begin, and you will escape from this agonizing record-skip.

I took another sip. It was nice to be able to have a drink. Soon, I thought, I will have alcohol of my own. I will come home from work at one of these jobs, out in California or Florida or someplace, and I will pour myself a drink. Just me having a drink, alone in my kitchen if I wanted, because it would be my kitchen. And be able to have as much as I wanted, and do whatever I wanted.

It was only a moment before the moment had passed and I had stared into the backyard too long. As I went in, I gulped the rest of my drink and set it on the counter. Not that I couldn�t do whatever I wanted between now and Sunday, I thought. Only somehow, it just wasn�t the same.

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