The end of the record is when everything goes haywire. Instruments dropping off into nothing, a circuit dialog gradually muted in the expanse of 90 seconds, then returning to claim the colorblind.
Earlier, the turning of a spigot on the side of the house. On again, off again.
I didn’t care as I inched my way forward to the edge of the stage, my vision reduced to a telescopic slowness, the diffused light and silver streamers parting before me, my arm shaking from the strain of single lens reflex. I remember it well enough to know I was mostly there, like that unseasonably warm February night after two drinks at the Lakeside Bar, when Aileen Quinn hooked her slender arm into mine as we walked past Thompson Park and I knew that her patent leather go-go boots would not stay on her feet much longer. It was that kind of night. The kind that would make her grandmother frown.
