Sloan was plucked for membership. He turned into a strawberry sorbet from Eugene, Oregon spilled along the dugout. More of them were chucked down here and there as the sun began to rattle our piss buckets.

I tilted my head back at him with a grin. Stale cigarette hangin’ off my lip, like I drew the winning cards to have Eunice slip off her brassiere and have her shake her tits in the barn.

I never felt lucky. Neither did I feel so unlucky; flipping burgers, and mopping floors at Gigi’s. How easy it was back then to avoid the wanting of the living.