Chapter 31: In Which Clarence, Stoney and I Demonstrate that the Amount of

Entropy in a Closed System Increases Over Time

The following week Mrs. W. and some of her friends had signed up to play in a
duplicate bridge tournament at Callaway Gardens down in Georgia and Clarence’s mom
still hadn’t returned to town so Stoney and I were slated to take care of him for the
weekend. Mrs. W. was a little worried that we’d do something stupid while she was gone
but she had a hard time articulating what that might be. She wouldn’t admit it but it
sometimes seemed as though she harbored suspicions that all men were capable of
turning into idiots on short notice so leaving Stoney and me in charge of Clarence might
lead to trouble.

She left at about two that afternoon, a Friday. She left some problems for us on
the blackboard, and looking at them right before she left I figured we’d need to
collaborate extensively to work through them. She said her farewells with a vague look
of concern and had just somewhat hesitantly closed the front door behind her, but then
just a few seconds later she re-opened it and looked back in.

“Stoney. I forgot to tell you,” she said. “I ran into my neighbor Weezie Long
yesterday. I was getting the mail while she was walking her dog Rocky. She said those
girls you met have gone back to Colquitt.”

“Nadia and Kiki?” he asked.

“That’s it. She said Nadia turns sixteen next week and wanted to be home to take
her driver’s license test on her birthday. Thought I’d let you know. Bye!” she waved.

“Bummer,” Stoney said, after a pause.

“Sixteen,” I said.

“I heard. I prefer to believe that there’s been some kind of mistake,” he said.

“There has been,” I said.

“I mean some other kind of mistake,” he said.

“Which other kind of mistake?” I asked.

“Any other kind of mistake,” he said.

“What other kind of mistake could there be?” I asked.

“Can we change the subject?” he asked.

“Some kind of non-criminal mistake?” I asked.

 “So Clarence, what do you want me to cook for dinner? Your call,” he said.

“Why do we always have to cook?” asked Clarence.

“Because cooking is part of life,” said Stoney. Clarence looked at me.

“Stoney likes to cook and we like to eat. Ask him what the word ‘statutory’
means,” I said.

“Can we go to McDonald’s?” asked Clarence

“No,” said Stoney.

“Why not?” asked Clarence.

“There are usually lots of underage girls there, Stoney,” I said. “Your kind of
scene.”

“Because McDonald’s is evil,” Stoney said, ignoring me.

“Evil how?” asked Clarence.

“Like the Yankees are evil,” Stoney said. “Just because something draws large
crowds and everybody knows their names doesn’t diminish their evilness.”

“Can we go pick up a take-out pizza?’ asked Clarence.

“Impossible,” said Stoney.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because we have no beer,” he said, matter-of-factly.

“We could go to the store to get some beer,” suggested Clarence.

“Wow,” said Stoney, slapping his forehead. “The simple elegance of your logic
has won me over. Let me enhance your paradigm-shifting idea with another: since we’re
going out to get Lowenbrau anyway, and Henry will insist on driving even though I’m
completely sober, we could also pick up tomato sauce and pepperoni and mushrooms and
anchovies and make our own pizza. A good coping skill for a young man on the
threshold of life.”

“Can’t we just go pick it up at Pizza Hut?” he asked.

“Girls love a man who can cook,” Stoney said.

 “If we’re going to Pizza Hut, let’s eat it there,” I said. “If we carry it home from
the one on Hixson Pike it’ll be cold by the time we get back. Besides, there might be a
high school freshman who captures your interest. High school girls love that place.”

“Okay. Pizza Hut sounds good,” Stoney said. “Little buddy, we now have a plan
for dinner so my heart is at rest but it’s too early to eat so why don’t you show me the
plants you know in your aunt’s garden?” This surprised me. I’d assumed Stoney and I
were about to start working on the problems Mrs. W. had left on the blackboard. She was
gone, but it was still a school day.

“It’s hot as Hell out there,” I said. “Since when are you interested in botany?”

“My buddy here noticed an odd plant or two in the garden,” he said. “I just asked
him to show them to me.”

“Suit yourself,” I said. They left. I started looking over the first of the problems
Mrs. W. had left us. It, and the others, were all more multi-variable deals. I began to
piece together an approach to the first one, then the second, and the fact that I could do so
by myself felt a little odd. A few weeks ago Stoney had known lots more pure math than
me but by this point I might have caught up. Maybe. But I’d been used to being part of a
problem-solving team, and it was oddly exhilarating to be thinking through something on
my own. It was like a mini-return to my pool hustling days. Then it was just me and the
cue against the cosmos. Now it was just me and the pencil against Math. I got most of
the areas mapped out in my head on the first one, and the first several problems were so
similar that mapping one was figuring out how to map them all, but then I got to
scribbling down the values so fast I broke the point on my pencil. I looked around but
there were no other pencils so I got up to sharpen mine at the sharpener in the hall closet.
On the way I passed a window with a view of the garden and was surprised to see Stoney,
barefooted, clad in white bell-bottomed Levis, his aviator shades, and a red I-Zod1 shirt,
and Clarence, clad in short cut-offs, a striped tee shirt and his Braves cap, both jumping
up and down, or maybe dancing, depending how flexible your definition of “dancing” is,
not quite rhythmically but not randomly. They made occasional erratic vocal expressions
that conveyed no information whatsoever.

Maybe they were dancing in a circle in the garden. Maybe not. There was a low
plant with white flowers at what appeared to be the center point of their circle. After
about a minute of semi-leaping, Stoney paused in his leaping, or dancing, whichever it
was, panting, and lit a cigarette. Clarence stopped at the same time. They looked at each
other as though they weren’t sure what was supposed to happen next, then shrugged and
1
In 1974 I-Zod manufactured tennis shirts with little alligators on them that had labels inside saying
“Chemise Lacoste,” which Walt, Ginny’s doubles partner, once told me was named for Renee Lacoste, a
one-time French tennis player who was known as “the Little Crocodile,” so Walt found some irony that the
shirts were known in the U.S. by the name of a different species altogether. I do know that the sizes on the
labels were given in French. The I-Zod tennis shirts of 1974 were much more comfortable and much better
made than the I-Zod shirts of today. I also don’t know what happened to the small reptiles stitched to the
front.
began leaping, or dancing, again. This time they seemed to grasp the absurdity of what
they were doing and enjoyed it and so were skipping faster and jumping higher than
they’d been doing before, which only made them look stupider. After a few minutes they
exhausted themselves and collapsed on the garden grass, Stoney panting mightily and
perspiring heavily and Clarence maybe a little out of breath. Youth. Stoney took a drag
off his cigarette, which set off a coughing fit, but this did not induce him to pitch the butt.
He and Clarence smiled at each other as Stoney began to catch his breath. After a few
minutes they were still sitting in the hot sun and doing nothing. I got bored, so sharpened
my pencil in the closet and returned to the calculus problems in the dining room. Maybe
ten minutes later Stoney and Clarence returned to the house. I heard them open the back
door then go to the kitchen and put ice in glasses. A few seconds after that they came
looking for me in the dining room, tired but smiling. Clarence was carrying a glass of ice
and a can of Coke. Stoney had a glass of ice, a can of coke, and a fifth2 of Ron Rico rum.
It was brown, like whiskey, which I’d never seen before.

“What were you guys doing out in the garden?” I asked. “It looked like white
guys imitating Soul Train with no music.” They both laughed a little and cracked open
their soda cans, dropping their pop-tops3 into the ashtray.

“Nothing,” said Stoney.

“Ritual preparation for the Datura,” said Clarence, filling his glass with Coca-
Cola.

“Excuse me?” I asked.

“Just blowing off steam,” Stoney said. Stoney filled his glass mostly full of
brownish rum then topped it off with a little Coke.

“It’s a Yaqui thing,” said Clarence.

“How come your sister smacks you every time you say that?” I asked Clarence.

“She seems to find Carlos Castaneda irritating,” he said. “I’m not sure why.
Maybe because, like so many pupils, but unlike Don Juan’s dog, she has not found her
place.”

“I don’t want to go sit on the front porch, little buddy,” said Stoney. “Too hot.”

2
In 1974, the most common size for a bottle of liquor was one fifth of a gallon, which is really, really close
to 750 milliliters.
3
In the 1970s, canned beverages of all kinds were sold in aluminum cans with ring-pulls. You pulled on
the ring and a small rounded Isosceles triangle of the top popped and then peeled out of the top of the can
so you could drink it. These small, curved, surprisingly sharp bits of metal were casually thrown aside like
burning cigarette buts, which led to many a foot injury among a population of young people that prided
itself on its barefootedness. Jimmy Buffet cut his heel on one while blowing out his flip-flop and had to
cruise on back home.
 “Perhaps your place is at this table, solving problems with Henry,” said Clarence.

“With a great big ol’ rum and Coke,” said Stoney, nodding.

I showed Stoney what I’d done with the first problem, and then he handed
Clarence the crossword puzzle, the Cryptoquote, and the Jumble from the Chattanooga
Times.

“The originals? Wow,” said Clarence. He acted like he’d been given some
special privilege. I looked at Stoney in puzzlement.

“I think you’re ready, buddy,” he said to Clarence. “Usually I change ‘em around
a little before I give ‘em to Clarence,” he said to me. Clarence pulled a stopwatch out of
his shirt. It was hanging around his neck by a long thin piece of leather that may have
originally been a bootlace. “Call ‘em out, bud,” Stoney said. Clarence nodded, punched
the stopwatch, and got to work. I noticed he was working in ink. I looked at Stoney with
a cocked eyebrow.

“He’s gonna tell me his times as he completes each one,” Stoney said.

“Where did he get a stopwatch?” I asked.

“I gave it to him,” he said.

“Where did you get a stopwatch?” I asked him.

“I ran track in high school,” he said.

“You ran track?” I asked, surprised.

“Sure. I believe I still hold the Lawrenceville record for best time on the 4404. I
was also the anchor leg of our mile relay team.”

“When did you start smoking?” I asked.

“At thirteen. And you’re right, that’s why I wasn’t a miler in high school.”

“Cross-country?” I asked.

“Oh, Christ, no,” said Stoney.

“Fifty-two!” sang out Clarence.

4
440 yards, or a quarter of a mile. In the 1970s all American track and field events were measured in
miles, yards, feet and inches.
 “That’s great, buddy!” Stoney said. I looked at Stoney in puzzlement. “He just
did the Jumble in 52 seconds. That’s great. Anything better than a minute is pretty
commendable.” My own best time on the Chattanooga Times Jumble puzzle was 45
seconds. I looked at Stoney with an inquisitive expression.

“Cryptoquote next?” I asked.

“Of course5.”

“What time are we looking for on the Cryptoquote?” I asked.

“He usually does it in less than eleven minutes,” Stoney answered. He looked at
what I’d done on the multi-variable non-planar problem and didn’t say anything. He
nodded a few times and circled a few things he wanted to ask about, then looked up. My
own best time on the Cryptoquote was a few seconds over two minutes, and I generally
did it in about six minutes, so I felt good about myself. Stoney finished looking over my
calculations and looked up. “Actually, Clarence always does better than eleven minutes.
Eleven is his outside. I’d take the under on that bet. He’s usually in the six to eight
range.”

“Damn! That’s good. What’s your time like?” I asked. Stoney remembered he
had a drink and drained it, then poured in, again, a massive amount of rum and a little
Coke.

“I don’t know,” Stoney said. “I never saw a Cryptoquote before I came here, and
I do them while I’m cooking breakfast, so I don’t really time them, and if I did, the times
wouldn’t be, like, accurate, because I’m looking at breakfast most of the time. I’ve been
trying to get to where I can solve them in my head. You know, like those guys do who
play chess without a board? I’ve always thought that was so cool. So today I could do
the Jumble and the Cryptoquote in my head, and a lot of the crossword, but I couldn’t do
the whole crossword in my head. So I don’t know.” He asked me a few questions about
steps I’d taken on Mrs. W.’s problem and nodded as I explained what I had done. He
stared at one step, then exclaimed “Fuckadoodledoo!” and began scribbling furiously on
his pad. “I got this!”

“Six minutes and 23 seconds!” Clarence called out.

“Good time, buddy,” said Stoney. It was a good time. I generally did better than
that, but damn. “What’s got you so excited on the multi-variable?” I asked Stoney.

“Hang on,” he said, and returned to scribbling. “Ah, shit,” he said, after a few
minutes, disappointed.

“What?” I asked. Clarence, focused on his crossword puzzle, paid us no mind.

5
I can’t tell you why, but in a newspaper that offers the Jumble, the Cryptoquote, and a crossword, it just
makes sense to do them in that order.
 “Yeah, well, I thought I’d found this great insight into this fucking equation and
so I tore off into this magnificent, elegant solution that took fifteen steps and basically
just proves your step four. So I agree with you. Fuck. It’s possible that you may have
noticed that I like to be the clever one but all I’ve done this time is prove you right. A
bitter tear to swallow. Perhaps some more Ron Rico will ease my troubled soul.”

“Don’t you mean a bitter pill?” I asked.

“What kind of pill are you suggesting I take?”

“I’m not.”

“Hmm. What kind do you have?” he asked.

“None,” I said.

“Then why did you divert conversation, teasingly and unsatisfyingly, into the
topic of pills? Surely you know how cruel it is to get a man’s hopes up like that.”

“Five thirty-two!” said Clarence.

“Excellent, little buddy!” said Stoney.

“On the crossword?” I asked.

“Yep!” he said, proudly. Good time. I tried to beat six minutes every day, which
he’d done. And he was an obnoxious ten year-old. So how smart was I?

“Well, in Dr. W’s absence we still need to watch the news,” Stoney said. We all
agreed, so they grabbed their beverages and we all dutifully filed into the living room to
watch the news. We went with Peter Jennings, and in Mrs. W.'s absence our commentary
on the current administration’s activities were perhaps a little more raucous and crude
than usual. None of us could have been entirely sure what Mrs. W’s politics were,
though. She usually seemed to approve of Dems and disapprove of Repubs, but it was
hard to tell. Stoney and Clarence were clearly Democrats and assumed Mrs. W. was as
well, but she was critical of Dems as often as she was of Repubs. I’d never thought much
about politics until that summer, but at that time particular point in time the main
difference between Democrats and Republicans was that more Republicans were either in
jail or on their way to jail6 than Democrats.7 But back then I really didn’t understand
politics.8

“Which one is Stans again?” Stoney asked. The level of the rum bottle was
dropping pretty fast, and he was still on his first Coke.

He looked at me for an answer to the Stans question and I shrugged. Couldn’t tell
you. Without Mrs. W., we were rudderless. He looked at Clarence.

“He’s an accountant. He was secretary of something. Maybe Secretary of

Commercials. Resigned to become some big deal. Put money in a flush fund. Or was it a
slush fund?”

“Slush. Under indictment?” asked Stoney.

“Yeah, sure. Perjury and obstruction of justice,” Clarence answered. Stoney

nodded as the news came back on. Clarence understood most of it, and Stoney had a
general idea of what was going on, but it didn’t make much sense to me. Something was
up with New York’s budget.9 Wholesale costs were up. Stoney made yet another rum
and Coke. There was more trouble with tapes in the Watergate deal. Same old daily news
routine, but it wasn’t the same without Mrs. W.

After the news we went to Pizza Hut. It was the same as the last time I’d been
there. Anchovies still weren’t on the menu. Stoney ordered a pitcher of Schlitz.10 The
6
Former Vice President Spiro T. Agnew (he was Greek, so Σπύρου Θ. Άγιου, which would be more
“Hagnew” than “Agnew”) may not have been in jail but he pleaded to something pretty bad that required
that he resign as Vice President of the United States, and Nixon aides Ehrlichman, Haldeman, Colson,
Hunt, LaRue, Liddy, Magruder, McCord and Attorney General John Mitchell all went to jail.
7
As I’ve aged I’ve become aware that it’s the rare politician of any stripe that doesn’t have some mud on
his or her shoes when he or she first treads across the national carpet, but having an Attorney General, the
nation’s chief law enforcement officer, go off to jail in Montgomery for engaging in some kind of criminal
conspiracy is a kind of high-water mark for the executive branch being badly off-track, at least in my
lifetime. I know this kind of thing happens all the time in other countries, but the reason people move her
from those places is to get away from that kind of crap.
8
I’m not sure I do now, but I do better. There are always competing ideas, but mainly political discourse
seems to be absorbed with was saying the other side is wrong. Where’s the utility in that?
9
Why is what goes on in New York City national news? They don’t treat what goes on in Los Angeles as
national news unless they’re mocking California. What goes on in Chicago, Seattle, Miami, San Francisco
and Wadley is not national news. I could give a shit what’s going on in New York. Why do we all have to
hear about it?
10
In 1970 Schlitz was without a doubt the best domestic beer in America, but then they began tinkering
with the recipe, I assume to make more money. In 1974 it was still better than anything else in the United
States, but it had dropped from the most popular beer in the U.S., The Beer That Made Milwaukee Famous,
to number two, behind Augie Bush’s second-best beer, Budweiser. They tinkered with the recipe enough
(and came out with the truly wretched Schlitz light) that they lost lots of customers to European brands like
Lowenbrau and Heineken that were grabbing market share for the first time and even to Miller. (“Miller
High Life. The champagne of bottled beer.”) Their efforts to improve profits had a disastrous effect on
taste, so by the early eighties Schlitz was out of options and got purchased by Stroh’s in 1982, which
started turning Schlitz into a more Stroh-like product that was awful. Schlitz’ abasement was complete in
the late nineties when it and everything else Stroh’s was purchased by Pabst, which has to be the ultimate
waitress, a pretty teenager who did not look old enough to work in a bar, assumed our
beverage order was complete and left immediately, returning a few minutes later with the
pitcher and three glasses, one for each of us.11 I asked for water, and she left immediately
again. After she left Clarence redirected his earnest, intense stare from her tight, low-cut
pink tank top to stare, not quite as intensely, at the pitcher. He nonchalantly took one of
the three glasses and placed it close to himself, as though no one would notice.12 The
waitress returned a few seconds later with my water and Clarence returned his
appreciative gaze to her tank top, although he was not so captivated with her breasts that
he didn’t try to nonchalantly reach for the pitcher as Stoney put it down. I batted his
hand away, and he looked deflated but not surprised. “Could you bring him a Sprite,
please?” I asked.

“Sprite? Why do I have to drink Sprite?” he demanded.

“What do you want?” I asked.

“Coke, please,” he said to the waitress’ breasts.

“Caffeine is bad for you,” I said.

“What?” said Clarence, Stoney and the waitress, all at once.

“It will stunt your growth,” I said to Clarence.13 Clarence looked at me as he

might look at someone who was providing how-to advice from the Dark Ages.

“Coke, please,” he said to the waitress’ breasts again, whereupon she smiled and
disappeared.

She returned within a few seconds with his Coke, and we ordered. We each
ordered an entire pizza for ourselves, roughly twice as much food as we needed. I
ordered pepperoni, black olives, mushrooms, and sausage. Stoney’s was some similar
combination of standard pizza ingredients, but then Clarence asked for ham and
pineapple on his, neither of which belonged on a pizza. I looked at the waitress in horror.

“That’s allowed?” I asked.

“Called a Hawaiian,” she said, nodding.

“What’s next, broccoli pizza?” I said.

embarrassment for any self-respecting beer.

11
Clarence was ten.
12
Well, Stoney didn’t.
13
My mother told me coffee would stunt my growth. In the mid-seventies, we still believed that kind of
thing. On the other hand, the other things that my mother thought would stunt my growth included
cigarettes, chewing tobacco, Coca-Cola, and all forms of alcohol. As is true of some things your mother
tells you, she was right even if she wasn’t correct.
 “We can do that!” she said. “It’s not on the menu, but they have broccoli back
there for some kind of salad nobody ever orders so they can put it on a pizza if you
want.”

“No!” I said.

“Yeah, we can,” she said. “My friend Margo comes in Saturdays after she gets off
at Penny’s and orders a white pizza with anchovies and broccoli.” Stoney and I both
picked up our menus.

“That actually sounds pretty good,” Stoney said.

“Oh for Christ’s sake, Stoney!” I said. “Broccoli on pizza?”

“You said the same thing about Clarence’s Hawaiian deal,” said Stoney. “I’ve
had it and it’s not so awful. Query whether heavy tomato sauce and/or olive oil work
with pineapple under any circumstances, but I didn’t gag. Now that I think about it, mine
was prosciutto, not American ham, and I don’t mean to be elitist but that may matter. I
still don’t see anchovies on the menu,” he said.

“They’re not, because people, like, think they’re gross, and they make, like, these
waaaay inappropriate references to what they taste like, but they have some back there, if
you want them. Sardines, too,” she said.

“No, no, no. Sardines is just wrong,” said Stoney. “But I’m changing my order
to a white pizza with broccoli and anchovies. How could I resist? Heavy on both.”

“You worry me, man,” I said.

“Do you want to change your order?” she asked me.

“I want to add anchovies as a fourth ingredient,” I said.

“Fifth,” she said. “You already have pepperoni, sausage, black olives, and
mushrooms. Do you want to take one off?”

“No, no,” I said. “I’ll have a five topping pizza.” She smiled, flipped her order
pad shut, and left. Stoney refilled his beer glass for maybe the third or fourth time since
she’d brought the pitcher and drank off about a third of it in one gulp.

“She’s pretty cute,” said Clarence.

“Stoney, tell him to stop ogling girls,” I said. Stoney looked confused.

“Why?” he asked.
 “Mrs. W. thinks his way of staring at girls is too obvious,” I said. “I told her I’d
explain it to you and that you’d explain it to him,” I said.

“This approach seems indirect,” he said. Clarence, oblivious, was staring at some
high school girls at a nearby table.

“He ignores me and he listens to you,” I said.

“That’s prob’ly true,” Stoney admitted. “Okay, little buddy, lets talk about girls,”
he said.

“Cool,” said Clarence.

“Okay, so girls all want you to think you’re interested in them,” said Stoney.

“And I am!” said Clarence. “Particularly girls with big hooters!”

“They want you to be interested in what they think,” said Stoney.

“What?” asked Clarence, confused.

“Girls all want you to be interested in what they’re thinking about,” he said.

“Can’t be,” he said.

“Is,” said Stoney.

“No, really. They’re always talking about David Cassidy and Donnie Osmond.
David Carradine. Hair and fingernails. What kind of shoes Belinda is wearing. Nobody
could be interested in that kind of stuff. If they wanted people to be interested in what
they were thinking they’d talk about Viet Nam and Watergate and say they voted for
McGovern.” There was a pause while Stoney lit a cigarette.

“David Cassidy? Donnie Osmond? Don’t know those guys,” said Stoney, and
then he paused again. “Singers?” he guessed.

“Donnie Osmond is the little brother of those twerps who used to be on The Andy
Williams Show,” I said. Stoney frowned.

“Don’t remember them. What did they do?” he asked.

“Sang. Smiled. Climbed ladders. Wore sweaters.” He shook his head

dismissively.

“David Carradine?” Stoney asked.

 “He’s this Kung Fu guy who wanders around the Old West. He’s actually pretty
cool,” said Clarence. “I just think it’s weird that these girls in my school are all crazy
about a guy who’s two or maybe three times their age.” There was a pause in which
Clarence looked back and forth between Stoney and me.

“How old?” Stoney asked.

“He’s at least in his twenties,” said Clarence.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“He said ‘Old West,” Stoney said. “How old?”

“I’d guess Civil War era,” I said. Clarence nodded.

“And the actor playing him is named Carradine?” Stoney asked.

“Yep,” Clarence and I both said.

“So there was a round-eye who knew Kung Fu in the 1860s?” he asked. There
was a pause while Clarence and I thought about this

“Well, they play him as Chinese,” I said.

“Totally,” said Clarence.

“They cast somebody named Carradine as a Chinese guy?” asked Stoney.

Clarence and I thought.

“Well, yeah,” we said.

“And you guys watch this?” Stoney asked.

“It’s not quite as stupid as it sounds,” I said.

“It’s totally cool,” said Clarence. Stoney seemed mystified.

“But he’s a round-eye?” Stoney asked.

“What?” asked Clarence.

“‘Round-eye’ is Asian slang for ‘Westerner,’” I said. Clarence still looked

confused. “It means non-Asian. Stoney’s not sure an American was a convincing cast as
an Asian martial artist.” Clarence shook his head. This had never occurred to him
before.
 Our pizza came and we all partook. Conversation immediately turned to
baseball,14 but then I realized I hadn’t finished one of Mrs. W.’s assignments.

“We never finished explaining to Clarence why he can’t stare at breasts,” I said,
in the middle of my second slice. “She generally asks me about homework problems.”

“Oh right, said Stoney, wolfing down his third slice of white and green pizza and
washing it down with a large swallow of beer. “Ok, so buddy, there are some things you
need to know about girls.”

“Okay,” said Clarence who, hoping no one would notice, had nonchalantly taken
a beer glass and was reaching for Stoney’s pitcher. Stoney didn’t react, so I smacked him
on the back of the head. “Ow!” said Clarence.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he demanded, glaring.

“Keeping you away from the beer,” I said. “Your Aunt Margaret wouldn’t
approve.”

“No, I mean smacking me in the head like that!” he said, unhappily.

“Your sister does that all the time,” I said.

“Not that hard,” he complained.

Stoney refilled his beer and looked contemplative. “So we,” he began, then
paused, “by which I mean us men, are not supposed to look directly at women’s breasts
even though those particular body parts are of exceedingly keen interest to almost all of
us. Men, I mean . But even though we’re are all really, really interested in breasts, and
women all know we’re all really, really interested in their breasts, we’re not supposed to
let on. I honestly don’t know why this is, but assure you it is so. We’re not supposed to
ever let them catch us looking at them, even though hey know we do whenever we can.
Often times they want us to do so. It’s weird. Inexplicable, even. But that’s how it
goes.”

Clarence scowled.

“What is it, little buddy?” asked Stoney. Clarence pondered for a minute.

“It’s just weird,” said Clarence.

“I agree. But what exactly do you have in mind, little buddy?” Stoney asked.

“It just seems that they’re proud of them,” said Clarence.

14
Stoney was going on and on about Denny McClain. Who was an asshole, by the way.
 “Of what?” asked Stoney.

“Of their hooters,” said Clarence.

“Yes, of course they are,” said Stoney.

“So if they’re proud they have them, and they know we like them, why am I not
supposed to look at them?” asked Clarence. “I’m just liking something they’re proud of
already.”

“They jus don’t like it when you stare at them,” answered Stoney.

“This is weird,” said Clarence.

“No, no,” said Stoney. “If you want to touch one you can’t be caught drooling
over it,” he said. “I think that’s the only rule. Simple.”

“You know, your Aunt Margaret would have a different take on this,” I said.

“How so?” both Stoney and Clarence asked.

“She might say that staring at a woman’s breasts is rude because it will make her
feel uncomfortable, and manners requires that we do what we can to avoid making those
around us feel ill at ease,” I said. “She also might mention that reducing a woman to an
object of sexual interest demeans her in a way you do not understand.”

Stoney and Clarence looked at each other and shook their heads.

“That’s not the way the issue presents itself,” said Stoney. Clarence nodded in
agreement.

“How so?” I asked.

“Okay, man,” said Stoney. “So hypothetically, say this really attractive waitress
with really nice knockers who’s wearing a tiny, thin pink tank top happens to be serving
Clarence his pizza. Her hooters are pretty much on display. He can’t glance at them? I
think that’s the point Clarence ha trouble with.” Stoney managed to consume another
slice of broccoli anchovy pizza in three bites.

“Not when she can tell,” I said. “It would be bad manners.”

“If she’s putting them out there where I can see, why can’t I look?” Clarence
asked.

“She’s probably not much interested in you, Clarence. Even if she’s advertising,
she’s advertising for somebody, she’s not advertising for everybody.” Stoney and
Clarence frowned at me but neither said anything. “Okay,” I said. “Just imagine for a
minute that you’re a really pretty girl.”

“Cool. I love this kind of deal,” said Stoney. He leaned his head back and closed
his eyes. Clarence tried to imitate him but was opening his right eye every few seconds
to see what Stoney was doing. I really hadn’t anticipated this response. I was just trying
to make a point. “So I’m a really pretty girl,” said Stoney. “Do I have really nice
hooters?”

“Stoney,” I said.

“No, really, Stoney said, “what about my hooters?”

“They’re fine,” I said.

“Large and firm?” he asked.

“Stoney, this angle really wasn’t my point.”

“But I’m wearing a tight pink tank top?”

“Look, the idea of all manners is that you don’t want to make anyone else feel
uncomfortable,” I said to Clarence.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yes.” I answered. Stoney gave up his reverie and refilled his glass. Clarence
nonchalantly pushed his glass forward as if to be refilled, too. Stoney moved as if to refill
it and I waved him off. Clarence sighed.

“It’s just not right,” Clarence said.

“How so?” I asked.

“With my real friends, the most fun thing in the world is to make them as
uncomfortable as possible,” said Clarence.

“How so?” I asked.

“You know. Standard kid stuff. Kick them in the nuts. Blow snot on their book
reports. Fart in their faces. Put dog shit in their lunch bags. You know, just stuff.”

“And?” I asked.

“And there’s this whole other deal I have to do for girls?”

 “Yep,” I said. “It’s not just for girls, though. There’s this whole manners deal
that applies to everyone who’s not a ten year-old boy. Grownups. Teachers and parents
especially.”

“You agree with this?” Clarence asked Stoney. Stoney was re-filling his beer
glass for the umpteenth time and Clarence tipped his glass forward expectantly. This
time Stoney either didn’t see or ignored him.

“Sort of,” he said. “Um, I may not be the best guy to ask, because I grew up in all-
male prep schools. And I’m not sure about some of what Henry just said. I mean, it
made sense when he was saying it, but if we have the same standard of behavior for
parents and teachers that we do for girls, I think the world will be a dreary place in which
to live. So I can’t explain with any rationality why I think Henry’s wrong, I certainly
hope he is.” Stoney poured the last of the Schlitz into his glass forlornly

“Nah, he’s not right. Nadia was nothing like my mother,” said Clarence.

“Who’d want a girlfriend like a mother, anyway?” Stoney asked. They clinked
their glasses together and looked at me as though they’d just won a point.

Stoney paid for dinner, which was nice. We had ordered way too much pizza, so
each of us went home with a box.