Among the medals I earned at fifteen for the dark Michigan arts I have here now are Rock Mnemonics, Trickery In The Treehouse, BB Gun Guerrilla, Candle Spells, Apple Bong and Colonial Home Carpetburns.
"Impressive." You say as I rattle them ribbonless in their red wooden chest.
"Yes." We of Wit are forced to admit--then humbly: "And that was just for the early part of the evening."
"Here, smell the animalic darkness,"--I hold the small cedar box up for you--"that's my rich best friend's horse farm where the next day I took my books to the end of her family's wooden pier, there to sort through all last night's sensations alone because the rest of them didn't read."
"Heeley Cuir Pleine Fleur (Fine Leather) conjures up just that kind of teenage animal," I tell you, "summer skins steeped in a violet essence created with all the lies told to cover last night's liberties. A kind of purple Kirilian aura that can only be read by 19 year old grocery clerks."
And then, "Note how that honeyed leather of mimosa complements the thought of '85 camaro."
No reply, really.
"The smoky birch tar and suede notes stand for whatever you come into very close contact with on such strange nights," I instruct anyway.
"Some stains happily never wear off, you see," I continue, "no matter how many pages have been turned, summers passed."
And then from the house down the long lawn, "TD! Phone! It's that guy."