The game is starting up soon, but we don’t end up walking down to the stadium until half time. Funny to come all the way up here from New Haven only to miss the whole first half, but we’re up to no good and loving it.
We’re at the tailgate, and things are looking up. I have my sunglasses on because of, well, the sun. It shines down from somewhere in front of the picture and off to the right. The shadow of Ike’s green and black leopard-striped cowboy hat creeps up my leg. Despite the shade, the sun is warming up. My unzipped jacket, splayed open in the late fall cool, hangs loosely off my shoulders.
Jack’s face catches the brightness right on, which is to say, he’s squinting. But he’s smiling, too, and peering intently off to the right. Just beyond the edge of the picture, a Branford freshman wears a strange erection on his head: a scale model of Harkness Tower. Jack, though, thinks it looks like a penis. “DICK TOWER. DICK TOWER. DICK TOWER,” he shouts. Jack is drunk.
Ike’s mouth is wide-open, mid-laugh, Lexi’s hands are up and clapping, and my raised left hand is pressed against my forehead, just above a gummy, goofy grin. Sure, towers are phallic. But you’re not supposed to say it. Now Ike chimes in, “DICK TOWER. DICK…” The freshman up and leaves, but we don’t care. Now we’re all chanting it. “DICK TOWER. DICK TOWER.” Our spirits swell.
(Orientational metaphor)
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