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have to make a habit out of skate-boarding in a city like San Francisco, with
its steep downhills, impossible uphills and pedestrian and vehicular traffic,
much less debate whether or not skateboarding was hopelessly passé. Instead,
we turned our attention to the package Skater Girl had left behind. It was the
sort of generic, padded brown-paper envelope that could be found in any
drugstore, about the same size as a paperback book. My name was printed on the
front in black felt-tip pen large block letters in a hand none of us
recognized.
Open it, urged Luisa.
What if it s a bomb? I said
Don t be absurd. Why would it be a bomb? she asked.
Why would somebody drop a padded envelope in my lap in the middle of Union
Square? I countered.
I don t think it s a bomb, said Ben.
Me, neither, Peter agreed. Especially not given the way she chucked it onto
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the table.
I gingerly held the package up to one ear. It wasn t very heavy, and I
couldn t hear anything ticking, but I was fairly certain bomb science had
advanced beyond the point where an alarm clock was required to detonate an
explosive. I d learned the hard way that airport security believed a simple
lip gloss could take down a plane.
Luisa heaved a sigh of impatience, grabbed the envelope from my hand, ripped
it open, and dumped the contents on the table. See, she said, when we
weren t all blown to bits. It s not a bomb. Although, she said, checking
inside the envelope to make sure she hadn t missed anything, a bomb might
have made more sense.
We all looked at the item that had fallen out of the envelope. It was a model
of the Lincoln Memorial, roughly two inches long and an inch high, molded out
of plastic and with a handy ring attached to the top so it could be used as a
keychain. A tiny Abraham Lincoln looked out from behind the front colonnade,
his expression grave.
This just might be the most random thing that has ever happened to me, I
said.
Even more random than what happened over spring break our senior year? asked
Luisa.
I thought we d agreed not to discuss that, I said.
No, said Luisa. You agreed not to discuss that. The rest of us have been
saving it for the right moment. Peter and Ben looked from Luisa to me,
clearly wondering what long-ago impropriety could trump this anonymous gift on
the randomness scale.
Well, now isn t the right moment, I said, making a mental note to forbid
toasts of any sort at my wedding. That spring break was just one of several
things Peter would be better off not knowing anything about. We should be
focusing on the keychain.
Luisa looked bemused, but at least she didn t giggle.
We took turns examining the model, passing it around the table. Peter was
last, and I watched as he turned it over in his hands. Is it secretly a
gadget of some sort? I asked hopefully. The molded plastic didn t weigh more
than a few ounces, but perhaps the top opened up into another memory stick
somehow.
But he shook his head. I don t think so. What we see seems to be what we ve
got. Does the Lincoln Memorial have any special meaning for you?
Not that I m aware of, I said.
Why don t we all free-associate? suggested Luisa. Just say the first thing
that comes to mind when we think of the Lincoln Memorial.
It was a strange idea, but nobody had any better ones, so we agreed it was
worth a try.
Four score and seven years ago, said Peter, who d done a double major in
history and engineering.
Ford s Theatre and John Wilkes Booth, said Ben, the federal agent.
President s Day weekend, white sales and hot tubs, said Luisa. She was
trained as a corporate lawyer, but shopping and skiing, particularly the
après-ski lounging part of skiing, were two of her favorite pastimes, and
she d always appreciated Washington and Lincoln for the role they played in
making these activities possible.
The penny. And the five-dollar bill, I said. I did work in finance, after
all. Oh, and mustard.
They stared at me. Mustard? asked Luisa.
We went to Washington, D.C., on a school trip when I was in high school. I
bought a soft pretzel from one of the snack carts just before we went to see
the Lincoln Memorial, and by accident I got mustard on my shirt, I explained.
But then it made it easy for me to remember that Daniel Chester French was
the sculptor who did the Lincoln statue. Because of French s Mustard. Which
was good, because that was a question on the pop quiz our teacher gave us on
the bus ride home. They continued to stare at me. We are free-associating,
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right?
I hadn t realized just how dependent you were on Diet Coke to think clearly,
said Luisa, lighting yet another cigarette.
This was more of a simple observation than anything else, and there was more
than a grain of truth in it, but in my delicate state I found it hard not to
be provoked by her words, especially given the direction in which her own free
associating had led her. Listen, Little Miss Hot Tub, I ve now gone I
checked my watch eight full hours without caffeine. I may be a little bit
grumpy, but I think I m holding up well, all things considered.
Of course you are, Rachel, she said, her tone soothing, as if she were
speaking to a small child. And we re very proud of you.
Maybe if I hadn t been in withdrawal, I wouldn t have taken offense. As it
was, I took her tone as the verbal equivalent of throwing down the gauntlet.
I d like to see how you d do without cigarettes for eight full hours.
I d do fine, thank you, she said.
Then I dare you, I said.
Dare me what? she inquired, simultaneously arching one eyebrow and breathing
out smoke.
No cigarettes for eight hours. Then I had an even better idea. No wait how
about no cigarettes until ten on Tuesday morning?
Tuesday? she said. Why Tuesday?
That s when my dare runs out. It s only forty hours away.
You re really daring me? she asked, a note of trepidation creeping into her
voice.
You can turn it down, of course. I mean, that would be the wussy thing to do,
but you have the option.
She glared at me. I m not a wuss.
Prove it, I said.
Why should I have to?
Why should I have to?
This is a very unattractive side of you, Rachel.
I couldn t disagree. Withdrawal was definitely not bringing out the
attractive in me. But I d backed her into a corner and she knew there was
only one way to escape with her dignity intact. Do you accept the dare?
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