Chapter 15

When I was a kid, I remember the three days leading up to Christmas used to drag on for about one hundred years each, and then Christmas Day itself would whiz by; it was over and you were going to bed approximately ten seconds after breakfast, your next Christmas an inconceivable 364 days away. So, too, in half a heartbeat are we trudging back to town, lest the S.S. Party Pooper sail without him. We’re dragging our feet, lollygagging to admire every bloom on every bush, gasping and gushing over every ocean vista, and still we might as well be careening down the hill on a luge for all the time it takes. I pray for Milton to be in front of the bar as we pass by—to wave us in, to not take no for an answer, to ply Cole with beer until he misses his boat—but he does not materialize. Dancing like a happy cartoon house through the night apparently wore the old bar out; it’s shut up so tight and quiet you can practically see the string of Zzzzs wafting from its chimney.