I began to notice this was the generic name he called everybody, so one day I asked him. "Terry, do you actually know my name?"

He thought about this for a second, probably wondering if he would offend me if he told the truth. "No," he answered.

"My nameís September."

"Cool."

From that day on he always called me by name. "Hey, September. How are you doing?"

One frosty January evening after my break-up with Heather, I had been out doing some dancing and stopped by Goldieís to drink and play a few games. I chatted with Terry for a few minutes, and he mentioned something about doing after hours. Being a relatively inexperienced drinker, I didnít know what he was talking about.

"Whatís after hours?" I asked.

"You know the bar closes at two," he answered. "After that we canít legally serve alcohol. So we have a little party over at my place, where we can keep drinking as long as we want."

"That sounds cool," I answered, looking for someplace to self-destruct.

"Hey, want to swing by?"

Terry told me to be back at 1:30 and to bring a fifth of tequila. I came back with two fingers of gold tequila and after the bar closed down, followed him over to his place. Though it was merely a second floor apartment, it had gained the name of Love Shack. The lights were dimmed when I entered. Immediately to the left was an immaculate kitchen, and to the right a hallway led to two bedrooms and a bath. A few steps further on I entered the living room. It was bathed with a lurid red and blue neon projecting from the half dozen beer lights hanging on the wall. And if that werenít enough ambiance, the Dan Reed Networkís You are my Ritual played on the stereo, saturating the room with dense slabs of pop guitar.

A dozen people already populated the couches and the room, their open beer bottles and drained shot glasses resting on the black lacquer book table. I went into the kitchen and found myself a twelve ounce glass, poured it half full of Tequila and walked into the living room. I immediately slammed the entire glassful of liquor.

Rich, a stocky fellow with dishwater blonde hair, a good-sized beer belly, and bulging eyes, despite his sunken eye sockets, looked at me and said," You know, I think thatís the dumbest thing Iíve ever seen anybody do, in my entire