We were hanging out at Pete's place. Tom watched some rediculous TV show. The fridge was stuffed with beer. A quick glance told me that it was some cheap american brand, not the imported stuff. It would be sufficient to get drunk. I checked the "special" compartment and my mood lifted instantly. It was stuffed with everything a hophead could wish for himself. There was no special occasion. At least not for the others. Until now I hadn't told them that the deal turned out to be more sophisticated than we'd expected. I opened a beer and was about to sit down when Pete burst in the apartment through the front door.
Like so often he had the common sense to show up drunk. I was jealous.

"I thought you'd be in Atlanta?" he said, banging against the couch in a jocular way. Tom grunted, but I didn't know if it was from the bump or the simultaneous fountain of blood erupting from the hairy samurai villian on TV.

I sat down. "No, Brandeis has to look at the new contract. I'm not going into that alone."

Pete said nothing, but then again that was his way. Now Tom was giggling. I looked at the screen. An ashen-faced Chinese boy had tears streaming down his face. "Why is that funny?" I said.

But just then the phone rang.