by nine-thirty we’d arrived at the quaint ghetto that is galveston island.  “quaint ghetto” is probably the best way to describe galveston island, with its beautiful old houses and cemeteries and historical societies right there under the palm trees with dirty convenience stores, neon signs, burglar bars, and vagrants selling used, sticky ballpoint pens.  a wide boulevard flanked by the same palm trees runs along the shoreline, but it too is lined with convenience stores, fast food restaurants, and hourly-rate motels.

we parked under joe’s neon arrow and raced across seawall boulevard and down the ramp to the beach.  it was dark except for the neon and the moon and the flashlight hanh was waving around.
“look, it’s a rave,” she said, shaking the beam of light over sand, shells and garbage.
“what a cheap-ass rave,” i said.

with rolled-up jeans and shoes in hand, we waded along the edge of the ocean.  i draped my towel around my neck so as not to have to carry it; shaun twisted his around himself like a scarf, a sash, a turban.  we wrote things in the sand with our toes and stood in one spot as the tide came in, letting our feet sink in until we were stuck.

on the way home i sat alone in the backseat, my right leg stretched out on the front armrest between shaun and hanh as they talked about new order and the cure.  for once, i enjoyed just listening.