When I was in sixth grade, I wrote out on blue-lined notebook paper a story called The Human Beans, then, sitting upright on a chaise in our living room, I typed out pages from my notes onto an enormous, ancient black typewriter called a Victor that had no front and threatened with every banged-out keystroke to topple the aluminum TV tray it sat on, then I stapled the pages between cream construction paper and turned it in. • Years later, my first real girlfriend and I deflowered each other on that same chaise. • Years and years and years later, all that happened on that chaise remains a happy mystery to me.
