Weasel's Date

The college students drank sangria. I sipped Hawaiian Punch. John and Yoko hung naked on the apartment wall. A Chiquita banana sticker covered John’s private parts. A reporter for UCSB’s radio station, recently back from covering the Berkeley campus riots, expressed that our Sour Cream & Onion Bugles were more acrid than the tear gas he’d faced there. Another college boy, after meeting me—Liz’s little sister, a fifth grader—proclaimed, “Hey, Weasel’s date’s here!” My big sister later explained how Poor Weasel was forever unlucky with girls. I remained exhilarated. To be considered as anyone’s date, even as a joke, allowed my big college weekend to reach epic proportions.