Hanging…as in “out”. It’s an art form. You can’t under-do it, or it’s a snooze fest. But if you over-do it, then it’s a party, which defeats the sought after chill factor.

The hanging was right on pace as Alex was telling a joke, something about a nun and the produce aisle, when I noticed Chris looking at me. I gave him a little, “what are you lookin’ at,” head bobble and got a couch cushion in the face for my impertinence.

“Yer bro’s a twerp, ya know that, ‘lex?”

“Duh, duh, and double-duh.”

“But he’s dif-rent,” Chris continued.

I started to say, “Yer mom’s dif…” but got another cushion in the face.

“Whut I mean is,” Chris said sternly, “he can think.”

“So?” Alex asked through a smokey haze.

“No rap sheet, right?”

“Nope.”

“No tats neither, right?”

“Nope, little Mr. virgin-skin.”

“Hello, I’m in the room.” They didn’t seem to care. Chris eyed me again. I didn’t dare the head bobble again. Might not be a couch cushion.

“New rule,” Chris pronounced, “He does school, no tats, no crime.”