It was July, the time when mothers sat on porches, trade recipes, and drink lemonade. It was the time when we kids hid in the basements, attempting to make moonshine in the laundry tubs.

Richard and I had gathered a few of our friends in his basement, trying to find the right ingredients for gin… we had only succeeded in making strong-tasting, pungent water.
“Why don’t we go over to the prison?” Freddie asked. Freddie had huge glasses and dark brown hair; we never listened to him.
” ‘Cuz, last time we did that, Crazy Louie picked up the rocks we threw at him, and threw ‘em right back.” Richard answered wisely; three years prior, he had moved here from Long Island. We quickly dumped the contents in the toilet, as footsteps were heard at the top of the stairs.
“Richard? What’s that awful smell?” His mother yelled down. He grinned at us. “Nothin’. There was a drowned rat in the toilet.” He beckoned us to the open window. “The time has come…” Everyone groaned as he began to quote his favorite poem.