There are some nights when you can reach out and touch the future, graze it with the tips of your fingers like the stone of a wall, not so much to see if it's still there but to try and gauge how far away it is, how much stretching room is left. Last night was one such night.

Before picking up Carolyn from work, I went across the street to Charlemagne, Birmingham's best independent record store. It's been around since the 70s, tucked away in a loft above my favorite Thai restaurant with more LPs than I know what to do with. It has a musty but satisfying odor. Everything's close together and the aisles are small. Frequently, there are boxes on the floor labeled by genre. There's a deflated old couch and a glass coke bottle vending machine.

I'd wanted to find something for Mark (and I did), but it's hard for me to go in Charlemagne and not get something for myself; my last two visits resulted in The Freewheelin' and White Light, White Heat, and I had even more trouble deciding this time. Abbey Road, three Talking Heads albums, and a variety of Dylan and Joni Mitchell. To top it off, I still needed something for Mark, and as an unemployed art student, my wallet was stretched a little thin. I came away with this


for myself, and this


for Mark (since I already have a copy myself).

Needless to say, there is a deep, deep hole in my pocket.

Carolyn walked over once she got off work, and we drove to meet Mark at Hooters. Predictably, it was covered up -- med students, motorcyclists, and family birthday parties alike. We managed to get a table, and sat chuckling over the menus, which are surprisingly clever and well-written. I think my favorite menu item is the "Gourmet Chicken Wing Dinner": 20 wings & a bottle of Dom Perignon for $149.99. Other things were amusing, too -- the sign on the wall that said "Please remain seated while the room is in motion," the yellow road sign on the ceiling with a picture of two mounds above "BUMPS," and the fact that all the waitresses had to put one leg up on a stool while keying in orders on the computer. The amount of visible butt cheek in the room was a little more than I'd expected. I'd meant to bring my camera, and regretted forgetting it the whole night. The lighting in Hooters is spectacular for photographs, and Mark and Carolyn seemed especially photogenic.

I had a delicious burger and a delightful time. Hooters was as I'd expected it to be (as the website claims, it was "delightfully tacky"). We did not, however, get any free cake out of the big-breasted women (sorry Mrs. Wadley). Our waitress told us that they "could sing him happy birthday and twirl him around in a chair," but Mark said that "he would be alright."

From Hooters, we went to my favorite park (it's got lots of wooden castles, a tire swing, and plenty of the usual playground stuff). It's just up the hill from a cluster of baseball fields. There were at least four games going, and we walked through the stands and cheered with parents huddled in blankets before heading back up to the park. On the tennis courts just below the park, we found a plastic bottle, still partially full of water, which we took turns throwing across the courts, simply for the satisfying crunch that came with each landing.

We idled around the playground for a while, finally settling on the swings in the chill of the spring night. We "shot the bull" (as Holden would say) for a good half hour before getting too cold in our thin shirts and flip flops and relocating to Coffee Shoppe, for terrible apple pie and mediocre coffee. When we'd finished, Carolyn and I hugged Mark goodnight, wished him a happy birthday and drove back to her house.

I will remember highschool best for my nights with friends like Carolyn and Mark -- for drives down Montevallo with the windows down and Carolyn in the passenger seat. For the feeling that comes with Zeppelin's "Tangerine," "Over the Hills and Far Away," and "Going to California" blasted from my old car stereo. And I'll remember the car -- the way the stick feels under my palm, the way the doorhandles are broken, the Indian food that left a small orange drip on the floor of the passenger's side, the crack in the windshield, the missing hubcap. Highschool wouldn't be the same without amazing friends, driving with the windows down, Led Zeppelin, or cheap old cars.

And sometimes, I can start to feel those things slipping into the past, to be replaced with new memories of the way a dorm hall smells, the taste of leftover pizza, or the cadence of a late-night conversation between room mates, the warmth of voicemail from home. It doesn't make these highschool nights any less sweet, just more precious and more ideal.

So at the risk of sounding sentimental: Thanks Carolyn, Mark. I love you guys. It wouldn't be highschool without you.