Men buying tampons are too easily explained. I prefer the dirt-covered hunter who stops in for soap, passing up Irish Spring and Lever 2000 for a bar of imported South of France Milled Soap with Organic Vegetable Oils, wrapped in silky paper with a cream flower border. The nun loading up a cube of Bud Light, three boxes of Sutter Home, and a pound of Starlight Mints. The frantic, aged-looking child purchasing twelve sourdough rolls, not wheat, and six slices of banana bread, not zucchini, for an unnamed taskmaster who directs him via cell phone. A $16.99 Super Cleanse Kit, plus a $1.99 jumbo bag of Cheesy Popcorn… hours vaporize into possibilities.
We pour from the stadium and from our homes, into the streets and bars of the city, tumultuous as heated atoms, for we’ve won the game. Triumph crackles underfoot, in puffs of air and smoke, in the hearts of men, vicarious triumph through the sweat and bruises of younger men from the university gained from young men from a farther university. In the Stone’s Throw the splash of a clumsily handled and overfilled mug precipitates a trip, a shove, a shout, a countershout, an elbow. Cheery and anonymous, the brawl expands and men fall into it joyfully, bloody good, bloody—good! This is the abandon that others feel in lovemaking, in speeding or in death; no longer self-preserving and single-bodied, we rattle and shout, blur all edges, and become a larger pulse.