“That’s the thing,” said Principal Fontana. “I want to be involved in your lives. Or I think I do. But then, really, when I look into my heart, I’d rather be on the driving range, or getting drunk, or getting my wick dipped. Is this shocking you?”
“Some nights,” I said, “I picture myself naked, covered in napalm, running down the street. But then it’s not napalm. It’s apple butter. And it’s not a street. It’s my mother.”
“Right,” said Fontana. “I knew I could talk to you.”
---sam lipsyte
