In my hand was a handwritten note, folded up. I called for her attention and thrust the note into her hand with a half-ways smile. “Hey,” I said w...th a slight quiver, “read this when you get a chance.”Alison was my first real, big crush. Smart, sophisticated and – to my eyes – drop-dead gorgeous, she was the perfect blend of brains and beauty. Wavy brunette hair cut about her shoulders and a cherubic face with eyes that looked like they were perennially squinting, as though she should have been. We frequented the Shangri-La, because the widow who owned the joint was lobbying for the position as the next Missus Ryan Ragan. The owner was a robust German woman named Greta, whose Special Forces husband had died when his parachute cigarette rolled on him during a routine jump. The fellows and I would shoot pool, drink twenty-five cent beer, and bullshit while Greta dragged Ryan back to her office. The weird thing about all this was we actually did do area studies while we were at the. More

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