It’s 1993 or so. Summer. I’m working in a corn field, with Dave.
Dave says, “I hate getting a farmer’s tan.”
I say, “Then roll up your sleeves.”
He rolls up the sleeves on his t-shirt. “It’s kind of uncomfy,” he says.
“It’s an old t-shirt that you probably don’t care about. Just tear your sleeves off. That’s what I do.”
He grabs a sleeve and pulls. His shirt rips down the middle of his chest. The rest of the morning it hangs on him by one shoulder.
We come in to the shed for lunch. Our boss gives Dave a weird look.
Dave says, “Don’t ask.”