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2011-08-08 - 10:40 a.m. There were lines not to cross. John's Dad, Bob, was fine with cigarettes and beer but not liquor. Peter had brought a pint of peach schnapps. Back then, peach schnapps was the kind of liquor we got. It was easy to steal, and it was sweeter than whiskey. Jesse and I followed Peter downstairs, to the big living room, the room where John had shot the family couch years before. The suit of armor still stood in the corner. Peter took a big swig and handed the bottle to Jesse. We sat on the couch, facing the huge Christmas tree that John�s mom had decorated months before. Everything on it was golden: the tinsel, the lights, the elaborate ribbon, the satin-covered balls. It was nearly February by then, but the tree was still up. Jesse took a swig and thrust the bottle at me. �I don�t want it,� I said. �Come on,� Jesse said. Peter laughed. I was already drunk. I pushed the bottle away. �Why don�t you go again?� He took another swallow and stuck the bottle into my hand. �Come on, Buck,� he said. �I don�t want to.� �Why?� �Because I'm already drunk.� �We're all drunk.� He laughed. �Just open your throat and let it go down.� I stared at the bottle. Then, quickly, I brought it to my lips, tilted my head back, and got a mouthful. I tried to let it go down my throat, but I couldn�t make my throat do that. So I swallowed a little and let the rest sit in my mouth. �What are you doing?� Jesse said. �Swallow it! Jesus.� I closed my eyes and swallowed. Jesse clapped me on the back. �Not so bad, huh?� �Fuck off,� I said.
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