Rudi says, mixing pride and joylessness into a whole new emotion. “I know, man. Congratulations.” “Thanks,” he says. We are walking on Nantasket Beach, first of July, perfect summer day, perfect. The waves are crashing, the sun is scorching. The beach is mobbed, and the sounds of screeching kids in the sand and screeching seagulls in the air are identical. We are just passing into the atmosphere of Carousel Kitchen, in the shadow of the roller coaster, where the scent of the ocean collides with the scent of fried clams to slaughter every other scent into oblivion. “They probably didn’t even bother giving you a physical,” Rudi says, accusingly. “Well, yeah, they did,” I say. “You want some clams if I’m buyin’?” “Of course I’m wantin’ if you’re buyin’. So what’d you score, like, a million?” “You don’t get points, dumbo,” Caesar says, jumping on Rudi’s back and giving his skull machine-gun noogies. “I passed,” I say as we head to the clam stand.
