There was always cigarette smoke. Always a conversation in a hallway and shrieking laughter in the kitchen. The beer was running low and a candle had been left dangerously burning in a bedroom. A door slammed. A phone call would send off a carload and those left emptied the ashtrays, heated up a can of soup, pulled out a laundry bag and started folding. Someone was in a foul mood, someone had just been forgiven, but it was always Rickie Lee Jones on the stereo. At that house on Arnold Drive you or me were welcome any time and oftentimes barely noticed.
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