We used to have a recreational basement—you know, full of all our old cruddy furniture, a TV, and a big untouchable space in the corner that was going to be for a pool table when we could afford it in some distant Star Trek-like future. Then the basement gets this toxic mold, and we have to seal it off from the rest of the house, on account of the mold might escape and cause cancer, or brain damage, or take over the world. Even after the mold was cleaned out, my parents treated the basement like a radiation zone, uninhabitable for three generations.

So now we have a recreational attic, full of new old furniture, and space maybe for a Monopoly board instead of a pool table.

Anyway, Howie, Ira, and I were watching football that Thanksgiving morning, switching to the parade during commercials to make fun of the marching bands.

“Ooh! Ooh! Look at this one!” said Ira, with an expression that was a weird mix of joy and horror at the same time.

To the band’s credit, they were playing an impressive rendition of “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction,” but anything cool about it was ruined by their pink-and-orange uniforms. Howie shakes his head. “As long as they dress like that, they’re never getting any satisfaction.”

“Antsy, don’t you have a shirt like that?” asks Ira. My name’s actually Anthony, but people have called me Antsy for so long, I oughta get it legally changed. I like it because there are so many Anthonys in the neighborhood, if some mother calls the name out a window, the stampede stops traffic. I’m the only Antsy, though—except for this one time a kid tried to steal it and call himself Antsy, so I had to start writing my name “Antsy®,” and I threatened to punch him out for identity theft.

So anyway, about the shirt, although I hate to admit it, yeah, I do have a shirt in orange and pink, although it was a different shade of pink.