At the 7-11, Denby bought a six-pack and a packaged sandwich, while I settled for a box of brown-sugar pop-tarts.  We sat on the sidewalk next to the store and ate our dinners.  I started to feel a little better.  I wished everything was as good as the texture and sweetness of the brown-sugar pop-tarts.  They had depth, with layers of tastes, sugar and cinnamon and just the right amount of fat in a soft-crunchy delivery.  A taste of pure goodness.  Such perfection gave me hope.  It was like the small stand of trees in a gulch between the houses on the other side of the street, a taste of nature to let us know all was not lost.  There was still a bit of hope left.  A weed could grow through a crack in the pavement.  Maybe I’d find a better job someday.  And there would be a woman with layers of textures and tastes, and I’d no longer be in the company of the Denby’s of the world – I swear, when he was around, even the trees stiffened more than usual and tried to keep their leaves from swaying to avoid his attention – and maybe I’d find a way to make my own choices.  Back then I didn’t make any.  Friends weren’t selected, they materialized and you put up with them the best you could.  Some things you tried not to do, like backing a wild animal into a corner or saying no to Denby.  I guess that’s the best excuse I have for driving him next to Wally’s trailer.