Something about the room was not right. The corners of the wall curved inward and the glass in the windows seemed to have some sort of texture--perhaps they were melting. Fluke felt his face. It was freezing yet he was sweating profusely. He had come to the conclusion that someone has slipped a psychotic substance into his beer.

Meanwhile the conversation in the room swirled around.

"My umbilical cord was cut with a spork you know," said TJ in a voice brimming with sincerity.

"A spork?--what the hell is a spork?"

"Yeah--you know. One of those spoon-fork things that you get a the chicken place," he answered back.

TJ was hanging out with his peers, a group of college juniors, who were sprawled about on their front porch, sipping icy beer and telling tales from somewhere just beyond reality.The contraban, like the conversation flowed freely. It was a beautiful summer night, and it felt great to be alive.

"You can't cut the cord with a spork, TJ," his good friend Banyon Burke argued, eyeing the hairy mass that was TJ’s face, "It's just not possible." TJ laughed; the foul stench from his breath was oppressive. Banyon was having a hard time determining if it smelled more like rotting carcass, or radio-active waste.

Perhaps an occasional toothbrush would ease TJ’s dilemma. Burke, as everyone called him, did not have bad breath, and was by comparison far better looking—and he knew it. Not that he would hold something like appearances against anyone, but with his innocent-looking baby blues, and long pulled-back brown hair, he was sometimes pursued as bar sport.

Burke stifled a chuckle as TJ, oblivious to Burke’s annoyance, rambled on. "No, man, I’m serious; it can be done. My dad told that story every time we had chicken. He would hold up a spork for all to behold while he unfolded the tale. Poor Mom; she would just look embarrassed. But wait—if you think that's weird, take a look at Mostly-Bob's stomach. He doesn't even have a belly button."

The gaping mouthed group turned its attention to Mostly-Bob. Mostly-Bob, a self proclaimed schizophrenic, was as his name suggested—Mostly-Bob. His real name was Rupert, however. He was thin and wiry, with an almost scholarly look that his intense green eyes, framed by bifocals, suggested. Few would have thought him crazy, but when he started talking…

"Dammit! No! TJ you promised" he whined.

"Go on show 'em. Go on Mostly-Bob," coaxed TJ.

Mostly-Bob hesitated, then slowly pulled apart the bottom button on his shirt while the guys moved in closer to take a look.

"He's got a belly button" Burke announced.

"Look again" suggested TJ.

Burke looked closer. "Well I'll be a son of a bitch! Lookit that! Mostly-Bob's navel is painted on!"

"Holy sheep-shit!"

Everyone jockeyed for a good glimpse of the fake navel now. The guys in the back pressed in trying to get a closer look.

As they experienced it each one started laughing. Louder and louder. Soon the whole porch was echoing in laugher. Fluke just kept staring at the navel in amazement. He had to be led away, while Burke slapped Mostly-Bob on the back in hearty approval. They simply could not believe it.

"How the hell did you end up with a painted navel Mostly-Bob?" One of the guys--Jak asked, his brows furrowing in disgust.

Mostly-Bob looked down, obviously embarrassed.

"Go on," Burke coaxed in a parent-like tone. "Tell us about your Boo-boo, Mostly-Bob. It’s going to be all right."

Mostly-Bob looked up at the ceiling, as if the words he searched for were printed up there. He drew in a deep breath and began a tale. "Well, when I was a little kid, I had a hernia, which my parents had corrected. The doctors put a patch over my belly button and it was cool-until I got older.

One day I took this girl that I liked-Vickie Balatchky- to the beach." Mostly-Bob's story was punctuated by soft chuckling in the background. Everyone knew where this tale was going. "Everything was going swell until I took off my shirt, then Vickie screamed and started hopping up and down shouting: He's a monster! He's got no belly button! He's got no belly button!

A bunch of guys ran over pinned me down and made everyone around check my stomach for a navel. A child threw his peanut butter and jelly sandwich at me. It was so embarrassing. I cold hear them laughing; and whispering. He couldn't have been born you know. You can't be born without a belly button-can you?

One guy kicked sand in my face and they said "go home freak boy!" I really felt bad. After that I started drawing a belly button on my stomach with my older sister's eyebrow pencil. At first my navels weren't too good; just kind of a big black scribble in the middle of my stomach. But after a while I discovered that I could make them look three dimensional with light and shadow if I used several colors."

"It sure looks real to me."

"Yeah like the backgrounds in zoo cages" someone added.

"It's amazing" added Jak. "I believe that I can speak for all when I say that we've all taken our belly button's for granted. I never realized that they were so significant" he said with feigned sincerity. Although he could be a sarcastic bastard at times, Jak was basically a good guy. Actually, Burke had met Jak before any of the rest of them, and they had clicked instantly. They both had long hair, they both liked beer and girls, and they both thought that disco sucked—what more could you ask for out of a friendship?

"Burke, did anything meaningful ever happen to you concerning you belly button?" someone asked.

"No, I just have a minor lint problem. Occasionally my date will pull a surprise inspection."

The year was 1974. The hippie movement was winding down; Vietnam had fizzled, and life had lost its yang. People kept looking for the next crusade to rally to; no one cared much what it was. They were just looking for a cause to hold together all that had happened-and to keep the buzz going. But it never came. The hippies probably would have tried to frantically rally had they known that within a few short years out of sheer desperation, others would come along to invent disco music, big hair, and the polyester leisure look. The seventies were indeed strange times.

With the draft down, and college enrollment still soaring, many ended up lost--wandering front porches on beautiful summer nights in places like Wakefield; a College town brimming with bra-less tube topped coeds, and guys that were happy to see them.

The porch where this improbable group wandered about was anchored to a splendid old house; 203 Elm St. It was an elegant yet scary place at first; looming, gothic. With its creaks, aged groans, and somber secrets it was the place to be. The house even had a hidden passage that TJ had accidentally discovered while inebriated. He had entered and promptly passed out. The guys could hear him grunting, snoring, and occasionally farting through the air vents, but they could not locate him for hours.

All agreed that the very finest part of the house was its large Victorian front porch. It was the bridge on the Enterprise of imagination. The view was marvelous; a panoramic aquarium with intoxicated fish floundering back and forth. All night long the gang could observe college students staggering up and down the street; stumbling in and out of the clubs. Sometimes Lady Luck would smile upon the them and they would catch a tipsy coed tinkling out between the cars parked in the lot across the street. They spent lots of time out there in all seasons.

Life at 203 Elm was divided into two distinct ages; the bronze and golden ages of parties--before and after TJ. Before TJ life was wild, but the insanity spiraled after he moved in. TJ whose real name was unknown, claimed Tijuanna Juan as his handle. Not only was he a certified lunatic but had really bad hygiene and (if that wasn't enough) he was notoriously hairy. TJ could only be considered clean-shaven for about seven or eight minutes, then quite surprisingly a fu-man-chu, or a goatee would make its shadowy appearance.

He was most noted for his Wednesday afternoon parties. They kept getting larger and more raucous with each occurrence. Starting out rather innocuously at first with a bit of tequila and some twigs, it did not take long for things to explode out of control. One Wednesday party capsized eight kegs, united the two best rock bands in town, and inducted a new member into the household: a three year old pigmy goat named William. William was lent to TJ to assist with cleanup, but was never reclaimed. Things had gotten out of had. It wasn’t long before Wednesdays were banned from the house and TJ was forced to move them out to the Forrest preserves.

His parties continued; they continued to increase in size and complexity to the point where concessions, logistics, and security were being handled by TJ's people. One day the county banned Wednesdays from the forest and just like that TJ was out of the Wednesday party business. He was devastated initially, but somehow made the transition to Thursdays. TJ was a survivor.