“That’s not a star!”

1989. Summer. Warm night. Jim’s house his mother left him. Smithereens or REM on the boom box. Lots of beer, lots of cigarettes. All four of us dripping wet, not caring, just finished cooling off in the pool after the game at Yankee Stadium.

“Hey, LE,” Steve says, loopier than usual, “break out the telescope! Let’s check out some stars!”

I scan the sky, the little sliver we’re privileged between the adjacent houses and the roofing supply building directly behind us. Though it’s eleven at night, the light pollution from the streetlights and the traffic make it seem like dusk. But there are a few stars poking out. The Summer Triangle’s high in the sky. Steve’s just high. I make a quick decision: Vega’s bright enough to justify twisting the scope together.

As I go about its assembly, fresh cold Coors between my knees and a burning Marlboro forcing my eyes to tear, Bob taps me on the shoulder. “LE, aim the telescope there,” he whispers, pointing to the closest streetlamp. He giggles in delight. This is too easy. Even if Steve was stone-cold sober. Too easy.

Keeping a poker face, I point the scope directly at our new target. “Oh, Steve – ” I step back, feigning awe, shaking my head, gulping beer. “This star is awesome!”

Steve’s excited, nearly falls into the telescope, but Bob catches him. Bob also catches my eye, and he’s barely holding back laughter. Jim’s here, too, sensing what’s up without having been told. Steve balances and inches up to the eyepiece.

“That’s not a star!” Steve says, adjusting the scope, and we’re almost disappointed, almost, until he elaborates:

“That’s the moon!”