There was an awkward silence while Maria and I both tried to think of what we ought to say next. Finally, she spoke first. "You coming to the team picnic?" she asked.Paul and Orlie Warren had sponsored, annually since Paul had been the manager, an evening picnic at their home near Bowie. The party was for players and coaches and their families, and attendance was by no means mandatory. However, despite the fact that off days at home were rare during the season, the Warrens' picnic was evidently always well-attended. After all, it catered to the married players' wives and children, and if a player's wife and kid wanted to attend, well, guess what? The player wanted to attend, too.I had heard all about the picnic tradition, but I wasn't certain it was something in which I, a single guy, wanted to participate. So when Maria asked, I told her as much: "I hear your parents' annual picnic is a nice affair, but it's mostly a family thing, isn't it? I'm not sure I ought to come." Hey, you can. Whole days I spent watching daytime television, watching the farmers work, or getting hammered, sometimes with dad, often alone. This went on for two full weeks, until I found another pastime, one that proved to be all around me all along. There was so much sexual tension in this small town, tension that was released every now and again, without holding back. Neighbors were fucking each other’s brains out in broad daylight, sometimes not even inthe safety of their own trailer, or at least not with either the doors or curtains closed. I received hand-written letters, with undisguised explanations of acts I didn’t even know existed. All of this threw a brand-new hobby right into my lap, and I succumbed to masturbation - a lot of masturbation. I quickly learned that this hobby was the only thing that kept the people here from going insane, and once I had opened my mind to it, I noticed it was everywhere. The color of underwear on the washing line was an elaborate way of coding messages..
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