From The Book of Ray
Ray’s mother is seeing a man who sometimes takes her away for the weekend. Into the vacuum rush friends, friends of friends, and beer by the case.
Come morning the problem is empties. Ray fills cartons and grocery bags. Bottles, knocking together, produce cheerless bell tones.
Usually, Ray finds a secluded spot where the empties will lie in state. Why, this pre-dawn morning, halfway into—not out of town—does he slip cartons and bags into the apartment complex swimming pool—along with his wallet?