Word: shirtful
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Later, outside the bar, a guy in a University of Pennsylvania t-shirt was shouting. “Harvard?” he asked, emitting an astonished stream of “holy shit!”s. “What are you doing here? You must be the only Harvard kids to walk down this street in—well, don’t tell anyone—holy shit!—don’t tell anyone about the Harvard thing. What are you doing here...
...York to New York, by way of America,” Matt had said when the guy in the Penn shirt asked what they were doing in Nashville. The truth is, the exact details depend on whom...
...sized them up. Matt’s straightened hair had grown since the spring; it fell gracefully onto his white dress shirt, framing a full beard. Andrew, who styles his shorter blonde hair with gel and has a habit of stroking his goatee, wore small-framed glasses and Diesel jeans. “Well, you gotta try to blend in,” the Nashville native told them. “You gotta master the Woohoo! and the ye-ah.” He laughed. “Oh man, holy shit. Well,” and he looked them...
...Well, holy shit.” The boy in the Penn shirt had finally finished screaming, but before saying goodbye: some advice. “You don’t want to be here,” he said, gesturing to the bar we’d just left. “It’s 80s night here. You want to hear real honky tonk shit. Go down the street, that way.” This was useful information. Matt had a song he wanted to hear...
...Matt shook his head and retreated to the bathroom, resigned. He did not expect to make any conversation when, from his right, a growling voice: “Today is my 53rd birthday.” It was the unshaven Vietnam vet, sickly thin, in an old t-shirt and a worn-down hat. He smelled foul. “I don’t have any money. Haven’t even had one beer, and it’s my 53rd birthday.” Matt, pretty dejected himself, listened...