Chapter 10
In a cramped living room the sitcom blares while Trevor’s father, a heavy‑set man with pomaded hair, sits in a La‑Z‑Boy nursing a bottle of Southern Comfort. The narrator and Trevor sit on a salvaged Dodge‑caravan couch, passing a liter of Sprite, texting a boy in Windsor, and trying to ignore the father’s slurred monologue about being a former seal trainer, “Uncle James,” and burning people. Trevor confronts him (“You smell like shit”) and the father retorts with incoherent boasts. A scar on Trevor’s neck is described, a reminder of a nail‑gun accident when he was nine.
Trevor and the narrator leave the house, hop on their bikes, and ride along the Connecticut River at night. The river is described as churning, occasionally bringing up bodies that cause spontaneous community panic and 911 calls. The narrator recounts numerous local characters and places witnessed from the bike: Sid’s Indian family who sold knives for cash, the Canino brothers whose father is in jail and who hide heroin and a Glock, Marin who works at Sears and is mocked for her appearance, the late Mr. Carlton whose apartment was bulldozed into a YMCA, and the fire on Asylum Ave that killed half a ward. They pass sites of overdose deaths (Big Joe’s sister, Sasha, Jake) and note B‑Rab’s later prison sentence. They recall Nacho, a Gulf‑War veteran who rescued a baby from a car during a blizzard, and reminisce about Mozzicato’s shop where the narrator ate his first cannoli.
Continuing, they reach East Hartford, stop at a Coca‑Cola bottling plant, and shout “Fuck Coca‑Cola! Sprite for life,” before heading toward South Glastonbury’s affluent suburbs. The ride climbs past illuminated mansions, an orchard of rotting apples, and a wooden fence where they rest. Trevor lights a cigarette, offers it to the narrator, and they share a Snickers. Trevor jokes that if Ray Allen were his dad they could crash at his house; the narrator rejects the idea, noting Trevor already has a father. After the snack they notice the distant lights of Hartford, described as a pulsing, almost divine brilliance. Both exclaim “Fuck,” and again curse Coca‑Cola, only to realize the brands are owned by the same company, underscoring a theme of inevitable sameness. The chapter ends with the narrator’s contemplation of mortality and the city’s fleeting, electrified beauty.