There was a woman I knew long ago named Debi. I met her when I lived with my brother in Capitola, and we got to be better friends later when I moved to Bloomington, Indiana for a year ... she lived there, too. After coming back to California to go to school, I returned to Bloomington for about a month in December of '72. A bunch of us stayed with friends Greg and Sandy, who had a pretty big house. Debi and I and another guy named David would sleep in the living room; my ex-girlfriend Pat had her own room; and, of course, Greg and Sandy had their own bedroom.
Debi was an interesting person, but she was also quite probably clinically insane. This meant that sometimes she was kinda off in another world, but it also meant sometimes she said just the thing that everyone was thinking, when the rest of us were silent out of some notion of social propriety.
I can still remember, some 30 years later, an evening when we'd all had a fine time getting fucked up and doing whatever it was we did back then. Greg and Sandy headed off to bed. As they closed the bedroom door, Debi looked after them with longing and said, "just once, I'd like to be on the other side of that door."
I thought of Debi tonight, as I watched the Giants blow the World Series.