My Teacher, David Foster Wallace

Wednesday evening, early May, Claremont, California. Sunset, the last day of classes. My friend, Sara, drove the two of us on College Ave. toward campus with the six-pack weâ??d bought for our last class, an end-of-semester party that would have beer and wine and cookies and a sweet dark sangria with citrus in the pitcher, but no drugs, for obvious reasons, and no hard alcohol because some former student had thrown up the whiskey heâ??d drunk in his last class. I thought about making and bringing a beer bong, but when a friend told me that it would be in poor taste because our teacher was a recovered alcoholic, I reluctantly gave in.