G drove a 1960 hunter green Mercedes with three on the tree. Once, while steering the car through the hills of southeastern Pennsylvania, I watched him take a long pull off a Rolling Rock he was nursing and breathe in the smell of the mushroom fields that drifted up from the south in the evening air from Kennett Square. He glanced back at the empties clinking around loose on the backseat floor and made some sort of decision.
He suddenly tossed the bottle out the window.
“Dude,” I said.
“Don’t throw stuff out the window. Someone’s gotta pick that up.”
“It was the Stevenson place.”
“They have a nice lawn. When you throw them onto nice lawns, you know someone will pick them up.”