I start to laugh. Hadley either doesn’t understand it or he doesn’t find it funny.

The red-leather girl purses her lips, trying not to laugh. “That’s the stupidest joke I’ve ever heard.”

“Oh! You hear that!” Joley reaches for the girl and kisses her on the mouth.

She laughs. “It was really stupid,” she says, “really.”

“Mine was more stupid,” Hadley insists, banging the table.

“I don’t know,” I tell him. “This one was really dumb.”

In the background, the bartender announces last call. Hadley and Joley look at me, their eyes glinting with competition. About those dumb joke contests: I’m the judge. The categories are the content, the punch line, the delivery. Oh, and the confidence the joke teller has in his story. I hem and haw for effect, but this time I have to agree with the girl. Hands down, Joley is the winner.

Dear Jane-

Do you remember when the Cosgrove’s house burned down? You were in high school, and I was still a little kid. Mama came into my room in the middle of the night, and you were with her- she’d just woken you up. She said, “Mr. Cosgrove’s place is on fire,” really calm. The Cosgroves were the neighbors behind us, through the backyard and the woods. Daddy was already dressed and downstairs. We had to get dressed too, even though it was three in the morning. As we came into the kitchen the telephone rang. It was Mrs. Silverstein, across the street. She saw the orange flames, like a halo, behind our house, and she thought our place was on fire. “No,” I remember Daddy saying, “it’s not us.”

When nobody was looking, you and I stole into the backyard, where the small forest behind was exploding. We walked through the woods, through the cool, tall birches, across the wet pine carpet. We got as close to the house as we thought we could. The Cosgrove’s den faced the woods, and when we got near we could hear the fire breathing like a lion. It sucked all the air away and sent sparks into the night, millions of new stars. You said, “How beautiful!” and then, realizing the tragedy, covered your mouth.

We tried to walk around the house, towards the street, to where the firemen were working to put out the fire. We saw windows explode in front of us. Some kids we knew from the neighborhood were standing on the flat, inactive fire hoses. When the firemen opened the hydrants, the water would pulse through them like arteries, popping the kids off one by one. We decided there wasn’t that much to see, especially because the Cosgroves were huddled in a pocket on that side of the house, crying in their bathrobes.

Daddy was back at our house rigging up hoses and buckets, convinced that the fire was going to spread to the entire neighborhood, what with the houses so close together. He was spraying our roof. He figured, if you keep it wet, it won’t ignite.

The fire didn’t spread. The Cosgrove’s house was gutted. They tore it down, and started to build the exact same one, something my mother didn’t understand, with all the money they got from the insurance company.

That week, another catastrophe happened in Boston. The new windows of the John Hancock building spontaneously started to pop out. They’d fall fifty stories to the ground, shattering so dangerously that the police roped off entire blocks surrounding the building. It seemed the windows were not treated for the lower pressure experienced so high up, and the air in the building was pushing out the windows into the sky. Eventually at great expense the windows were removed. The next thing we knew, the Cosgroves had a huge pane from the Hancock building in their new home. It was fine for a home, they said. Just not right for a skyscraper.

Just before Route 2 takes you into Minnesota, get off on Rte. 29 South. Take it to Fargo and get on 94 East. This highway should take you directly to Minneapolis. Make sure you are there by seven A.M. Saturday morning. I won’t tell you what’s going on, but let’s just say you’ve never seen anything like it.

I hope Rebecca enjoyed her birthday-how many kids her age get to turn fifteen at the geographical center of North America? Speaking of which, you will be heading towards Iowa next. I think you know where you have to go.

Give my love to the kid.

Joley

Although Joley hasn’t mentioned where I should go in Minneapolis, I have no trouble finding what it is I am supposed to see. Rebecca and I have been up since four A.M. to ensure that we will reach the city by seven, but for the last hour and a half we have been sitting in traffic. Policemen in white gloves are directing people and blowing whistles. There are lots of teenagers here in souped-up cars. They put their Camaros into park, and sit on the roof, smoking. “I’ve had it,” Rebecca says. “I’m going to ask what this is all about.”

She jumps over the passenger door before I can tell her not to and runs up to a young policeman with a crew cut. He takes the whistle from between his lips and says something to her, and then she smiles at him and runs back to the car. “They’re blowing up the old Pillsbury building.”

I am not sure if this really explains the commotion, so early on a Saturday. Do people really come out of the woodwork to watch catastrophes?

It takes us another twenty minutes, but we inch towards the policeman who spoke to Rebecca. “Excuse me,” I say, leaning over the windshield. “We don’t really know where we’re going.”

“Not too many places you can go, lady. The whole city’s roped off for the demolition.”

We drive along a barricaded path, following other cars blindly. We pass the central post office and drive through its parking lot. We cross a river. Finally we get to a point where other people have stopped and are parking haphazardly. I find myself wondering how we are ever going to get out of here, now that six other cars have flanked our own, like petals. A fat man walks by selling T-shirts: I Knew Minneapolis Before They Changed the Skyline.

“Well, let’s go.” I climb out of the car and start to follow the people who are skipping eastward, like a pilgrimage. Whole families are going, the fathers carrying the youngest on their shoulders. We reach an area where people have stopped moving. Bodies start to settle on steps and railings and billboards, anywhere you can find a spot is okay. The woman next to us stops abruptly and hands the man she is with a styrofoam cup. She pours coffee from a thermos. “I can’t wait,” she says.

Rebecca and I find ourselves standing next to a large ruddy man in a flannel shirt with cut-off sleeves. He is holding a six-pack of Schlitz. “Beautiful day for wrecking,” he says to us, smiling.

Rebecca asks if he knows exactly which building is the Pillsbury building. “It’s this one now.” He points to a large skyscraper fashioned of chrome and glass. “But it used to be this one here.” He moves his finger across the skyline to a stubby grey building, a sort of eyesore next to all the modern ones. No wonder they want to knock it down.

“Did they try to sell the building?” Rebecca asks.

“Would you buy it?” The man offers her a Schlitz, and she tells him she is underage.

“Well,” he snorts. “Could’ve fooled me.” He is missing a tooth in the front. “You’re sure here at a historic moment. This building has been here forever. I remember when it was one of the only skyscrapers in Minneapolis.”

“Things change,” I say, because he seems to be waiting for a response.

“How are they going to do it?” Rebecca asks.

At this, a woman on the other side of Rebecca turns her head towards our conversation. “Dynamite. They’ve layered it on every other floor, so the whole thing’s gonna crumble systematically.”

Over an unseen loudspeaker, a voice booms. “We cannot demolish-the building until everyone is standing behind the orange line.” The voice repeats itself. I wonder where this orange line is. If it is as crowded up front as it is back here, the bystanders should not be blamed. They probably can’t see their own feet.