Gregory "Marlboro" Wilson retired on a full pension and lives on a Pennsylvania farm. He spends his days reading books, writing letters to his children, and playing cards with friends. Every Christmas he gets two cartons of Marlboro cigarettes from a Sleeper who remembers.

Gregory "Marlboro" Wilson is sixty-three years old.

I am now forty years old, with a wife and two children. I love my wife and adore my son and daughter. My family has helped me escape from many of the pains of my past. But the haunting memories of childhood are always close at hand. My body is older than its years, and my mind is filled more with horror than with the pleasures of life. The dreams I have are still vivid, the nightmares painful, the fears steady. The nighttime hours always carry a sense of dread.

I sometimes feel that the lucky Sleepers are the ones who died.

They no longer have to live with the memories.

They are free of the dreams.

"Many's the road I have walked upon Many's the hour between dusk and dawn Many's the time Many's the mile I see it all now Through the eyes of a child."-Van Morrison- "Take It Where You Find It"

Epilogue

Summer 1966.

REUBEN, A P PUERTO Rican kid with dark, curly hair and tight gray slacks, the crease sharp enough to cut skin, was the favorite to win the contest and the $50 first prize. He stood in a corner of the gym, his back to the three-piece band, chewing gum, sneaking puffs on a Viceroy, waiting for the disc jockey onstage to signal a start to the school-sponsored Chubby Checker King Twister compet.i.tion. Rican kid with dark, curly hair and tight gray slacks, the crease sharp enough to cut skin, was the favorite to win the contest and the $50 first prize. He stood in a corner of the gym, his back to the three-piece band, chewing gum, sneaking puffs on a Viceroy, waiting for the disc jockey onstage to signal a start to the school-sponsored Chubby Checker King Twister compet.i.tion.

"He looks good," I said, staring over at Reuben. "He looks ready to win."

"He looks like he seen West Side Story West Side Story a couple of times too many," Johnny said. a couple of times too many," Johnny said.

"He won't figure you to be any good, Shakes," Michael said. "Since he don't know you."

"I don't figure you to be any good neither," Tommy said, putting an arm around my shoulder. "And I know you."

"He's got you beat on the shoes," John said. "He's wearing those roach stompers. They're good twist shoes. They got a light look, but good soles."

"Who are you, Thom McAn?" I asked. "The shoes I got are okay."

"Who else is in this?" Michael asked. "Outside of him."

"Three Irish guys from Forty-sixth Street," Tommy said.

"They any good?" I asked.

"I hear they're pretty stupid," Tommy said.

"Now you need to go to college to do the twist?" Michael asked.

"They just signed on as a goof," Tommy said. "Make each other laugh. These guys couldn't get laid in a women's prison."

"There's that goofy kid from the pizza place," I said. "I hear he signed up."

"I know him," John said. "He's got all those zits and that black s.h.i.t on his teeth. I make sure he never never touches any of my slices." touches any of my slices."

"Anybody else?" Michael asked.

"That black kid who spits when he talks," Tommy said. "The one whose father just got shot."

"They might give it to him just for that," I said. "Start feelin' sorry for him."

"Don't worry, Shakes," Michael said. "We see the vote goin' that way, we'll have somebody stab you."

"Not too deep," I said. "I need this shirt for school."

"Just deep enough to win," Michael said.

The gym's overhead lights were turned off, the spotlights shining on the center of the floor. Eighty or more kids surrounded the circle, many of the boys and girls holding hands, some sneaking soft kisses in the dark.

"Will the twist contestants please enter the circle," the disc jockey ordered from the stage, his jacket tight around his shoulders, his pants cuffed, white socks sagging below the ankles.

"Go get 'em, Shakes," Tommy said, patting me on the back.

"Anybody gets close to us, we push," John said. "Knock 'em off balance."

"We'll be here waitin' for you, Shakes," Michael said. "Win or lose."

"We can't let you go out there without a good-luck kiss," Carol Martinez said, easing her way through the crowd to join our group. She was wearing a white dress with black shoes and white lace stockings. Her long, dark hair was done up in a ponytail.

"You give it to him," Michael said. "We already kissed him once today."

Carol put her arms around my neck and kissed me firmly on the lips.

"Kiss or no kiss," Tommy said, "we ain't cuttin' her in on the prize money."

"You're nothin' but heart," John said.

Each contestant was placed under one of the six spotlights, the circle large enough to give us all room to dance. I was sandwiched between the kid from the pizza parlor and one of the Irish guys from 46th, still in his St. Agnes school uniform. Reuben was across from me, a relaxed look on his face, a toothpick hanging from the side of his mouth. The tall black kid, the best-dressed of the group, was the only one who looked nervous.

"C'mon, everybody!" the disc jockey shouted in a poor Chubby Checker imitation. "Clap your hands, we're gonna do the twist and it goes like this."

Chubby Checker's joyful voice boomed out of the faulty sound system and we began to twist, cheered on by the screams and cries of our friends in the crowd. We all kept it simple at the start, except for the three Irish guys, who tossed in spins and whirls to impress the audience.

It was an easy contest to lose. If you fell, missed your motion, or stopped twisting, you were automatically bounced. Barring that, the disc jockey, the designated twist judge, walked among the dancers and tapped out those he felt were not up to the demands of the dance.

It would take less than twenty minutes to declare a winner.

The Irish kid in the St. Agnes uniform was the first out, losing his balance on a one-knee twist. One of his friends followed soon after, trying to do a foot and hand move that backfired.

"They're Irish," Tommy said, laughing and nudging Michael. "Just like you."

"They're stupid too," Michael said. "Just like you."

By the third go-around I was getting winded, sweat coming off my face and back, the heat of the spotlights and the constant movement causing the faces around me to blur. Reuben kept his pace steady, his eyes on me, every so often flashing a smile to show he was in the game and breathing easy.

By the end of "Twistin' U.S.A." the kid from the pizza parlor grabbed his side, stopped dancing, and walked out of the circle. A short girl reached toward him, put her arms around his waist, and kissed his cheek.

"You see that?" John asked with a look of disgust. "She kissed him on the zits."

"A connect-the-dot face has a girlfriend and I go to movies alone," Tommy said, shaking his head. "Is that fair?"

"Yes," Michael said.

Reuben was moving faster now, shaking down lower, twisting his body till his knees seemed to be waxing the floor. The toothpick was still in his mouth and a sneer had replaced the smile, his confidence building with every beat.

The black kid was all sweat and little style, his legs starting to cramp, the overhead lights bothering him more with each move. He was favoring his right knee, wincing whenever he went down on it.

The disc jockey, hands folded behind his back, walked over and whispered something in his ear. The black kid looked at him and nodded. He stopped dancing and limped off the floor.

"Poor guy," Carol said. "His knee must be really bad."

"His father takin' a bullet meant nothin'," Tommy said.

"You gotta have somebody die die to catch a break in this contest," John said. to catch a break in this contest," John said.

It was now down to three dancers.

I figured I had enough left in me for five more good minutes. Any more, and they could use the fifty dollars to bury me. Reuben looked like he could twist all night, with or without the music.

"Let's hear it for these guys that are left," the disc jockey shouted. "The twisting kings of New York City."

The Irish kid stopped dancing to applaud along with the crowd and was forced to leave the contest.

"That guy's dumber than a plant," Johnny said.

"The deejay?" Tommy asked. "Or the Irish kid?"

"Both," Michael said.

"All right, boys, let's see what you got," the disc jockey said to me and Reuben. "You're the only ones left."

I was soaked through with sweat, my shirt sticking to my chest and back, my hair matted to my face. My jeans were loose and the sweat around my waist made them looser. Even my shoes were starting to slip on the gym floor.

I had a few moves left and started to use them, twisting down on one knee, leaving the free leg up. Through the darkness, my end of the crowd reacted with applause and whistles.

I moved as low to the ground as I could, still twisting, then planted my hands between my legs, did a split, and brought them back up to twist position.

"That's it," Tommy said. "That's what you gotta show 'em. They eat that Fred Astaire s.h.i.t up."

"The Puerto Rican has to make his move now," Michael said. "Or take the loss."

"What happens if he swallows that toothpick?" John asked.

"We win," Michael said.

Reuben made his move, but it was the wrong one.

With his end of the crowd clapping and cheering behind him, Reuben went down to a low position, laid his hands flat on the ground, and tried a head-over flip. He made the flip, an impressive head-past-shoulder acrobatic move, but the soles of his shoes slipped when he landed back on his feet. He slid to the ground and fell onto his rear, toothpick still in his mouth.

I stopped dancing, walked over to Reuben, reached out my hand, and helped him to his feet.

"Great move," I said.

"I'll get you next summer," he said.

"You almost got me this this summer," I said, shaking his hand. summer," I said, shaking his hand.

The crowd closed in on us, applauding, whistling, and shouting. Their screams and chants grew even louder when the disc jockey slapped a $50 bill in my palm and raised my hand in victory.

"We're rich!" Tommy shouted, rashing toward me with John, Michael, and Carol fast behind. "We're rich!"

"We can live for a month," John said. "Pizza. Comic books. Italian ices. The town's ours."

"You were lucky," Michael said to me with a smile. "It's always better to be lucky."

"Don't expect another kiss," Carol said.

"I'm too tired to kiss anybody," I said. "I'm too tired to even walk."

"You don't have to walk," Tommy said. "You're the champ. We'll drive you."

He grabbed one of my legs, and John and Michael grabbed the other, hoisting me on their shoulders, the crowd behind me still chanting their support.

They carried me through the gym, carefully lowering me past the black exit doors and out onto the street.

"Where we goin'?" I asked, tilting my head back, letting the warm evening breeze cool my face.

"Anyplace," Michael said. "Do anything we want."

"We got the time," John said. "And we finally got the money."

"We can go anywhere," Tommy said. "There's nothin' can stop us."

We were under a streedight on the corner of West 50th Street and Tenth Avenue. John, Tommy, and Michael holding me on their shoulders. Carol next to them, a smile on her face, slowly dancing around a garbage can.

The night and the streets were ours and the future lay sparkling ahead.

And we thought we would know each other forever.