I replaced my Birnbaum book with a bottle of Lactaid. When pizza appeared or ice cream was served, I stepped back. But there was a silver lining. Somehow I had said goodbye to the boy I was—obsessed with attractions—and instead, I became the attraction. In the eyes of my peers, I had aged decades on that trip. I was now a man—a man who couldn’t eat dairy. I instantly became that mid-forties disgraced cop from movies I had always wanted to be. I had a history. And it wasn’t pretty.
