In high school, after his dad left, Bradford threw parties every weekend.   He told people it was a good way to distract himself, keep himself company, though really he just liked the sympathy it created and access it provided him to drunk young chicks.  Because his last name was Brock, he called his parties “Brock Stock.”  By graduation, he’d managed to throw something like twenty-five Brock Stocks senior year.  Most of the time there were games of strip poker where everyone ended up naked. The house was a bachelor pad originally built for a middle aged man, which meant that after his father was gone, Bradford gained access to an indoor hot tub and the remains of his father’s wet bar and extensive wine cellar.  That’s where I developed a taste for Chianti.  It was his father’s favorite, so Bradford had cases and cases left to him, and to us as well.

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