This stretch of river that I strolled along today was the site of my one and only truly illegal act. About fifteen years ago I became aware of the existence of a sawed off shotgun in my garage. Don't ask me how it got there. I had nothing to do with it. My roommate Laura's dad was a retired cop, so we called him and asked what we should do with it. He said under no circumstances should we call the police, as the mere possession of said object would get us in big trouble. He told us to take it apart and dispose of it, preferably with the help of a rowboat. Neither of us had any clue about guns, so we called our friend Vince who came and dismantled it for us, chuckling the whole time at the condition of the gun and how freaked out by it we were. He said it was so old it probably wouldn't shoot. Late that night my friend Aaron and I took a little stroll along the river with the pieces of the gun in a very inconspicuous brown paper bag which we periodically opened and tossed the various pieces of gun into the middle of the river. We laughed at ourselves the whole way, knowing how ridiculous we must look skulking along in the dark. It was a bizarre experience.