By the measure of the nouveau ambitious, the kids never did much of anything but trail behind them on their migratory route a cloud of midday lethargy.

They knelt and stood, slouching in packs against the shady brown surface of the building, studying the slope of the bricks and lighting matches with their teeth for a few hours before moving on to another destination.  They nursed canned guava nectar on aged city buses, the coupled few necking in tint-frayed window seats. 

They loitered by the library. 

They scraped grime from their keys.

They unspooled the tape of a Lakeside cassette.   

They stole from pawnshops and gas stations, arcades and park sheds: lighters, guitar picks; chocolate mint patties of charitable groups; beer cozies, crepe paper, mood rings, and clips.  No countertop jar anywhere was safe.

Upon UV affliction, they escaped to department store cafeterias, sitting without eating near red plastic signs touting men’s hats at thirty percent savings over normally low prices when purchased with a credit card issued by that particular store. 

The kids had no credit.

By the measure of the nouveau ambitious, fauxhawks were gauche (though growing less so each day,) and Hoxton fins unimagined.  Tight pants were laughable.  Necking was obscene.  Smoking was archaic and spontaneity unapproved of.   

By such measure, hammering paint can lids onto traffic signals’ tunnel visors was both unsafe and bad, but- by grudging admission of the efforts disbursed- also uncharacteristically ambitious, if only slightly at that.

The kids were thought vulgar, and (upon revelation of the unexpectedly common denominator,) they thought themselves vulgar as well.  They thought themselves many things, a great variety, a vast assortment. 

They thought seldom of the nouveau ambitious and their ice-blended rhetoric.

Their discourse was intermittent, but barren of deceit.  They spoke on the topics on which kids often speak.