tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67379082483330788552024-03-13T21:22:26.733-07:00babylon. and on.tj judehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02502294263834268458noreply@blogger.comBlogger10125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6737908248333078855.post-4433040000699315432009-10-26T18:59:00.000-07:002009-10-31T06:31:24.094-07:00stain, Part I<div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: right;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">autumn n. 1</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> the season that comes between summer and winter; fall</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: right;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">2</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> any period of maturity or of beginning decline</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> It’s dark as hell. Pitch black. I’m back in the leaf fort with Don, sitting and waiting. It’s fall again, in here anyway, and cold. I </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">know</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> where we are, even if I can’t </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">see</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> where we are, because we’re always here on nights like this. There’s been a lot of nights like this lately. Ever since— Well, since last fall. That’s when it is now, but it’ll be spring again in the morning.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> I can smell the leaves. All dry and damp at the same time. They’d crumble easy as hell if you could grab ’em, but they’d still be wet enough that the pieces would stick to your hand. But that smell. It gets in your nose so strong you can taste it. Kind of like dirt. Just about thick enough to choke you.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> My brother’s usually a few years older than me, but not when we’re in here. Don’s a kid again. Maybe eight or nine. I’m still seventeen. Even though I can’t see him yet, I know he’s sitting on the other side of the fort, facing me. I can’t hear him either. I can’t hear anything. Pure silence. A quiet so loud it makes your ears want to pop. It’s like you’re deaf. Deaf and blind. Plus, you can’t move. Like you’re dead, but know that you’re dead too. All except for the smell.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> The light comes on behind Don. Bright white. Makes me squint. A dome of light cut out of the dark. It turns his head and the far wall of the fort into a silhouette, like the ones you made when you were a kid, when the teacher would shine the overhead projector at the side of your head and trace your shadow on a piece of black construction paper she’d taped up to the board, and then you’d have to cut it out. Like that, but with a little more detail. I start to hear now, but only my heart. It thumps in my ears, slow and quiet at first, getting louder and faster. Don stands up, turns around and faces the light. He’s almost as tall as the dome now, with just enough left over his head to make a halo. I’m yelling at him. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Move, goddamn it! Run! </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> But that’s only in your head. You know by now all you can do is watch. Watch and wait for the thuds. Those goddamn thuds.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Wait. It’s different this time. I hear something else. Like . . . chirping. What is that? A cricket? Where’d a cricket come from? There’s never been a cricket before.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Nah, that’s not a cricket. It’s the alarm clock. Turn that thing off. Oh, god, my head. Don’t move, man. Don’t even open your eyes. Just reach for it. What the— Bedpost. More left. Where the hell are ya? There. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Whap.</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Take that, you piece of shit.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Peace. Oh, peace is good. Good peace. Man, what the hell’d you do last night? Jesus. Pool? I remember pool. What the fuck? I can’t shoot pool.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Oh, right. Tobien’s. Dime drafts. Me and Grant. And pool. Man, you can’t shoot pool.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Wonder what time— Oh yeah. The alarm. Must be seven. Now, what day? Please be Saturday. God, let it be Saturday. What the hell’d you set the alarm for if it was gonna be Saturday? Shit, it ain’t Saturday.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Vocabulary test. Yesterday. Those come on . . . Tuesday. Can you spell ‘hangover’ boys and girls? Sure. I thought you could. Mister Rogers? That ain’t good, especially this early. And it’s only Wednesday. You got school. Wednesday? Shit. You gotta go see Doc today.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-p-f-f-f-f-f-f-t.</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Goddamn, Don! Nice out, man! Bet you’re proud of that one, huh? Had to be a good seven, eight seconds lo— Whoa! Jesus H. Christ! What crawled up inside you and died? Aww, man! Don’t breathe that shit in! I think I’m gonna puke! Mayday! Mayday! Abandon ship!</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Aaahhh, tile’s cool. Just sit. Piss like a bitch. Oh yeah, that’s it. Aaaaahhhhh. Golden Streams, by I. P. Freely. Golden rivers today, Mr. Freely. Golden rapids running into golden waterfalls running into a golden ocean. Ocean. Ocean. Zeppelin. Physical Graffiti? Nah, Houses of the Holy. Last song on the B side. “The Ocean.” </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Singing to an ocean, I can hear the ocean’s roar</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. Cool. Ocean. Oh shun. Ocean. That’s a weird fuckin’ word.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Get out of your head, man. Too much going on in there. God, I ain’t gonna make it. Don’t wanna move. Maybe just lean back against the tank for a minute.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Bam bam bam!</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> What the— “Jim!” The old lady. “What’re you doin’ in there? Contemplatin’ your navel again? You’re gonna be late for school!”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Out in a minute!” Geez, no shower today. Shower. Fuckin’ rubber hose stuck on the faucet with a little attachment that spits out some spray. Woolworth special. Hose isn’t even long enough for you to stand up. Gotta kneel. Still, better than a bath. Ooh, my head. Not so fast on the standing up there, moron. Aspirin. Aspirin. Medicine cabinet. Damn draft beer. That shit’ll kill ya. Whoa, try pulling up the boxers first, dick cheese. Don’t need to break your neck getting there. Damn! Not so fast on the bending over either.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Who is that in the mirror? Didn’t think you could look as bad as you feel. Fuck it. Just get your pills. Aspirin, aspirin. Should’ve known. WD brand. The bitch gets Winn-Dixie everything. That or Woolworth’s. Maybe five or si— Hang on, how ’bout this? The old man’s box of Goody’s. And his cup. Maybe take a powder. If this ain’t a Goody’s headache, nothing is.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Man, shit looks like coke. Maybe you should snort it, get it there faster. Fuck that. First time you did whiff, you just did a line. Second time was lines all night. Really got off on that shit then. Never even made it to bed. Drank and smoked a lot more than you would’ve if you hadn’t done the bump. But you got to come down after, slept the whole next day and still had a hellacious hangover. This one ranks right up there.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px; text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">White Hell</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">White hell</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Powder your nose</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">You’re killing yourself</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And you can’t tell</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The destruction is clear</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">To those you hold dear</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">White hell</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Hear what they say</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">It’s for your own good</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">They want to help</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">But you’re wading in lines</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Just wasting your life</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">White hell</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">It’s taken control</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Suck it into your face</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Shoot it into your arm</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Do a little freebase</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">White hell</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">White line fever</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">When you’re out</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">It’s great white hope</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Not gonna get any easier</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Snowbound, snow-blind</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Burnt out on your dope</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">White hell</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">It’s the big white lie</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Wonder do you mix this shit with water first? Nah, just dump it in your mouth, chase it. Man, </span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">that’s rank. Fuck. Should’ve filled the cup up first. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Hnyaah</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">— Jesus! If you had to inhale, why didn’t you just do it through your nose? </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Gahk!</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Put that cup down, man! Turn around quick, she’s gonna blow! Damn! Didn’t flush that piss! Gonna be a golden splash, Freely! </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Hyuuuuck! Hyuuuuuuck! Hyuuuuuuuuck!</span></i></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Man, I see spots. Sure hope that’s puke on my chin. God, you got your face down here in the thunder mug where your ass is supposed to be and one kind of nasty shit or another dripping off of it. And it’s Wednesday.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Bam bam bam!</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Jim! What’re you doin’ in there? I gotta get ready for work. You need to get out. Now!”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Comin’!” Get a washcloth, man. Wet it, wipe your face. Flush that shit. Put the old man’s cup back. No, get some water first. Oh, that’s good. More. Wait, take some </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">real</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> aspirin. Four, five. That’ll do. Oh yeah. A lot better.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Damn. You look even worse. Fuck it. Back to the room, get dressed, get your books, head out. Wait for the old lady to go to work, come back, get some sleep. Just hope she ain’t in the hall now. Thank god.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Don’s still in bed. Wonder when he goes to work? Probably not ’til afternoon. Hell, I don’t care if he is home when I get back. God, it still stinks in here.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> There’s the bathroom door. The old lady’s in. There goes Don getting up. Better run before he starts talking out his ass again. The hell with your books. Shove ’em under the bed, man. Damn it! Quit bending over so fast!</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Alright. Made it out. Now, where to? Around back to the basement? That’s stupid. Too risky. Door’s locked anyway. Even if it wasn’t, the fuckin’ thing sticks too much. Everybody’d hear you open it. What about the treehouse? Why not? Better walk around the block though, come at it from the other side. Never know who might be watching.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Man, you haven’t been up there in years. Think them steps’ll hold you? Some slats we cut in half and nailed up after we pulled them off of one of the pallets the old man brought home from work. One holds, two’s missing, three holds, four, five, six, through the hole in the floor. Damn, that’s tight. The ribs of the pallets were made out of a lot heavier stuff. Used them to hold the floor up. Two pallets nailed end-to-end, braced up with a bunch of ribs, a piece of plywood nailed on top for a floor. The walls are slats left over after prying the ribs loose. Another piece of plywood nailed on top for a roof. Stretch out, kill some time ’til the old lady leaves.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Me and Don built this piece of shit years ago. About the last thing I remember us doing together. Hell, about the only thing. Except maybe splitting a birthday cake. You’re exactly three years and five days younger, so the old lady only makes one cake—she calls it a pound cake, but it seems a lot heavier than that—then frosts it and writes both our names with the icing. “Happy Birthday” across the top, “Don & Jim” across the bottom. Usually get the same thing for a gift too. Clothes mostly. Got bikes that one year. Orange as hell. Kmart. Black banana seats. Those split in no time. Had to duct tape ’em.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> The old lady made us ask Mr. Campbell for permission to build this thing since the tree’s on his property. Hell, it’s not like it’s right in his yard or anything. Across the field from his house in the middle of a line of bushes. Just a fuckin’ piece of shit tree in the middle of some scraggly-ass bushes. Not like it’s some real neat hedge or anything, and we were gonna make it an eyesore. Just some scraggly bushes, about chest high, with a bunch of gaps you can climb right through. You must’ve been eight or nine, so Don would’ve been eleven or twelve. When we finished, he started acting like it was his place, like I couldn’t use it. Turned into a real asshole. Hell, he’s always been an asshole.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Stinks in here. Damp. Spider webs. Never did cut any windows. Left a couple gaps on each wall, where the boards don’t go all the way up.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Teri Shanahan. God, you used to have a thing for her. She was a couple years younger. We’d come up here and play doctor. I’d be the doctor and she’d be the patient. Or she’d be a nurse and you’d be the patient. That was better. Take your shirt off, pretend to be wounded, let her dig a bullet out of your bellybutton. Accidentally leave your fly open on purpose. You’d have a boner, work it around so it was running up your fly, pushing your underwear through. She’d say, “XYZ. Examine your zipper.” You’d say you were unconscious and that she’d have to pull it up. She never would though. When she was the patient, she’d never let you take her top off. Said her old man had told her not to let anybody see her things. Hell, she didn’t even have things yet. She’d just pull her shirt up far enough to see her bellybutton, then keep a hand across the front of her pants so you wouldn’t fuck around with her zipper. There was a couple years there we quit hanging out. Then you saw her in the field here, right under the treehouse. You walking one way and her coming from the other. Started joking around, picked her up, laid her across your shoulders, started spinning her like Ric Flair or something. She was screaming and laughing and trying to hold on. She goddamn reached down, grabbed my dick right through my shorts. Man, if I had a dime for every time I wished she’d done that . . . . And you just froze, put her down, said you had to go. Pussy. Should’ve asked if she wanted to climb up and play doctor.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Didn’t see her again ’til the funeral. Fuckin’ cancer. She was twelve.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Why can’t I quit remembering shit? That’s all the hell I do anymore. Like my life is a mixed-up movie playing in my head, a little piece here, a little piece there. I just show myself to my seat in this little theater in my brain, where I’m the usher and the audience and the projectionist and the narrator, and the rest of the world—time even—just about stands still while all this shit starts flashing through. I can cover a whole lot in just a few seconds. Years in a matter of minutes. But it’s not like there’s anything worth looking at. Just a bunch of bullshit. Just a bunch of shit I’d rather forget. Roll the credits already. Call me the manager and have me throw me the fuck out of here. I don’t remember selling me a ticket. Besides, don’t we all know we’ve seen this piece of shit before?</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">There’s a place in my mind</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> . . . . Great, there I go with that again. Don’t know what to call it. Lyrics, I guess. It’s not poetry or anything. I’m not a fag. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with writing lyrics. A lot of cool guys write ’em. Any band’s got to have somebody writing lyrics. Lyrics are half of what rock-n-roll is.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><br />
</span> <br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px; text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I Wanna Rock!!</span></span><br />
</div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><br />
</span><br />
<div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Baby came over</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">She was dressed to kill</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Said, man, let’s paint the town</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">She was ready to go</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Staring at the clock</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I cut on the stereo</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And said, “I wanna rock!!”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">(Chorus)</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">That’s all I wanna do</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I wanna rock</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">With or without you</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I wanna rock</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Ain’t nothin’ better for the soul</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Than a shot of rock-n-roll</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And baby, you know, I wanna rock</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Maybe I’m rude</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">To put it so blunt</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Said, babe, I don’t wanna go out</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">She was ready to go</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Staring at the door</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I cut on the stereo</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And pulled her to the floor</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">(Chorus; Break 1)</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Now she sees it my way</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">She comes over to stay</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Ain’t no way we can stop</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Me and baby, we wanna rock</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Tables done turned</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Now I got cabin fever</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I was just achin’ for some room</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I was ready to go</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">You know, my feet were gettin’ hot</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">She cut on the stereo</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Well, I almost forgot</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">(Chorus; Break 2)</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Won’t slip my mind again</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Rock-n-roll’s my best friend</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">With my baby lookin’ right</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Gonna rock-n-roll all night</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">It’d help if you could play a guitar or sing or something, instead of just getting a beat in your head, maybe some guitar licks or bass, then making up words to fit. Wish I could write a whole song, play it and sing it and everything, but all I can do is write down the words when they come. If I don’t do it right off, they’ll just bounce around ’til I do. Let’s see. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">There’s a place in the corners of my mind</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> . . . . That fuckin’ sucks. God, I feel like shit. Wish Teri was here. Maybe she’d just curl up with me, let me hold her.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Wha— Man, what were you just thinking? You dreaming? Crocker? Who the hell’s Crocker? Right, we were watching him pitch last night. At Tobien’s. That place is out in the fuckin’ sticks. The guy lets us in. I don’t know if he knows we’re not eighteen. Probably doesn’t care. But something about Crocker. Grant picked you up in the Vega. Forget where we were supposed to be going. The old man was at work, so you had to ask the old lady. They’ll let you out on a school night if it’s got something to do with school, like a ballgame, and you get home by ten. She wouldn’t know what season it is, so you might’ve just told her we were going to a game without bothering to say what kind. That one time you had to ask the old man, was gonna tell him you were going to a wrestling match, but before you could get it out, he’s like, “Where is it tonight, the sky hockey match?” and turned up his beer. But you must’ve got home on time, and got to the room OK. We left around six-thirty.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">“Hey, man.” Grant had on his gray sweatshirt with the green UNC Charlotte logo. He’s planning on going there after we graduate. That’s way too far off for me to be making plans, but if I’m still around, I guess I’ll get a job. “Dime drafts at Tobien’s tonight. I emptied my change jar.” His pocket was bulging. He tapped a weed out of a fresh pack of Merit Lights and stuck ’em up under the visor. Those things suck. Just don’t have enough kick. But I have to bum ’em sometimes, so I don’t talk shit. “I’m buyin’ if you tell me what I wanna hear.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “You’re one good-lookin’ son of a bitch.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Cute, man.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “OK. You’re one cute son of a bitch.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Ha ha. C’mon, ya holdin’ or not?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Yeah, I’m holdin’.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Cool. We’re ready to roll then. Pack us one up.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> We caught a pretty good buzz on the way out, cruising down 70, toward Whitsett. I don’t know where they got that name. Tobien’s. The guy behind the bar owns the place. Grant knows him. Calls him Tom. Maybe Tobien is his last name. Tobien. Toe bee inn. Tobien. My toe be in the water.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Get us a beer, man, pick us a table.” Grant handed me a couple dimes, stuck his lighter and his smokes halfway down in his pocket, headed toward the back. “I gotta take a piss.” His hair’s so dark it’s almost black, and straight as fuck. Sits there like a batting helmet. He’s shortstop at school. The bangs run most of the way down his forehead, the sides barely cover his ears, the back just touches the collar of his sweatshirt. His whole face has kind of an edge, ’cause his nose and chin both come to a point. His lips cut a thin line straight between ’em. Frank fuckin’ Burns lips.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> I got two drafts and a table. It wasn’t hard. Tom was the only one there except for us. It was </span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">against a wall, had a good view of the TV hanging up in the corner, and was close to all the necessities—bar, bathroom, jukebox—but not too close. I waved to get Grant’s attention when he came out of the john. Like he couldn’t have spotted me in that big empty. He gave me a nod, went and got two more beers. The cups there aren’t big to start with, and then you gotta take off for the thick head Tom puts on. Grant carried his beers over, put ’em on the table, then his cigarettes. He fished his Bic out before he sat down. We both chugged our first one. Like three swallows.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> I looked over at Grant. “Hey, I’m gonna need to smoke outta your pack tonight.” He raised his eyebrows and dropped his jaw like, ‘The hell you are,’ but he must’ve remembered who was holding and slid the Merits over. “Middle of the week, man. I’ll get ya back Friday when I get my allowance.” I pulled a smoke out of the pack, reached over and grabbed his lighter.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “You want me to smoke it for ya too? Or just give ya a kick in the ass to get it started?” He was grinning, so it was cool.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “This music sucks.” Tom had some country station on. “How ’bout some juke?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Grant stood up, emptied his pocket on the table. I had to stop some of the change from rolling off the edge. We raked it into a big fuckin’ pile of quarters, nickels, and dimes. “Grab what ya need, man.” He picked out some quarters. “I’m gonna shoot some pool. You up for it?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Nah. You know I don’t shoot.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Hell, there ain’t nobody here to see how bad ya suck.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Maybe not, but I’d still haf’ta listen to you raggin’ on me.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “I’ll take it easy, man. Swear. I’ll even let ya break.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Fuck. What the hell.” He’d have kept bugging me ’til I gave in, so I took off my jacket, covered the change with it, left it on the table with the empties to let people know the table was taken. We took our second beers with us.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Hang on, I forgot the juke.” I went back and grabbed some quarters, looked over the jukebox, punched in a few tunes. I think the first was Nazareth. “Hair of the Dog.” </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Now you’re messin’ with a son of a bitch.</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Don’s got that album, and that song rocks. I don’t know why they wanted to put that wimpy-ass “Love Hurts” right after it. ‘Oooh, my poor wittle heart is bwoken.’ It’s like that Derek and the Dominoes tune, “Layla.” Clapton jams like hell for the first half, but then it gets real mellow, even has some bird chirping in it at the end. But “Hair” rocks. When it came on, ol’ Tom just rolled his eyes, shook his head, took his own sweet time turning off that twangy country shit he was listening to.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> I wouldn’t say Grant’s short—I mean, I’m six foot, but I’m not no skyscraper—but when he was standing beside the pool table, his waist barely cleared the edge of it. He’s stocky though, damn near as heavy as me. He chalked up his cue. “Man, these sticks are about as straight as my dick.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> I was picking one out, couldn’t help but laugh. “</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">What?</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “No shit, man. Look.” He laid his on the table, rolled it back and forth with his palm. “It should have a Chiquita label on it.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “The stick or your dick?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Either one, man. I got a left-hand curve ya know.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “No, I don’t know. And I don’t wanna. A little too much information, man. Besides, don’t blame the stick if ya can’t shoot straight, big boy. Just rack ’em up.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Grant fed the machine a quarter, racked up the balls, alternated stripes and solids, held the sides of the frame with his fingers while he pressed the balls toward the front with his thumbs, rolled the whole thing back and forth a few times to tighten the pack, centered it at his end of the table, and lifted the frame. While I was chalking up my cue, I saw Tom looking over at us. I tried to ignore ’em, but I could feel him and Grant both watching me aim. When I finally broke, the cue ball just glanced off the yellow one ball in front, barely knocked anything loose. Tom shook his head again, turned around and started watching TV. I looked over at Grant. He was grinning like hell. I could feel my fuckin’ face burning. “Guess you were right about these sticks.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Ha! Don’t blame the stick, big boy.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Grant had to raise a leg to get a good shot at the cue ball. He ran the table on me, then I had to rack.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> We must’ve played for a couple hours, me losing and racking, then watching Grant shoot. I might’ve won once, when he scratched the eight ball on the break. He sure as hell didn’t miss much, but when he did, he always let out a “Goddamn it.” Those kept getting louder. We took turns getting the rounds, and I kept punching songs in on the jukebox. I know Aerosmith had “Walk This Way” and “Toys In The Attic,” and Kansas had “Carry On Wayward Son” and “What’s On My Mind,” so there was some good jam on there along with the bullshit. Three or four times we stepped out back and burned a bowl. Tom caught us the second time. I’d left the bowl with Grant and went around the corner to take a piss. I heard the door open and somebody say, “Hey, boy, what the hell’re you doin’?” loud as hell, and then Grant say, “Nothin’, man,” and then saw it was Tom when I looked around the corner. I got scared he was gonna throw us out, but he just took a couple hits and went back in.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> I got tired of getting my ass beat, or maybe Grant got tired of beating it, so we went and sat down. There was a baseball game on TV, and Tom told us he was gonna turn it up. We’d heard all the songs we paid for, and we were getting kind of low on change anyway, so it was no big deal. Grant’d had to spring for a pack of smokes, and I talked him into getting Marlboros since they didn’t have Merits. It was that or Winstons, which suck, or those god-awful Vantage things, or else menthols, and neither one of us was gonna smoke a goddamn Kool. There was a couple packs of Virginia Slims too, but we’d sooner smoke Kools than Vagina Slimes. They’re high-dollar smokes out there too. Damn dollar a pack. Ten drafts we’d never see. But Tom gave us a couple freebies for turning him on, so we were doing pretty good.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Grant leaned his chair against the wall, put his feet up on the table. “The Braves. Hot-lanta on the road. Shit, man, they’re playin’ the Padres. I hope that fuckin’ Crocker ain’t on the mound.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Who?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Crocker. He pitched for us in Legion ball. Well, before I was on the team. It’s usually just juniors ’n seniors, but they’ll take a sophomore once in a while, if they’re good. Like me last year. Crocker played year before that. Son of a bitch cost us eight goddamn games.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “How’s that?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “He was too old to play. By two months. You can only play up to eighteen. He tried to put one over on the league. They found out halfway through the season. We had’ta forfeit our wins. Knocked us from first place to last,” he snapped his fingers, “just like </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">that</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Didn’t he know he was too old?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Goddamn right he knew! What the fuck’d he care? His father-in-law’s the goddamn manager for San Diego. Crock just wanted to get some work for his arm ’fore he went off to Triple A, and now he’s pitchin’ for the goddamn Padres. He didn’t give a fuck about us.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Grant was getting hot, and Tom was starting to keep an eye on us, so I tried to change the subject. “Ready for another round?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Huh? Oh. Sure, what the fuck.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> I counted out twenty cents from what change was left, went to get two more. Tom was </span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">already drawing ’em by the time I got there. He set ’em on the bar, looked right at me, then nodded over at Grant. “What’s the problem with your boy?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Nothin’.” I laid the money down.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Well, tell him to keep it quiet. He’s gettin’ loud.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Yeah, all right. I’ll tell him.” I grabbed our beers, walked back to the table.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Grant was sitting on the edge of his chair, elbows on his knees, staring up at the game. “Shit, man, there he is.” Number thirty-five, Burlington’s own Bobby Crocker, was standing on the mound. “The fucker really made it, man. He really made it.” Grant sat back, shook his head. “He won’t last long though. All he’s got’s a fastball, and even I could hit it. These boys are gonna eat him for lunch.” He sat back on the edge of his chair again. “C’mon, Braves! Knock his shit back!”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Hey, man. Tom told us to keep it down.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “What? There ain’t even nobody else—” We both looked around. There was maybe four or five other guys who’d come in. A couple of ’em were looking at us. “There ain’t hardly nobody else here.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Well, still, he told us to keep it quiet.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Shit!” Grant was louder than ever. I looked up at the game instead of over at the bar. Crocker had gone up a strike on the first batter. The announcer said it was a fastball.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> I cut my eyes at Tom, saw him looking at Grant. “C’mon, man. Cool it. I don’t wanna get tossed.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Ah, fuck this place. If he wants to throw us out, let ’im.” Grant lit another cigarette, hit it like it was a Merit, blew it out hard and fast, coughed like it was a Marlboro. “Jesus. How d’ya smoke these cowboy killers?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Practice, man.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Fuck!” The pop of the catcher’s mitt was loud as hell. The announcer called strike two. The ex-jock sidekick said the kid could really throw the heat. Grant slapped the table, sorted out the last quarter from what change was left. “Let’s play some pinball. I don’t wanna watch this asshole anyway.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Get the machine, man.” I got up, headed for the bathroom. “I gotta hit the john first.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Yeah, I gotta go myself.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> I kind of stopped, broke for the back door instead.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Where the fuck ya goin’? I thought ya had’ta piss.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Uh, yeah, well, I thought I’d just piss outside.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Wha’ the fuck for?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Well, ya know, I was gonna hit the bowl.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Well, ya could piss first.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “You go ahead. I’ll meet ya out back.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Wha’ the fuck ever.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Grant staggered a little as he walked off. I went outside, hurried around the corner, got a piss started before he could get out there. When I finished, I packed a bowl and started hitting it. Grant never did come out, so I just took a few tokes, tapped the loose ash off the top, shoved the bowl and matches in my pocket, went back in.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Grant was standing in front of the pinball machine. He was holding his beer to his chest with one hand and trying to put the quarter in the slot with the other, but he dropped it. It bounced on the floor, rolled behind him. He must’ve heard where it went, jerked around, bent over to pick it up instead of just squatting down to get it, and poured his beer on the floor. He jerked back up when he saw what was happening, but he was too late to save the draft.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Shit a brick!” He threw the cup on the floor, tried to pick the quarter up again, still not so much as bending his knees. I just stood there inside the back door and watched, trying not to bust out laughing. He kept leaning forward, real slow, reaching out for that quarter shining up at him from the floor. He went too far though, and fell right on his goddamn head. I thought I was gonna die. He dropped over on his side, rolled onto his belly, right in the puddle of beer. “Shit!” He finally picked the quarter off the floor, pushed himself up as I was walking over. He gave me a real eat-shit look. “Let’s get the fuck outta here!”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">We must’ve got home all right. I guess we finished off that last bowl on the way, ’cause it’s empty now. So’s my bag. Gonna have to dip into Don’s stash again. Hope him and the old lady both are gone. Time to climb down and find out.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">No station wagon. That’s good. Let’s just go in and see about ol’ Donny boy. “Hey! Don!” Nothing. Cool. Don’t hear the water running, so he’s not in the shower. Nope, door’s open. “Hey, Don!” Well all right. Guess he’s gone. Let’s us just go see what he’s holding. Fuck. You can’t just have room for the headache, you got to squeeze in the Mission Impossible theme too. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Dunt dunt duntdunt dunt dunt duntdunt dunt dunt duntdunt dunt dunt duntdunt DUN-UH-LUHHH DUN-UH-LUHHH DUN-UH-LUHHH DU-NUH dunt dunt</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">— Damn, shut the fuck up in there!</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Ease the drawer open, lift up that old T-shirt he never wears. Well, well, what’s this? A brown paper bag. Imagine that. Open it up and what do we find? Oooh. Fresh stash. Four big ol’ bags. Quick, just a few buds out of each. Maybe a little shake to sprinkle over the top. Can’t be greedy. Lick ’em, seal ’em, back in the bag, under the T-shirt, ease the drawer closed. Yes! He’ll never know.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">There’s a place in the shadows of my mind</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> . . . . Great. Now that’s back. I’m gonna have to write it down soon. Not now though. Gotta get some sleep. Oh, bed. Good bed. Bed good.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Whasit? Wherethe? . . . . Phone! Get to the kitchen, man! What if it’s the old lady? Why’d she be calling? Who would be? Just answer the damn thing! “Hello?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Hello. This is the principal’s office calling from Williams High School. We were wondering why Jim isn’t in school today.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “He’s sick.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Oh. Do you think he’ll be in class tomorrow?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Yeah.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Well . . . all right then. Thank you very much.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Sure.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Geez. That’s it? That was fuckin’ easy. Sounded like Meredith. Wonder if it was? Wonder if she knew it was me? Meredith. Rich bitch. She used to like Grant. She’s how we started hanging out in the first place. She wanted to make him jealous, so she started paying attention to me. You were in the same homeroom with him last year. Mr. Foster made us sit in alphabetical order. You were in the back seat, second row in from the door, Grant’s desk was in the next row over, one seat up. Meredith works in the principal’s office in the mornings, so she can pretty much do whatever she wants. Getting people out of class by saying the principal wants to see ’em, or just walking the halls if she feels like it. She’d come by our room, stop outside the back door, call my name just loud enough so that Grant’d hear it too, then wave at me. I knew what she was up to, but it was kind of nice anyway. Must’ve worked too, ’cause Grant called her up and she quit messing around with me. I don’t know, they might’ve gone out once, but I don’t think Grant really ever liked her, ’cause we’d always rag on her every morning after she left. She didn’t have any tits or anything, and her ass was flat as hell.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Ten-fifteen. Back to bed.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">What a day. Slept through most of it. Still feel like shit. That “shower” sucks, but I’m clean. Brushed my teeth for</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">ever</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. Could’ve </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">shaved</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> my tongue. Bowl of corn flakes should help settle the gut. Couple teaspoons of sugar. Man, it’s after three. You’re missing Andy. They show a couple back-to-back on channel two. I’ll only get to watch about half of the second one, ’cause I gotta be at Dr. Braxton’s by four. The old lady’ll be here to pick me up around ten ’til. Turn on the tube, click the dial around to CBS, kick back on the couch. Huh. Don’t remember this one. Looks like Barney’s trying to straighten Otis out again. Fuck! He just said they’re gonna look at his id and his ego, and while they’re at it, they’re gonna check out his superego. No! Ol’ Barn just whipped out an inkblot! Don’t spit out that cereal, man! Otis says it looks like a bat, Barney tells him he’s crazy ’cause it’s a butterfly. I didn’t know those things had been around that long. Uh oh, there’s Ange coming in. What’s he gonna do? He takes a look at it, says it looks like a bat.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Good ol’ Andy. They just don’t make ’em like that anymore. The world was better back then, when it was still in black and white. Even old World War II film looks good that way, with those deep-voiced announcers calling the shots, sounding like that guy who does the slow-motion football clips. Things started going bad when they went color. Vietnam. Evening news at supper, with good ol’ Walter Cronkite. “And that’s the way it is.” John Laurence and Dan Rather and Richard Threlkeld and the rest of them guys over in ’Nam calling the war. Red bandages, green body bags.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> I guess it was a little earlier than that. Some of the Kennedy stuff was in color. I don’t remember him getting shot—hell, you were only a couple years old—but we saw that Zapruder film in history. That was color. His head, man. That was some shit. And Jackie with blood all over her pink dress and legs. I don’t know how she did it, but she never did cry. I do remember seeing the train with Bobby’s body on it while that was happening, and seeing him all laid out on the floor with his arms spread out like Jesus Christ before that. All those people lining the tracks, I think that was in color. Him bleeding on the floor might’ve been black and white. Like little John-John saluting was. I wonder if people still call him that. Bet he hates it.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Man, I wonder if Junior’ll make president someday. That’d be cool. His old man and Bobby both seemed like good guys. Chappaquiddick Ted ain’t much, but that’s how it goes. And where’d the hell’d they get all those nicknames anyway? They called John “Jack,” Robert was “Bobby,” and ol’ Edward is “Ted.” Why not Johnny, Robby, and Eddie? I guess they don’t sound very professional. But Jack and Bobby both seemed like guys you could believe in. Not like today. What do we got? Some peanut fahma fum Jawjuh? And if we didn’t have him, we might have ol’ Governor Moonbeam. I admit it would’ve been cool to have Linda Ronstadt as </span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">First Lady. And even Carter is better than what we had. Jerry fuckin’ Ford? Couldn’t even walk and chew gum. And Nixon before him. Damn crook, I don’t care what he says. Tricky Dick. And ugly? Got a dick for a nose. The head of a dick anyway. A normal one, that is. One that’s circumcised.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> It sucked when all the Watergate shit was on TV. Trial coverage. You’d come home in the afternoon and there’d be nothing else on. Senator Sam running the show. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Let’s us come to ordah, y’all.</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> About all there was to watch was PBS, and they had Sesame Street or Mister Rogers or something. Maybe Zoom or The Electric Company. “Hey you guys!” “We’re gonna turn it on, we’re gonna bring you the power.” Hey, you can turn me on, Rita. Then, after all that trial, ol’ Ford just pardons him. Lets him the fuck off. I don’t care who you are, man, you break the law, you got to pay. Like that rich bitch Patty Hearst. She was guilty, she had to pay. If you’re guilty, you got to pay. You’ve got to pay. Ya got to.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> I need another bowl. Glad we don’t still get those big bags of wheat puffs and shit. That unsweetened, cheap-as-hell shit you find on the bottom shelf at the store, down under the real shit. You got to pour a ton of sugar on it just to eat it. We still don’t get the good shit, but at least we moved up to buying boxes, even if it is store brand. The old lady says there’s no difference other than the box, but that’s bullshit.</span></span><br />
</div>tj judehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02502294263834268458noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6737908248333078855.post-71067231405435787512009-10-26T18:53:00.000-07:002009-10-31T06:38:55.815-07:00stain, Part II<div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> I don’t know why she doesn’t buy name brands. Her and the old man both got jobs. He’s in plastics. Blow molding. Making milk jugs. She works a register at Woolworth’s, over at the mall, usually ’til five. She’s been doing that since I started school. She wanted me to go to Catholic school, Blessed Sacrament, same as Don. That place was small as hell. A hundred and twenty-five students total, from kindergarten through eighth grade, the year I graduated. A lot of times there’d be two classes in one room with one teacher. It must’ve cost some, so the old lady got a job. But after eighth, we both had to go to public school. Seems like that’d be cheaper, but she kept right on working. And Don graduated last year, so she must be doing it just to pay for me. Hell, it’s not like we’re poor. It’s not like we’re niggers. They’ll have a fuckin’ Cadillac parked in front of some shithole. At least some big ol’ Pontiac or something. Pontiac. P O N T I A C. Poor Ol’ Nigger Thinks It’s A Cadillac. They’ll live in fuckin’ squalor, but have a clean ride out front. What the hell? I’m glad the old lady still works. Keeps her out of the house. And since Don started working at the Sizzler, I got the place to myself a lot in the afternoon.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Most days, I’ll be kicking back on the couch when the old lady gets home, and she’ll start bitchin’ at me, tell me how lazy I am, say I’m watching shows that are </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">bad</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> for me and shit. She was in the kitchen one time heating up supper, and she heard Trapper tell some guy he was gonna prescribe him a twenty-four hour enema. I’m sure she’s heard ’em telling bedpan jokes too, so now M*A*S*H is “too concerned with the bowels.” It used to be that Hogan’s Heroes was a bad influence ’cause it was “makin’ light of a terrible time.” She said the Germans weren’t stupid like Sergeant Schultz and Colonel Klink. They were pure evil, and so was I if I was just gonna sit there and laugh about the Holocaust. It doesn’t do any good to tell her they’re just comedies. According to her, “they just ought not to make shows like that.” Maybe. But then again, they wouldn’t have made the shows if people her age hadn’t had the wars. I mean, too many people die as it is, whether it’s ’cause of disease, or starving to death, or traffic acciden— Shit. There I go again.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Besides, there’s nothing else to do but watch TV anyway. I got a couple friends at school, but they don’t live around here, so it’s not like I can just go see ’em. I got no wheels to get anywhere. They either got a car or can use their parents’, but I wouldn’t want ’em coming over to this dump anyway, unless it was just to pick me up, and then I’d be out front waiting.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> And I don’t always do nothing. I was working on a little project last week—I guess it was Monday or Tuesday, ’cause it was before I went to see Doc—but I ran into a little snag. I found our old bicycle pump in the basement. It’s about a foot-and-a-half tall, got two little footrests at the bottom, one on either side, so it’ll stand up and you can hold it steady while you pump it. I thought it’d make a good bong. That’s the only way to get puffed up if you can do it. I didn’t even know what a bong was ’til last year. Me and Grant used to just smoke joints or hit my bowl. I found that in the old man’s drawer. He must’ve took it off Don, ’cause he sure as hell isn’t cool. I know a guy who says he gets high with his old man, but I don’t know if he’s full of shit or not.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Grant’s parents made him start hanging out with this new kid at school last year, all because him and his family go to the same church as Grant and his folks. I think they’re all Methodist, whatever the hell that is. This guy was kind of dorky looking, short hair, parted on the side. Wade. We called him Swade ’cause he thought he was smooth as hell. All of a sudden, he’d be in the car when Grant’d pick me up, and I’d have to sit in the back. After Swade and his family bought their house, I’d get picked up first, but when they were living in the apartment, after they’d just moved here and were still building their place, Swade lived closer to Grant, so he’d get picked up first.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Grant started dating a lot, so I didn’t get to see him so much. Usually Friday would be his night out, and Saturday he’d hang with the boys. “</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The boys are back in town, the boys are back in town.</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">” Thin Lizzy’s awesome, man, but the radio pretty much plays only that one song. I don’t get it. What about “Fightin’ My Way Back”? Or “Suicide”? And who the hell gave the DJs on KZL permission to start talking while a song is still playing? They’ll talk right over the intro, right up until the singing starts, and then they’ll start </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">back</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> talking again before the song is even over. Shut the fuck up already. I don’t listen to hear you. I listen for the music. QDR’s DJs never did that. They’d play three or four songs, then maybe come on and tell you the names of ’em—or not—then they’d jam some more. When they did have a commercial, it was usually just the guy telling you to shop at Solomon-Grundy’s or something. I still can’t believe they went country. Who the hell listens to country?</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Me and Swade would go it alone Friday night while Grant was out gettin’ some. Swade’s folks would usually go out together and let him use his old lady’s car. His old man’s a smoker, so if we went back over to their place we could get high, then burn some weeds to cover up the smell. My folks aren’t that cool. His old man kept some liquor in the cabinet under the sink too. His old lady’d mark the level on the labels to keep us out of it, but Swade knew that and added water to replace what we took. We’d just slug a little out of each so it didn’t get cut too thin.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> This one night over there, we turned out all the lights, stood a flashlight up on its end on the coffee table so that the light was pointing at the ceiling, put on Dark Side of the Moon. We blew our smoke—Swade was blowing exhales from hits he couldn’t kill, but I just blew cigarette smoke—at the beam. When that hit, the shit lit up big as hell, like in a tube. You couldn’t see the smoke at all until it hit the light, then it was all swirly and shit. That was cool.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Swade knew a guy named Monk who lived at the apartments. The guy stayed with just his mother—I think her and her husband split up—and he didn’t even let her come into his room. Him and his friends could sit in there and get high whether she was home or not. Some people, man. Got it made. Monk was a couple years older, a senior, but he liked Swade for some reason, and he let us borrow one of his bongs whenever we wanted. I guess he didn’t use it anymore, ’cause he got a new one, with a dry chamber on the bottom that’d catch all the ash and shit that didn’t burn. It had a plug you could take out, then scrape all that shit loose and smoke it again. There were two tubes running out of that dry chamber that carried the smoke up to the water. I didn’t like it ’cause it got clogged too easy, needed a lot of cleaning. But Monk had his own bathroom right there, so it wasn’t too much of a hassle. The bong he let us use was just straight up and down, about two feet tall, made out of yellow plastic, but still real see-through. The bowl was a little brass one, mounted in a wood sleeve that slipped over the stem. The carburetor was on the back, right where it should be, so you used your thumb on it. I’ve seen some that got the hole on the front and you have to pop it with your finger. Monk’s new one is like that.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> First time I hit Old Yeller, it was like I’d never got high before. You’d pack that bowl with some good bud you’d cleaned—so there weren’t any seeds or stems or clumps that’d clog the hole, so it’d burn all the way and the ashes’d pull through the stem—put a lighter to it, toke nice and slow. The water’d bubble while the smoke filtered through, then the smoke’d start creeping up the tube. If you did it right, the chamber’d be full just as the ashes pulled through, and you’d lift your thumb off the carburetor, toke real hard, and BAM, get the whole hit all at once. Hold it in ’til you killed it, so there’d be no smoke left. Man, that was sweet. Shit went right to your head. You could go from being all pissed off about something to not having a care in the world with one pop of your thumb. Two was even better. Three and you couldn’t stop smiling. We’d usually go for ten, but Swade didn’t always make it that far.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> We couldn’t always hook up with Monk to get Old Yeller, and then Swade moved and we never saw that guy again, so I’d always wanted a bong of my own. Not like I could buy one though. Swade’d bring a tennis ball can over—he didn’t play, he just smacked balls against a garage door; he was always breaking a glass out of one of those too—and I’d rig that thing up with a stem that was just a Bic pen without the ink cartridge, and use some foil to make a bowl. They’d work, but they sucked. You’d have to stick your whole chin in ’em, and the bowl would fall off or get crushed or the stem would melt. Then I found the bike pump. I took the guts out, which wasn’t easy, ’cause the old man keeps most of his tools at work. I did find an old toolbox on a shelf under the stairs, but it’s got one of those little Master locks on it, so I couldn’t get into it. When I stole that bowl out of the old man’s drawer, there was a key ring in there that had two little Master keys. Bet they go to that toolbox. Have to check that. But all I had to work with was a hammer and a screwdriver. That and a bunch of old nails and screws and shit in a coffee can. Prying the top off that pump was a </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">bitch</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> I got the thing apart, emptied it out. After I pulled the hose off, there was just a little nipple thing sticking out near the bottom, with a hole through it, so I pounded a nail in there, one a little bigger than the hole, then poured some water in. It leaked a little, so I worked the nail back out, found a screw a little bit bigger than the nail hole, and forced that in. I about sprained a wrist twisting it, but got it in, and it didn’t leak anymore, so I cleaned the whole thing up, wiped some of the grease and rust out, drove a nail through the back to make a carburetor, used a bigger nail on the front for the stem hole, widened that up with the screwdriver. I found a roll of copper tubing on top of the water heater that’d work for the stem, bent it where I wanted it to break, worked it back and forth ’til it gave. Stuck the screwdriver through and worked it around to straighten the thing out, then used an old hacksaw blade—I couldn’t find the hacksaw—to get the ends flush, stuck the stem in the pump and sealed it with three strips of duct tape, pushed on there real neat like a capital A. Ace. An Ace bong. You'd be an ace if you could take ten hits in one session. Surprised the hell out of me, but the whole thing turned out pretty good. I won’t be able to see the smoke climbing up, or the sparks getting pulled through the stem, but it’s airtight. It tastes rank, but that won’t take long to fix once I start hitting it. Just needs a little seasoning. The snag I ran into was that I couldn’t find anything to use for a bowl. It’s a red pump—well, bong now—so I call it Big Red. Like that new gum, with the commercial with that guy with the deep voice. “Big Red.” I got it stashed behind the furnace.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Damn. Don’t even know what’s going on with Andy. Been out of Catholic school a couple years now. It’s weird, I lived in Burlington all my life, but when I started public school, everybody thought I’d just moved here. Most of them had been going to school together all their lives, and I came out of Blessed Sacrament and dropped in like a fuckin’ moon rock. The guys I knew at good ol’ B.S.S. ended up across town, at Cummings. That’s where the rednecks live. Burlington’s cut in half by the railroad tracks, and everybody on that side goes to Cummings. They’re the ones you’d see dragging Main Street at night in their jacked-up cars if you wanted a laugh. I only live three blocks from Williams, so I go there. The rich kids’ school. But not all of us got money. There’s a bunch of pricks, like the jocks, and there’s a lot of bitches, like the cheerleaders, but there’s cool people too. Some of us definitely know how to party.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Not all of the jocks are assholes. Grant’s cool. And not all of the guys from Blessed Sacrament ended up at Cummings. My best friend there, Tony Griggs, went to Graham. He lived in Graham, so that’s where he went. He was always better than me at everything. I wasn’t a complete dumbass, I usually got the second highest grades out of all the boys—there were only six of us, but still—and only Carolyn Hardy ever did better out of the four girls, but Tony was always number one. He’d win the damn spelling bee most every year, but only ’cause he’d actually study for it. The top two or three kids in each grade were in it, so I’d usually be there too. They’d give us a little booklet with all the words in it, maybe a month in advance, and I’d just try to look ’em over real fast right before going up on the stage in the auditorium in front of the whole fuckin’ school. I forgot the ‘d’ in handkerchief one year. Idiot. And Tony could outrun me, outjump me, outdo me at whatever else we might do at recess too. Nobody else, just him. I was never any better than second at anything. I always lost.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Except that one time, when Peter, the fat kid, had a graduation party at his house after eighth grade. A sleepover in a big tent in his backyard. He was lucky, ’cause his mother was dead and his dad would let him do whatever he wanted. A couple guys from his neighborhood came to the party too, and they brought some beer and pot. I’d drunk beer before—hell, I was fourteen—and I’d puffed a few cigarettes in my time, but I’d never really smoked any dope. That one time a couple years before when I found a pack of Don’s rolling papers, and I was gonna show ’em to the old lady, even though I didn’t know what they were. I just figured he wasn’t supposed to have ’em, and I liked to get him in trouble. He caught me before I had a chance to rat him out, took me to the old Sullivan house, the ragged-out piece of shit on the other side of Mr. Campbell’s field, next to the treehouse, and rolled up a joint, made me light it and take a couple tokes. I didn’t really appreciate it at the time, but he could twist a number in the air pretty damn good. I still have to roll on a table or a book or something to get a joint good and tight. I guess Don figured I wouldn’t tell on him if I’d done the same thing. But at Peter’s graduation party, ol’ Tony pussed out, said he wasn’t gonna smoke any reefer. I jumped right on that shit. I don’t know how many joints we burned that night, but I expected more to happen. I don’t think I got off on it at all, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. Tony wouldn’t even drink one damn beer.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> You live in Burlington all your life and everybody thought you just moved here. The new kid in town. Everybody staring. Kind of late to be making friends. I sure as hell didn’t fit in with the jocks—except for Grant, since we both got high—’cause Catholic school really didn’t have sports. They started the basketball teams when I was in sixth grade, but they don’t count. The school could only afford one set of uniforms, so the jayvees would play their game, then us guys on the varsity would have to get the sweaty uniforms from them so we could play. I always tried to find somebody who rode the bench. Hell, we didn’t even get those ’til I was in seventh grade, so that first year we just wore dark blue gym shorts and a gold T-shirt with a number sewn on the back. The old lady didn’t sew mine on, she got some iron-on patches and cut the numbers out of that. I felt kind of proud before that first game, when I was in the bathroom putting my uniform on. The numbers hadn’t started to peel off yet, so it looked pretty good. The shorts were some of Don’s old ones, and kind of faded, but the shirt was brand fuckin’ new. It was on a hanger on the towel bar, with the ol’ number 12 staring at me. I liked that number ’cause it was like a quarterback’s. Probably Joe Namath back then. Terry Bradshaw now. The Steelers </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">rule</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. The shorts were folded up and hanging over the bar beside the shirt. I reached up, grabbed the hanger, and a goddamn roach ran out of the sleeve. Fuckin’ thing scared the shit out of me, and I dropped the shirt on the floor. It got kind of dirty on the front.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Man, we had roaches </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">bad</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> back then. Always did, up until a year or so ago when the old man put some blue powder around the baseboards and killed ’em. I guess they crawled through, it stuck to their nasty asses, then they carried it back to the nest and killed more. Before that, if the old man’d see one, he’d just grab it up with his bare hand and throw it outside. Not me, man. I didn’t want to get near those things, much less touch one. I used to hate having to take a piss at night ’cause I couldn’t turn a light on ’til I got to the bathroom. I’d have to get out of bed and walk across the room, out into the hall—on bare floors too, not traipsing across some plush carpet or anything—then on to the tile in the bathroom in the dark. Those things would bite your damn feet the whole way. Either that or you’d step on ’em and feel ’em crunch. I was safe when I got the light on and they ran for cover. There must’ve been hundreds. Big black things, a couple inches long, some of ’em. After I pissed, I’d just stand there for fuckin’ ever with my hand on the switch.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> We used to come in from school and make a glass of chocolate milk with a can of that Hershey’s syrup shit. You opened it with a church-key can opener, punch a couple of triangle holes in the top, one on either side. Then you’d cover it with the yellow plastic lid when you were done. This one afternoon, I pulled the syrup out of the fridge, but Don grabbed it from me, said he was gonna make his first. The stuff was barely dribbling out even though the can had felt pretty full. He finally got enough to make his glass, stirred it up, chugged it down. I couldn’t wait that long. I got out the other can opener, clamped it on the side, twisted it around and took the whole lid off. The shit was full of roaches. I guess the can had been left out open on the table overnight, and the old lady’d covered it up and put it back in the fridge in the morning. I showed that shit to Don. He barely made it to the bathroom sink to puke his guts up. Neither one of us would drink chocolate milk after that, at least not until the old lady started buying that powdered Nestlé’s Quik shit. Hell, I don’t think Don’ll even drink that.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> We lost that first basketball game, and every other game that year, and every game the year after. We finally did win one my last year there, but it still wasn’t much of a season. We lost eleven. We got beat a hundred and four to ten once by St. Paul’s in Greensboro. That school’s a hell of a lot bigger than we were though. They even had black guys. Coach took us out to McDonald’s after, so it wasn’t a total loss. I got Tony to swap me the bottom bun on his hamburger—the clean one—for my top bun with all that nasty-ass ketchup and pickles and shit.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> First year in public school, ninth grade, everybody in Burlington who was going to Williams or Cummings the following year had to take a bus over to Sellars-Gunn in niggertown. It was kind of cool that we were all the same age, with no older class to fuck with you and no younger class to look down on. We were equals for a year. Except for us Catholic school misfits. We were just kind of sprinkled in. I didn’t have any classes with any of ’em, except for one. Good ol’ Tina Alstead was in my Algebra I class. She was still wearing her silver POW bracelet—I guess maybe Colonel McAbee turned out to be more MIA since he hadn’t come home with the rest of the POWs—but after what she wrote in my notebook at the end of our last year at B.S.S., I didn’t talk to her anymore. I barely ever said two words to her anyway. I told her I loved her once. Tony dared me to, and I did. Tina just looked over at Carolyn and said, “Isn’t that sweet?” Then, at the end of the year, she wrote, “A ring is round and has no end, that’s how long I’ll be your friend.” </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Friend</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. What a crock of shit.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> I went out for wrestling at Sellars-Gunn, so it’s not like I’ve always had my afternoons free. I had to go to practice every day. I tried out ’cause a guy I used to know when we were kids was on the team, and he said I should. He didn’t go to school with me back then, but went to our church, and we met in Sunday School. Bob Lane. I used to spend the night at his house once in a while. His dad would come downstairs and kiss us all good night on the cheek. Bob—I guess he was Bobby then—his brother Mark, and even me. I remember his chin scratching me ’cause he needed a shave. Their three sisters had a room upstairs. Mr. Lane was always getting them to sit in his lap, tickling ’em half to death. Not so much Pam, the middle girl. You could tell she really didn’t like it. The other two, they’d get to laughing so hard they’d scream. He was a good one for kissing on them too, and not just good night, but all the damn time. Only they’d get it right on the mouth. Hell, we never so much as shook hands at our house. On the rare occasion when the old lady would give me a hug, like if she had to when I was a kid ’cause I was going somewhere and there was somebody there to pick me up who was waiting for me out in their car and watching us up on the porch, she give me the ol’ praying mantis. Hold her arms up like one of those things, kind of lay her hands on top of my shoulders with her elbows pushing on my chest. She’d turn her cheek, touch it to my forehead for a second. We’re just not touchy-feely types. But the Lanes seemed real close.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> One time, Mr. Lane took me to his workshop in the basement, let me drill a hole in a board. He ducked into the storage closet like he was scared I was gonna hurt him with the damn thing, closed the door, but left it cracked a little. I could tell he was looking through at me, even though I couldn’t see him. I made the hole, let go of the trigger, but the drill kept running. You had to pull it all the way down first and then let it go to get the thing to go off, but I didn’t know that. I just stood there holding the drill away from me with both hands, looking at the crack in the door for help. But he didn’t come, at least not right off. The drill kept getting heavier, and I got kind of scared. Pussy. When he finally did come out, he’d gotten his zipper stuck somehow, ’cause I remember him trying to pull it up. He just shook his head at me, took the drill, clicked it off easy as hell, set it on the workbench, told me to go on out and play.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Bob was a pretty good wrestler. I got to be a starter, even though I went out for the team late, ’cause I pinned the other two guys in my weight class. They had to be real pussies, ’cause it didn’t take me a minute to beat either one of ’em, and I sure as hell didn’t know what I was doing. But then I only ended up winning two out of eleven matches, which was the same record the team had. We lost the first match seventy-six to three. Bob won a decision. Everybody else lost. I got pinned. Bad. The ref told the guy to take it easy after the fucker picked me up and body-slammed me. That mat’s a lot harder than the ones they use on TV. They didn’t bother mentioning the match over the intercom during the morning announcements.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> One of the times I did win, the old man was home when I came in. It was the only time he ever said anything about a match. He asked if you lost again. You said yeah.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> We got this certificate at the end of the season, for our “achievement.” They were these fill-in-the-blank things, where Coach wrote our name on ’em with a pen. They had a line for that printed up near the top. Somewhere near the middle, they had “Football” and “Basketball” and “Baseball” printed on there, where I guess you were supposed to circle or underline the sport the thing was being given out for. It didn’t say “Wrestling,” so Coach wrote that in too. He just kind of squeezed it in.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> I used to practice in a pair of long johns with gym shorts over them ’cause we didn’t have any tights other than the ones we wore for matches. Coach Martin thought he was cool ’cause he’d call us pussies in practice, maybe say “goddamn” once in a while. I remember we were doing tripod pushups—you keep your legs and arms straight, but bend at the waist ’til you kind of form a triangle with the mat, and you put the tips of your index fingers and the tips of your thumbs together to make a diamond with your hands, then bend your elbows and lower yourself down and stick your nose in the diamond, then push back up. Fuckin’ </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">murder</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. This heavyweight named Ronald Greene was up front and all of us behind him were laughing ’cause one of his nuts was hanging out of his shorts. Coach yelled, “What are you pussies laughin’ at?” That just made us laugh harder. We had to run extra laps up and down the stairs after practice.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> I quit wrestling this year ’cause I had trouble making weight. I’d eat a hard-boiled egg for breakfast during the week and nothing else all day, and I still couldn’t make 136. Coach Ferguson said it probably had something to do with all the beer I was drinking, but that’s bullshit. I’d drink whatever I could get, but that’s still just a couple of beers here and there—once in a while more than that, like last night—but usually just a couple or three beers maybe a couple of nights during the week, and then only if somebody else is buying. But it’s not hard to get somebody to buy a six if you’ve got a little herb, and Don’s been keeping in the green pretty regular since he started working. Yeah, I’d get drunk as shit on the weekends back then, same as I do now, but that had nothing to do with my weight either. You just piss that out. And this senior from the football team decided to join up, in my weight class. He was pretty much shorter than me, but his legs were like fuckin’ tree trunks. I couldn’t beat him. I wasn’t gonna be a starter anymore.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px; text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Athletic Supporter</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Aw, aw, aw, can’t play no basketball</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Mama told me, said son you ain’t that tall</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Gotta do what mama say</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Gotta do it every day</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Aw, aw, aw, can’t play no basketball</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Aw, aw, aw, can’t play no football</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">You gotta be tough, yeah, you know you got to be rough</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Gotta do what mama say</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">She say I can’t play</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Aw, aw, aw, can’t play no football</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Aw, aw, aw, can’t play no baseball</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Can’t swing a stick, you know my glasses too thick</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Might fall if you run</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Don’t want you hurt, my son</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Aw, aw, aw, can’t play no baseball</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The Lanes moved away years ago. They moved back in time time for ninth grade, only without their dad. The old lady didn’t like Mrs. Lane anymore ’cause she was divorced. She’d always sit as far away from her as she could at church. She had a dream one night about a snake—I guess she called it a serpent—that had a lamb’s head. The face opened up like a flower and then turned into Mrs. Lane.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> The jocks aren’t the only crowd I don’t fit in with at Williams. There wasn’t anything like music class or art class or anything at Catholic school either, so I don’t hang out with anybody into that shit. Not that I’d want to hang out with anybody in the marching band or anything. I’m not talking about those losers. But I’d kind of like to be a real musician, play in a real band. Rock-n-roll, man. But all I can do is to try and write down those lyrics or whatever when they come into my head. It’s not no goddamn poetry.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px; text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Man For Hire</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Well, I’m a hired man</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">In a hired band</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">We travel down the road</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">In a hired van</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Where we’re going to</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Where we’re coming from</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">A town without a name</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Where we know no one</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">When you’re on the road</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">There ain’t much you can do</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The stops are far between</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And numbered few</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">But I’m your man for hire</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">(Man for hire)</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I’ll fill your heart’s desire</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">(Heart’s desire)</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Stand in the line of fire</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">(Line of fire)</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">’cause I’m your man for hire</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">(Man for hire)</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I’m just a hired man</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px; text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Rollercoaster</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">There’s a shadow</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Standing over me</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">It’s gettin’ dark, babe</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Too dark to see</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Climb in the back seat</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Of the car</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And let me hold you</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Embrace your heart</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">You ask me where I been and all I can say</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Every time I see you, girl, there’s no new news</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And I ask you why you never walk away</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">You’re my sanctuary, girl, against the blues</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Come on let me hear that you wanna stay</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Come on, babe, and tell me what you wanna do</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">There’s no use in going ’less it’s all the way</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And I wanna go all of the way with you</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">We hit the road, yeah</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And hit the bars</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">It’s hard to focus</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">You wonder who you are</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Smoke cigarettes, yeah</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And cheap cigars</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Beat out the rhythm</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And play guitars</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Sometimes you tell yourself that it’s gotta end</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Your straight and narrow thoughts tend to go astray</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">You know now all too well you’re not Superman</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And you wonder just how long you’ll keep up the pace</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">But then the lights go down and you start the show</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">You give it what you’ve got and you walk away</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">You loosen up your mind and you let it go</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And then do it all again on another day</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Life’s a gamble</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">You lose and win</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">No sooner up and you find</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">You’re down again</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">You’re on a rollercoaster</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">They cut loose the car</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">It’s feast or famine</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Pauper or czar</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">You never seem to be where you wanna be</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">You never find the words you intended to</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Your eyes they only see what they wanna see</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And you’re always lookin’ back, not ahead of you</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Can’t you see it doesn’t have to be this way</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Don’t you know your line of thought ain’t gonna do</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">If you think that you can win, might win today</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">When you think you’re gonna fail, that’s what you do</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">It’s a rollercoaster</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Rollin’ on</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">It’s a rollercoaster, baby</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Rollin’ down</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">It’s a rollercoaster</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Rollin’ on</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Rollercoaster</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Catholic school. Religion. Rules. Sit up straight, don’t slump. God, if those nuns could see me now, melting into this couch in front of the tube . . . . Don’t talk unless you’re told to. Don’t chew gum ever. Not that I ever had gum. This cheerleader sits in front of me in Biology. Becky. She always pops in a fresh piece of Bubble Yum right when she sits down, smacks on that wad the whole period. Annoying as hell. Probably pretty damn good though. Don’t come to class without your homework. You pulled that once. Not on purpose. I wrote a story about these two monsters or giants or something who were fighting. I got the idea from the Saturday matinee at the Gallery Theater downtown. They were showing Gargantua, where these two hairy Godzilla-sized monsters were going at it. One was a brown gargantua who lived on the land—the good guy—and he skinned his leg on a rock in the ocean and then a green gargantua who lived in the water—the bad guy—grew from that piece of skin. It took six bottle caps, maybe one Saturday a month or something, if they were from Dr. Pepper bottles or whatever it was that week, to get in and see a movie. The guys at the Esso—OK, fine, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Exxon</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">—around the corner would let us dig through the cap catcher hanging on the front of their drink machine. I was actually kind of proud of my story I guess, and after we ate supper I asked the old lady to read it. She set it down on the ironing board, said she’d look at it later. I eventually had to go to bed, then forgot about it in the morning, went to school without it. We all had to stand up, kind of line up against the walls, and read our story out loud. I was one of the last. Just stood there with a blank sheet of paper and tried to remember how it went. Didn’t get far. You were like, “And they kept fightin’ and fightin’ and fightin’” when Sister Laura Ann walked up, looked at the paper, told you to sit down. I think you were crying. Or trying not to. Pussy.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Still probably second or third grade—it had to be, ’cause it was one of those years you had Sister Laura Ann—you couldn’t get that long multiplication shit. Like, a three-digit number times another three-digit number. You’d take the smallest number on the bottom and multiply it times the smallest number on the top ’cause that was easiest. Then you’d go to the next two easiest numbers, and save the hardest for last. Got every answer wrong, and was dumb enough to be surprised about it. Sister Laura Ann though, she was pissed. Called you up to the front of the class, pulled your pants down, gave you a whipping. Right there in front of everybody. She just used her hand, not a belt like you’d get at home, but at home you wouldn’t have had your pants pulled down either. At least she left your underwear up. It worked. I learned how to multiply. Man, I </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">hate</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> math.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> What if you had to do that shit with Roman numerals? X V I times X I V equals . . . whatever. Or long division, for Christ’s sake? M C M L X V I goes into . . . . Man. I’d go crazy.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><br />
</span> <br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><img alt="l_ad7966056b89f5a9d25264234a1d01fa.jpg" src="webkit-fake-url://C38FDB86-FD6E-4F27-879E-CDEEBBD1ACF5/l_ad7966056b89f5a9d25264234a1d01fa.jpg" /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><br />
</span> <br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Everything was done by the clock. Starting outside in the morning with the raising of the flag, then the Pledge of Allegiance. We’d say it indoors if it was raining. Then we’d go to our room and pray an Our Father. Later, the teacher would walk the whole class down to the bathroom. Pardon me, the “lavatory.” They’d do that once in the morning and once in the afternoon, at whatever time they had set aside for their class to make the trip. Forget asking to go any other time, ’cause they wouldn’t let you. Angie Thacker was good for pissing in her seat at least once a month. Probably not after fourth grade or something, but before then. We’d line up to go, and she’d be sitting there crying and there’d be a puddle under her desk. That wasn’t as bad as what Donald Sinkey pulled one time in first grade. He shit in his pants, right there in class. We called him Donald Stinkey after that. But the teacher would walk us down the hall to the bathrooms, and we’d go in three at a time ’cause that was how many urinals there were. One time when you were using the middle one, that fat fucker Peter was watching you piss, and he started pointing at your dick and laughing. I didn’t know what the hell was so funny, so I looked over at his, then over to the other side at Tony’s. Neither one of theirs had skin on the head. It was I don’t know how many years later before I ever heard anything about circumcision. Up until then, I just figured mine was fucked up somehow. And even after that, I wondered why the hell mine was different than everybody else’s. We had to take showers after gym class last year—you have to take gym sophomore year—and we had to take showers after wrestling practice too, and I never saw anybody else who wasn’t circumcised. Not that I was really looking. And it’s not like that’s something you could ask the old lady about, or the old man, or even Don. Like, “Hey, Don, your dick got a turtleneck?” Yeah, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">that’s</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> gonna happen. I had a hard time pissing in the lavatory after that. I’d have to go in one of the stalls. Either that or wait ’til I got home.</span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> We had to do chin-ups in gym class. Not just to do them, but to see how many we could do. They had a guy counting ’em off for us, writing down how many we did. I did twenty-five, figured that was plenty, stopped. He said only seventeen of ’em were good though, wrote that down. That was still the best in our class. It wasn’t the best in the school, there were a few other guys in other gym classes who did more, but they still put my name down on this sheet they had taped up on the side of the lockers. That shit sucked. Like I could only do seventeen chin-ups.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> There was that one black guy in the shower whose dick wasn’t cut. Rocky. He was standing at the exit holding it. Man, that thing was </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">huge</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. He had his hand wrapped around it at the bottom, and there was that much and more—a lot more—hanging out. I’d heard a couple guys squealing, looked over and saw him smacking ’em on the ass with that monster as they ran out of the shower. Fuck that. I </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">walked</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> out, looked him right in the eye, nodded. He just nodded back, waited for the next guy.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> I used to wonder why the nuns never did go in the bathroom. Hell, I used to wonder if they even </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">went</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> to the bathroom, if they even had a toilet in their convent, if they were built like regular people under their habits. What a dumb little shit.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> We had to wear a dark tie and dark pants, dark socks, dark shoes, a white shirt. Every day. You always got Don’s old clothes when he got new ones. We kept a pair of sneakers in our locker for recess. Those lockers didn’t have a lock on ’em like the ones at Sellars-Gunn or Williams do. I still forget my combination once in a while, like on a Monday morning maybe, and have to think about it, try different numbers ’til I get the damn thing opened. Back then we’d always play soccer. It wasn’t real soccer, ’cause we just had a regular kickball, and maybe five or six guys to a side. The eighth grade against the seventh grade, or whatever. Like when </span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">the classes were so small that there were two to a teacher, with fifth and sixth grade in one room, seventh and eighth in another. The teacher would give one class their assignment, then go to the other side of the room and give the other class theirs. You’d be sitting on your side of the room, trying to concentrate, not being able to help but listen to what was going on with the other class. One of ’em was reading a book about a kid named Pip. What kind of name is that to hang on somebody?</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> You couldn’t go to recess until you finished your lunch. The teacher would sit in the room with us, check your lunch box when you finished, then let you go outside. Well, I just had a paper bag, not a lunch box. Lots of times I’d have a cold hamburger. Well, a Winn-Dixie patty, whatever the hell that is. They come frozen in a box of twelve. It’d be stuck between two pieces of bread with nothing on it, not even cheese. I never have liked anything other than cheese on my food anyway, but I never even got cheese on those things, and cold definitely ain’t the way to be eating ’em. If it wasn’t one of those pieces of shit, you’d get a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, which was a lot better, even though the jelly’d be all winey and soaked into the bread. I missed a lot of recesses.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><br />
</span> <br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"></span><br />
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><img alt="l_5406ef81a7c2db5658d403050d18304e.jpg" src="webkit-fake-url://4485A0D9-C23F-4530-BC2F-988058CE53BA/l_5406ef81a7c2db5658d403050d18304e.jpg" /></span><br />
</div><br />
</div>tj judehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02502294263834268458noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6737908248333078855.post-87794973620495950472009-10-26T18:49:00.000-07:002009-10-31T06:39:39.844-07:00stain, Part III<div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">You’re just too picky. Not like the old man at all. He’ll eat an apple, core and stem and seeds and all. There’ll be nothing left. And an orange, he won’t even peel it. Eats the skin and everything.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Orange. That’s a hard word to rhyme. Is it one syllable or two? Arnge. Are inge. Might be easier if it’s two. Are inge. Our engine stalled. Are injuns coming? Are inge.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> The old lady drove us to school in the morning, but we had to walk home in the afternoon ’cause she’d be at work. I guess it’s about ten blocks. That one house always had the old man sitting on the porch with a bottle in a brown paper bag. He’d laugh at us, ask what the hell we were all dressed up for. Every fuckin’ day. Just kept your eyes glued to the sidewalk, kept walking. Then that one day he snatched the bag off the bottle, balled it up and threw it, dared us to fuckin’ look at him. Why the hell did I pick that thing up, put it in my pocket? Ooh, poor wittle paper bag, just lying there on the sidewalk. Then you just threw it away when you got home.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> First grade. Sister Beverly Ann. She handed out spelling books first day of class, told us we were gonna complete the whole thing. Your dumb ass didn’t get that she meant over the course of the year. Idiot. You took it home and did the whole fuckin’ book. Was up past midnight. The old lady said you must’ve misunderstood, but she didn’t stop you. Sister Beverly Ann looked at you like the moron you are when you tried to turn the thing in the next morning. She just took it, tossed it in the trash can beside her desk, gave you another blank one, told you to do the first chapter over. Then that spelling test we had sometime later that year, and you couldn’t even remember how to spell ‘race.’ Four little letters, and you write down r-a-</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">s</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">-e. Stupid fuck. I knew it was wrong, so I didn’t turn the test in. Folded it up and stuck it in my pocket. Sister Beverly Ann asked where it was when she couldn’t find it in the stack on her desk. She kept you after school, went through your book bag and everything. You must’ve had at least twenty brown paper bags folded up in there, and she opened up and looked in every damn one of ’em. There was all kinds of bread crusts and shit. When one smelled real ripe, like if there was part of a Winn-Dixie patty in it that you managed to sneak in there when she had her back turned or left the room or something, and then maybe you pulled out an empty bag to show her so you could go to recess, she’d catch a whiff and scrunch up her nose, look at you like the old lady did that day you let a fart slip while you were sitting beside her in the pew. Didn’t even have to wait for the old man to get home for that whipping. The old lady did it herself. Sister Beverly Ann went so far as to check your shirt pocket and the back pockets of your pants, but she never did check your front pockets. Maybe she was scared she might touch something she shouldn’t. Nuns weren’t supposed to know about stuff like that. But she must not’ve had a problem with dick after all, ’cause she ran off and married Father Carr. He was priest after Monsignor O’Brien left to start a new church in Wilmington, after he got the new one built here. Monsignor was a scary fuck. He smoked a fat cigar, always wore his robes and sashes and shit, not the same ones for mass, but different, and had these thick black glasses, a mother nobody ever saw living in the rectory who was always breaking a hip or something. He got all up in my face when I asked where the bake sale tables were gonna be set up. The old church was torn down, the new one wasn’t done being built yet, and masses were in the gym, where the bake sale usually was. Both of ’em started Saturday morning at eight o’clock, so I asked about the tables. He about had a fuckin’ fit, talking about the moneychangers in the temple and Jesus turning their tables over. But the bake sale was gonna be set up out in the hall all along, and I just didn’t know it. Then there was Father Carr, who had a red convertible somebody scratched an “8” on the trunk of with a rock. Man, was he pissed. Then came Father Bowman. He ran off with the church secretary. The basketball coach’s wife. Coach Plummer. Now it’s old Father Connolly. Father Carr and Sister Beverly Ann ended up having a kid, but it died. Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. The old lady said God got even with ’em.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> While she was searching you for that spelling test, you were blubbering like a little pussy the whole time, just knowing she was gonna find it. Had to walk home alone ’cause Don didn’t hang around. Soon as you got in, you went to the bathroom, pulled that thing out of your pocket, balled it up, and ate it.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Fuckin’ Ronco Records. If I have to hear Elvis’s greatest hits one more time . . . . Man, what’s up with Ange? Halfway through the second one and you don’t even know what’s happening. Better start being on the lookout for the old lady. Run some water in the bowl, leave it in the sink. Cut off the TV, go wait for her in the living room. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The God that holds you over the pit of hell abhors you, and is dreadfully provoked.</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Great. The old lady never turns that radio in her bedroom off, whether she’s home or not. Fuckin’ Christian station. A little music, a lot of talk. She always knows if you mess with it, even if you remember to turn it back up or on. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">He looks upon you as worthy of nothing else but to be cast into the fire.</span></i></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Should I wear my jacket? Kinda nipply out. Nah, you got long sleeves. Bert’s Surf Shop. Kathy gave me it. Came from Myrtle Beach. She grew up across from Grant. Don’s age, kind of chunky. She was lying out in the sun, in a one-piece, and had these big ol’ thick patches of pube hair growing on the outside, on the sides of her pussy. Gross. Her and a friend graduated a couple years ago, got an apartment. It’s a good place to drink, maybe crash Friday night, on the couch or the floor. She liked me first time she saw me, but I wasn’t interested. She’s all right for a friend. God, you usually just </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">hear</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> shit like that. If they ever have a party and some other girls come over and one of them starts talking to me, ol’ Kathy barrels in and breaks it up, scares the girl out of even speaking to me. She’s never told ’em off right in front of me, but I’ve heard at least one girl say Kathy’d let her know I was off limits. Kind of pissed me off, but it is her place, and we need to hang out somewhere, instead of just driving around.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> You did make it into her room with a girl one night. There was a bunch of people downstairs. Helen is like Robin’s best friend at school, and Robin is Kathy’s best friend, even though she’s just my age. Kathy must not have wanted to piss Robin off by talking shit to Helen, so she never said anything to her, even though she saw us talking. We snuck off, went up to Kathy’s room, locked the door. We were making out on Kathy’s bed, with the lights off in case I got lucky. She had on a sundress. Yellow. She let me stick my hand under it, and down in her panties. She even spread her legs. God, that gave me a hard-on like I ain’t never had. Hell, I’ve never even seen a real one, just pictures, and hers was the first one I’d felt. It’s not like you’d never fondled any </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">minor</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> genitalia before that, just nothing </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">major</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. Like felt a tit through a shirt, or worked my hand between some thighs, on top of the jeans. That girl might not’ve spread her legs, but she didn’t stop me either. But Helen was my first real pussy. Got my middle finger in, a couple knuckles deep, worked it in and out. She was real wet, kept asking if you really wanted to do that. Damn right. She must’ve been drunk, ’cause she’s a real nice girl. I couldn’t believe she was letting me get away with it. I didn’t get her panties off or anything. I tried once, but she said no. But you had a finger in her, with your tongue wrapped around hers. Shit felt all bumpy, with ridges up in there. I wanted to see it, but that wasn’t going to happen. Hell, you wanted to pull those panties off, stick your head down there and lick the hell out of her. Come all over my face. I’d sniff the seat of your car if you’d let me. I wouldn’t have even had to fuck her, just eat that sweet little thing and then kiss her on the mouth some more. Could’ve jacked off when I got home. But ol’ Kathy must’ve missed us. I knew we were OK as long as I could hear her cackling downstairs. But that stopped, and she came tromping up the stairs, banged on the door, yelled my name. Helen pulled my finger out then. I sniffed it in the dark, licked it. Kathy tried turning the doorknob, banged on the door again, asked if I was in there. I said yeah, she said to open the door, then worked the lock from the outside with her fingernail and opened it herself. Me and Helen were both off the bed by then. Kathy just looked at us real pissed, told us to go back downstairs.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Damn dick was hard for a long time, even after we went back to the living room. Had to keep it covered with my T-shirt. It wasn’t tucked in, as usual, so it was easy to bury the boner under that when I was sitting down. My ’nads were about to fuckin’ bust though. I mean, they </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">hurt</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. Like that week or so last year, before me or Grant had a license and before he had a car, when we had to hoof it if we wanted to go somewhere, when for some damn reason your right nut got all swollen up, and hurt like hell to even walk. Every step, you kind of hit it wrong, rubbed against it. Grant asked why you were walking so funny. Think I said I’d pulled a muscle or something. It got better, shrunk back down and quit hurting, so it must’ve been nothing. But that night, both balls hurt like that one had. And your fuckin’ dick wouldn’t go down long enough to even piss. I went back upstairs to the john, started thumping it on the head, but it just stayed hard. I thought I was gonna have to beat off right there, just so I could take a leak. But then Kathy came knocking on the door, asked if you were all right. You said yeah, be out in a minute, but she tried to work that lock with her nail too. I opened the door before she could pick it. Fuckin’ slut started trying to kiss on me. That did the trick. Got me soft </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">real</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> quick.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> There was that other night, a good while before all of that. Grant left while I was taking a piss. Maybe him and Kathy had it planned. Grant said the next day that she’d asked him to go get her a pack of smokes, and when he came back, the front door was locked and the lights were off. I don’t know. I never heard him knock or anything. Kathy’s roommate Diane—nice ass, big tits, pretty, but thinks spending time with me and Grant is like babysitting, or so Kathy says—she was gone, so it was just you and Kathy when you got out of the bathroom. I was drunk as shit. Maybe she knew it, even though everybody says they can’t tell when I’m drunk, that I always seem sober no matter how much I’ve had. You’d let her jack you off once, but that was it. She scratches my back a lot, and I don’t mind her doing it either. She’ll even check for zits, glitch ’em, rub alcohol on so they don’t come back. And this time Grant was passed out on the couch, and she said she’d finish scratching me upstairs so we wouldn’t wake him up. She turned on the lamp, I took off my shirt, laid down on my stomach and let her have at it. After a while, I turned over and told her she could scratch my chest. Pretty soon she was rubbing my belly, kind of messing with the button of my jeans a little. I didn’t stop her, so she undid it, pulled my fly down. I turned off the light, she worked my hard-on through the flap in my boxers, started beating me off. Man, she’s almost better at it than I am. Her bed doesn’t have a headboard, but just sits on a frame, and when I shot off, I hit the fuckin’ wall. I was kind of scared what I was gonna do when it came, if I’d get any on her sheets or whatever, but I cleared everything. I didn’t feel any on my chest or the pillow or anywhere else, but heard it hit the wall, and saw a stain next time I was in there. She always thought it was funny when me and Grant’d be over watching football on Sunday and the guy would talk about getting yardage—she thought “yardage” was a funny word—so she started talking about how I got good yardage that night. She must’ve been on the rag or something, ’cause she didn’t try to fuck me or anything.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> But that was as far as we’d gone, and just that once. Other than kissing, like when we play spin the bottle. Hell, even Diane lets us French her after she’s had a few drinks and Kathy breaks out a bottle and starts spinning it. But that night Kathy got Grant to leave while you were upstairs taking a piss—I always go upstairs, ’cause the other bathroom is under the stairs, and the ceiling slants, and my head hits it when I stand in front of the toilet. Plus, I don’t want anybody to hear me. So we went up to her room, got naked, got in bed. I was on top of her, kind of moving up and down, but couldn’t even tell if I was in her. She thought I’d done it before. Couldn’t admit I was a late bloomer, so I lied, said I’d fucked three girls or something. She finally grabbed my dick and put it in. Shot off after about three or four strokes. Kathy yelled, “No Jim!” jumped up and ran to the bathroom. I rolled over, pulled up the covers. When she came back to bed, she wanted to mess around some more, but I just wanted to sleep. She laughed, said, “Is that </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">all</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">?” I always figured I’d remember my first time. I know I’ll never forget the way she said that.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> You shouldn’t have done it, man. Kathy’s all right, but I never wanted to fuck her. She used to talk about how it wasn’t enough for a guy to just have a long dick, that it had to be thick too. I read the average dick is six inches long, and after listening to her talk one night about how a real man had to have a big one, I tried measuring mine with a ruler in the bathroom at home the next day. If I spread my legs and let my balls drop and measure from the back, I can get six inches easy. On the front, from my belly, I’m a little short. Only about five and three-quarters. Not even average. The magazine didn’t say how thick it was supposed to be, or whether you measured it across or around or what, but I’m not thick enough either. The old lady had a load of clothes she couldn’t hang on the line one time because it rained all day, so she gave me three or four quarters and the keys to her car to go to the laundromat. Went to Kathy and Diane’s instead, kept the change for smokes, asked if I could dry them there. They even helped fold after. Diane put on a pair of my boxers and started walking around with her chest all bowed up. Kathy was laughing like hell, but I’d been gone too long already and wanted to just hurry the hell up, so I asked her to take ’em off and let me get going. She stuck her hand in there, worked her finger through the flap, started wiggling it around. I said I really needed to go, but she just said to shut up and relax. Then she straightened her finger out, said she’d heard that that was all I had. Kathy got all red in the face, yelled “Di-</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">ane</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">!” Man, I was . . . . I don’t even know what all. Pissed off, embarrassed. I just picked up the laundry basket, left Diane wearing the boxers and Kathy not able to look me in the eye, went home. I didn’t go back there for a couple weeks.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Fuck it. I hate Wednesdays. I hate going to see Doc. A goddamn shrink. The old lady’s got to get off work early to take me. I can watch for her through the flimsy-ass curtains hanging over the front window, past the porch and out to the street. And there’s the station wagon. Fuckin’ yellow Country Squire, fake wood paneling shit on the sides. Just stand here a minute, she’ll honk the horn. Wait for it . . . . Thar she blows! One beep. Give her another minute, let her cut the car off, get out, start to come in, then you can head out. Every week, man. She gets so pissed it’s hard not to laugh.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> I’m not crazy. Just had a lot on my mind lately. The old lady came home from work one day and found me sitting on her bed with the old man’s rifle. I just had it out to look at. It’s not like it was loaded or anything. You think she’d have been happy to see me sitting there reading her Bible. If she’d have known </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">why</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> you were reading it . . . . Well, let’s just say she wouldn’t have been too happy after all. But the point is, she didn’t notice it at all. All she saw was the damn gun.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> I don’t think the old man got the thing during the war, but sometime after. Maybe some guy he knew needed a few bucks, so he bought it. Maybe they were Marines together. He quit school to join, landed on Guadalcanal. He was seventeen. Shit. Same as me. What the fuck’s wrong with me, that I don’t want to kill people? Pussy. He called it a carbine. Said it’d split a tree. It’s pretty short for a rifle. Not even an arm’s length from the tip of the barrel down to the trigger. He keeps it in the back of the closet. Don’t know where he keeps the bullets.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> She’s gettin’ out. Open the front door, she'll stop on the sidewalk. Let the screen slam. Could shut it quiet, but that’s what she wants. One, two, three steps across this creaking-ass front porch, one, two, three steps down to the sidewalk, one, two— Goddamn it! Quit with the fuckin’ counting already. I swear it’s like you got some guy in your brain driving you around. Then sometimes it’s like you </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">are</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> the guy in your brain driving you around. I’m just parked somewhere behind the eyeballs, flipping switches or pushing buttons or something to move me around like a robot. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Warning! Warning, Will Robinson! Danger!</span></i></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Slam the car door just hard enough so she’ll do that puffing shit. One loud, quick exhale, shake the head, let me know you’re pissed without having to actually speak. Just a puff. A big puff. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Puff the magic dragon, lives by the sea.</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Great, now you’re gonna have that shit in here. Better than the radio. Same station she’s got on in her room. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And they were both naked . . . .</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Hey, that don’t sound too bad. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. . . and were not ashamed.</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Well good for them. Wish I could say the same. Not the being naked. The not being ashamed. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Puff the magic dragon.</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> I hate when you get a song or something in your head and can’t get it out. Not so bad if it’s something with a loud guitar, some hard rock. Ooh, Mother’s Finest. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I’m a hard rock lover.</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Pimpin’, man. Raise balls. That kinda shit’s cool, something that’ll drive everything else out of your head, but fuckin’ Puff the Magic Dragon? And that’s the only line I remember, so I’ll get it over and over. Ol’ Puff looks like she’s about due for a visit to the beauty parlor. Usually keeps her hair dyed black, but it’s turning back to brown. Maybe even a little red in there.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> When the old lady saw you sitting there with the gun, she wanted to know what the hell was going on. All you could say was, “Nothin’.” She didn’t buy that. I wouldn’t have either. You must’ve had a real surprised look on your face. Even though you had her radio turned down, you never even heard her come in.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> After that, she started acting real weird, really looking at you and shit. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">In sorrow thou shalt bring forth children</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. I even heard her talking to the old man about it during All In The Family. He </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">loves</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Archie Bunker, and he doesn’t want you bothering him when he’s parked in front of the TV. He’s got his shows, and it’s best to just leave him alone when they’re on. He won’t watch anything with Hanoi Jane in it, and he won’t let me or Don watch anything with her in it either. But he loves Archie. About the only thing worse than bugging him in the middle of a show is when they put commercials on he doesn’t like. There was one for Preparation H right when we sat down for supper. He got so pissed I thought he was gonna have a heart attack. The folks are funny about shit like that. When we were kids, they made us look away when a bra or girdle commercial came on. Like seeing a mannequin in underwear was a sin. Hell, having to look away just made me wonder more. I’d always try to sneak a peek. Commercials are a lot dirtier now though. One had a real woman showing her bra. I mean, she had a shirt on over it, but the announcer was saying how you couldn’t see any lines or anything. Like, look at her tits, boys. Look at ’em </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">real</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> hard. You ain’t gonna see any bra lines no matter how hard you try, but go ahead and give it a shot anyway. We’ll make a pervert of you yet. And that one about the feminine deodorant spray. I don’t think that’s the shit they put under their arms, man. But there it was, right there on TV.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Me and Don would argue about who was who. Like when Gunsmoke came on, we’d both be waiting for them to show Marshal Dillon and say “James Arness as Matt Dillon.” As soon as his face came up, we’d both yell, “That’s me.” When they showed Festus, we’d yell, “That’s you.” Same thing when Mannix came on. We both wanted to be Joe Mannix. Or Steve McGarrett on Hawaii Five-O.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Miss Kitty was </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">ugly</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. Not just the red hair, but that mole on her face. And wasn’t she just an old whore? What did Matt ever see in her? But then I guess they never really did date. Maybe he was just being nice. Maybe she squeezed his zits for him.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Puff’s usually glad to leave the old man alone. She’ll get in bed and read her Bible, pray ’til she falls asleep. I heard from the hall when she went in the den and told him I needed somebody to talk to. I was scared she meant one of </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">them</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">, but should’ve known better than that. He wanted to know if there wasn’t a counselor or something at school, but she didn’t like that, even if it was free, ’cause Mr. Guthrie is the counselor, and he goes to our church. Man looks like a skeleton. History teacher said he’d been on the Bataan death march, but he could’ve put on some weight since then. He’s always smiling too. I’ve never seen him when he wasn’t. The old lady said, “How do ya think it’s gonna look if we don’t do something, and then Jim goes and does somethin’ . . . </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">drastic</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">?” The old man didn’t say anything for a while, then told her to just handle it however she wanted to. That’s probably all she wanted to hear anyway.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> She found a shrink across from Memorial Hospital. Dr. Braxton. But I’m not crazy. There’s just been a lot going on. I think she expected me to pitch a bitch about going, but I didn’t. Kind of even surprised me. Didn’t just agree right off, but that’s ’cause she wanted to take me to some guy all the way across town. Cummings territory. I ain’t no fuckin’ redneck. I can’t even stand listening to somebody talk like a hick. Like something straight out of Mayberry, especially the early shows, when even Andy comes off like a moron. It’s OK on TV. But Kathy talks like that. Always “fixin’” to do something, instead of just doing it, or saying shit like, “That’s a horse of a different color.” I might put a little ‘aw’ in dog or something, but it’s not like a fuckin’ drawl or anything. I don’t say ‘ah’ instead of ‘eye’ when a word’s got an ‘i’ in it. It’s fuckin’ ‘l-eye-t’ and ‘r-eye-t’ and ‘s-eye-t,’ not ‘l-ah-t’ or ‘r-ah-t’ or ‘s-ah-t.’ I’m proud to be from North Carolina, but I ain’t no fuckin’ rabel who wants to get ’im a pickup truck and hang his Stars ’n Bars in the back winder. I ain’t Gomer or Goober. Puff’s from South Carolina, and she talks pretty red. But the old man’s from Michigan. Can’t get farther north than that. Not that I’m a goddamn Yankee either. He’s always saying it’s p-eh-n or t-eh-n, not pin or tin. Not when you’re talking about the thing you write with, or the number.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><img alt="l_aa4e09918942bf36b00ff9e02a6f5477.jpg" src="webkit-fake-url://3FD4411B-0004-4175-8A49-A3DCEA1F6A02/l_aa4e09918942bf36b00ff9e02a6f5477.jpg" /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Puff. Me and Doc talked about her and the old man both. Don’t know why they ever got together. They met during the war, or right after. He’s an asshole, she’s a bitch, what else can I say? Maybe I didn’t use those words exactly. Can’t really cuss in front of Doc. The old man’s usually at work, pulls a lot of double shifts. When he does come home, he’s parked in front of the tube with a beer. Never see him before six, and working a double’ll keep him out past midnight. He’s always gone by the time I get up. He’s worked at Melville Plastics ever since they opened, something like thirty years. Making milk jugs. He’s a foreman or something.</span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Puff’s never home either, at least not during the day. And she’s none too happy about having to take off early just to cart me back and forth on Wednesdays. But then you’re always hearing what a pain in the ass you are. It used to be about how you almost killed her when you were born. I think there might’ve been some concern about whether or not </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> was gonna make it either, but she always just talked about how I almost killed her. The doctor said my head was so big that the delivery might do one or both of us in. But she prayed to St. Jude, ’cause he’s the patron saint of lost causes, and everything came out all right. That’s me. The lost cause.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> She couldn’t have any more kids after that. Wonder if she really wanted the ones she had, much less more. A lot of families at church have shitloads of ankle-biters, but Puff only had us two. Hell, she must’ve been thirty when she had me. At least. She might’ve been thirty when she had Don. If she was my age back in the forties, and had Don in fifty-eight . . . . Fuck. I </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">hate</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> math. Maybe they were waiting to have kids, or maybe they were trying to all along and just not having any. Shit, man, don’t even think about those two going at it.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> It was your fault she almost died, and your fault she couldn’t have any more kids, and your fault all those kids in China were starving, just ’cause you wouldn’t eat all your food. If I could’ve sent ’em over the powdered milk and powdered eggs we had for breakfast growing up, or any of that shit we still call supper, I’d have done it. But I doubt if my share of a can of biscuits, some instant mashed potatoes, and a Banquet dinner would really make any difference. I don’t care if it’s the Sliced Beef and Gravy, the Sliced Turkey and Gravy, the Salisbury Steak and Gravy, the Chicken and Dumplings, or even a whole Chicken Pot Pie with Top Crust, complete with those nasty-ass chunks of dark meat, those kids would’ve been just as dead. I mean— Goddamn it. I didn’t kill them. I didn’t.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"></span><br />
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><img alt="l_fa87f43bea80137e0023d4e3059b7a1f.jpg" src="webkit-fake-url://F05D7EB7-B2D0-416F-8958-31FEC8E1CBDE/l_fa87f43bea80137e0023d4e3059b7a1f.jpg" /></span><br />
</div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><br />
</span> <br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Hurray! We’re havin’ Beef-a-Roni!</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Now </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">that</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> was a commercial. All those little kids running in the street singing, a big flock of birds flying over. Must’ve been recess or something. Maybe they were gonna have that for lunch in the cafeteria. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">We’re havin’ Beef-a-Roni!</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Man, the shit can’t be that good.</span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> On the way over last week, Puff said the old man might not be working much longer. Got the feeling money’s gonna get tight, that going to a shrink is gonna have to end. Not sure what the deal is, but this Mike guy brought him home from some bar Monday night, and the old man was going on about Arabs and OPEC and shit. Puff had run out of gas. Again. She waits too long to fill up. She’ll think the lines at the pumps are just too fuckin’ long, figure they’ll be shorter later, think she can wait ’til the next odd day to buy gas. Then she runs out. The old man used to just drive over and suck her out some of his gas, but then he had to put the anti-siphon springs in the tanks, and now it’s all a big pain in the ass. At least he’s got an even-numbered tag, so he can get gas on days opposite her, ’cause that’s usually when she runs out. I think the old man’s had to start training Mike to take over for him down at the plant. The whole thing seemed weird. The old man usually just gets drunk at home.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> I used to fetch beers for the old man after work. A lot of nights, but this one night he must’ve been pissed at the old lady, ’cause he was ragging on her worse than he was ragging on me. About how he had to do all the dirty work, how he really didn’t like being the one to whip us, even if it was for our own good. Then he went on about how he married Puff just ’cause that was the only way he could get any. I didn’t even know what “gettin’ any” meant. He laughed, said on their wedding night she told him she knew he was gonna put it in, but that she didn’t know he was gonna move it up and down. He thought that was just funny as hell.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> That’s as close as we ever came to having “the talk.” No birds or bees or anything, just him getting a kick about his first time with Puff. He said he liked big nipples, big as thumbs when you sucked on ’em.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Guess we did talk about it one time. Must’ve been last year. You had been in the library looking through a National Geographic. They sure as hell didn’t have those in the Blessed Sacrament library. I tore out a picture of some natives standing there with nothing covering their tits. Most of ’em were real droopy. Pretty ugly really, but still tits. That thing was folded up in my back pocket, and the old lady must’ve got my jeans off the floor to do a load of clothes and found it. You usually take everything out and stash it under the mattress. My bowl and sack, smokes and shit, but I forgot about that. She must’ve told the old man, because he had it on the table in front of him while he was watching TV. I walked through to the living room to get the paper to read the comics and L. M. Boyd. Weird little facts in there. Fish yawn. Bears are promiscuous. Had to look up “promiscuous.” Still remember what it means too. “Engaging in sexual intercourse with many persons.” I guess you stick “bears” in there instead of “persons.” Go bears. Get you some. But you stopped dead when you saw that thing sitting in front of him. He looked up like he’d just stepped in a fresh pile of dog shit, shook his head real slow, said real deep and serious and drawn out like there’s at least five ‘i’s in it or something, “Jim.” You’d have thought I robbed a bank, maybe killed somebody. Fuck, man. Just forget it already.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> I used to really hate my nipples. At Blessed Sacrament, we put on this show kind of thing in the spring. Each class, maybe a couple of classes together, acted out a skit or sang a song or something. My last year, the guys in seventh and eighth were gonna dress like cowboys and sing “Oklahoma!” But Mrs. Jeffers, the lady who directed, the one who picked out what each class was gonna do, she decided we couldn’t sing it deep enough. After we rehearsed it for a while, kind of at the last minute really, she changed her mind and said we were gonna do something called “Tahiti” instead. It really didn’t have any words to it, just one guy yelling out “Ta--hi--ti” at the beginning, then all of us running around like natives for a while, then the same guy yelling “Ta--hi--ti” again at the end. Peter got to sit and bang on some bongos instead of running. He got to wear a shirt too, ’cause he had stretch marks on his sides. He said it was scars from getting caught in some barbed wire when he was a kid, but it was stretch marks from being so fat. The rest of us had to wear nothing but some Hawaiian shorts. I don’t think the nuns liked that. And who was the poor fucker who had to do the yelling at the beginning and end? It was bad enough that Tina Alstead and the rest of the girls got to see you with no shirt on, but you had to stand out there on the front of the stage and yell that shit right at the fuckin’ crowd. There were two shows. One in the day when each class did their thing for the other classes, then that night for the parents. You had to cup your hands around your mouth and yell “Ta--hi--ti” like a goddamn idiot. And Mrs. Jeffers wouldn’t let you cover your nipples with your arms either. You had to spread ’em out, point your elbows at the sides of the stage to keep your hands working like a megaphone instead of covering up your mouth, which she said I had a tendency to do. “Point those elbows, Jim. We really want to hear you.” Shit. My damn nipples were kind of puffy. I’d lie in bed nights mashing ’em in with my thumbs. I might’ve helped a little.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Me and Doc talked about Don too. He’s pretty much the old man all over. We’ve shared a room since . . . forever. I don’t think he ever got over me barging in on him. Ever since we got a TV, he decides what we watch. Not a lot to choose from. Wish we had that cable shit. If the old man’s home, we got even fewer choices, ’cause he won’t let us watch anything he doesn’t like, like Soap or Saturday Night Live. He doesn’t like Jody being a queer, and Saturday Night Live is just too wild. Two wild. Two wild and crazy guys. Not to mention we’re not supposed to be up that late. I’m not anyway. Don’s out of school, so he can stay up late as he wants. I’m supposed to turn over and go to sleep. I know a couple people who got cable. I’ve seen bare tits on that Home Box Office. We got a little black and white, with a coat hanger sticking out for an antenna. The screen’s got a permanent outline of Pong on it. Real light, but noticeable. The knob’s missing, so you use the old man’s pliers to change the channel. My job. Don’ll lie there on his bed and say, “See what’s on channel two,” and I’ll get up from mine—not real fast or anything—and click it around to CBS. That’ll come in pretty good, and ABC and NBC, plus PBS, which is good for old movies Saturday night. Everything’s black and white on that TV, but most of these movies would be in black and white on a color set. They come on at nine. They showed a bunch of westerns last month. Old ones with John Wayne and shit, but some newer ones too, like with Clint Eastwood. Those were cool.</span></span><br />
</div>tj judehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02502294263834268458noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6737908248333078855.post-13289260353314576192009-10-26T18:41:00.000-07:002009-10-31T06:40:29.036-07:00stain, Part IV<div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px; text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Six-Gun Hero</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The six-gun hero</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">You’ve seen him on the silver screen</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The six-gun hero</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">One look and you know</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">It’s a man that you’ve seen</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Riding tall in the saddle</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Never losing in battle</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Eats his dust like a man</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">As it rises from below</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The six-gun hero</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The six-gun hero</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Not many would dare make a stand</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Against the six-gun hero</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">It takes a fool</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">’Cause there’s no quicker hand</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Not even time to take aim</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">On the man with no name</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Shot dead where you stand</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The wife is now the widow</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The six-gun hero</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The six-gun hero</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Not a man you want to look in the eye</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The six-gun hero</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">One look from him</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Sends a chill up your spine</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Don’t think his draw ain’t as fast</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">As it was in the past</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Been the man forever</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">But you can bet he ain’t lost zero</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The six-gun hero</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">PBS has The Twilight Zone at eleven, except weekends. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Doo doo doo doo, doo doo doo doo</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. Cool show, but Rod Serling can be a little much sometimes, with all those fuckin’ literary references and shit. Like, “I’m smart,” or, “I read.” Lighten the fuck up already. You don’t need a bunch of ten-dollar words to make your point. He’d say something like, “Consider this, if you will. One finds it evident that sphincters such as yourself have a tendency to be quite ubiquitous.” I’d be like, Rod, buddy, assholes like you are fuckin’ everywhere.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px; text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The Wings Of Icarus</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The wings of Icarus</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Have melted away</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Into the sea he has fallen</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The words of his father</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Not heeded that day</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">He was not one of the callen</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">But let us learn from Icarus</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Learn to listen</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Learn to live</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Learn to take in</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Learn to give</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Some store their knowledge</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Like sand in a sieve</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Not there when you need it</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And you cannot relive</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The time of the past</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">When the future comes at last</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And we wind up like poor Icarus</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Downcast when we wander</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Question what we should not ponder</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">When we fly the wings of Icarus</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Learn to suffer</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Learn to cry</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Learn to regret</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Learn to die</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Learn the pain of Icarus</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I got teachers like you, Rod, and they’re a drag. Ninth grade, public school, they were teaching shit in English that I learned in Catholic school in fuckin’ fourth grade. “This is a noun, this is a verb.” Easy as hell. Straight As, without even trying. In tenth, I find out they stuck me in some goddamn Gifted and Talented class. Sucked. Had to read shit and then talk about what we thought the author meant. Analyze, not just memorize. Miss Fairfield talked a little like ol’ Rod, and half the time I felt lost in the twilight zone. First day of class, she hands out a “list of errata,” says we should “emend our texts accordingly.” What the hell? Just say there’s some fuck-ups in the book we have to fix. Or some mistakes we need to correct, or whatever. Got our grades for the last nine weeks. Another C. She recommended going back to a College Prep class this year. Like I’m preparing for college. But vocabulary tests are so simple I just look over the list right before the test and not miss a single spelling or definition. The tests in G.T. were </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">hard</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. Always a fuckin’ essay or two. Give me the regular class with the dumbasses. I’m sure as hell not gifted or talented.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Had to have a debate in G.T. too. Pick a topic, find somebody to argue the other side, then debate in front of the class. I got lucky there. The guy from the tennis team that sat next to me had a match the day we were supposed to go at it, so we got to do it next day after school. It sucked having to stay after, but it was better than standing up in front of everybody. Legalization. Randy went first, and all he had was the usual shit about how if pot was legal there’d be a lot more people smoking, and the whole country’d be falling down stoned. What a load. People who don’t smoke got reasons other than it’s illegal. They wouldn’t start toking just because it’d been legalized. And people that do get high don’t do it just because it’s illegal, like it’s some forbidden fruit or something. They want to catch a buzz, and they’re going to, one way or another. They’re not hurting anybody. They don’t want to hurt anybody or anything. Hell, you ought to get the politicians stoned and see what they come up with then. Wouldn’t be no war. They’d be wanting to make peace with everybody, quit killing. Hell, the shit grows out of the </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">ground</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">, man. It’s natural as hell. Smoke it if you want to. Let farmers grow it, Philip fuckin’ Morris roll it, the government tax it. Put packs in vending machines, regular, light, Mexican, Columbian. Give us some 100s even. But quit locking people up just for using it or selling it. Jesus. Randy said it leads to harder drugs. Another popular crock of shit. Only way it could lead to something harder would be if you were looking for a buzz and couldn’t find any, so you bought whatever else you could find. But if it was legal, you’d have more people using that instead of something harder. Fire it up, man. Toast one for me. Better yet, toast one </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">with</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> me.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> It wasn’t so bad, going back to a regular class. A lot of people in G.T. were geeks. Even Miss Fairfield. And ugly. Not like Mrs. Whitman in Algebra II. She looks kind of like Jane Seymour. Yow! Jane’s gorgeous, even if she is brunette. Teri Garr. Goldie Hawn. I’d give my right nut for Goldie. But Mrs. Whitman doesn’t like me. Didn’t have my homework most days the first couple of nine weeks. It got to where she’d skip my desk when she was checking it. Flunked both nine weeks. Had to get a piece of carbon out of the trash, change the Es to Bs so I could show the old man and old lady my report cards. It’s a separate one for each class, not just one card with all your grades on it like at Blessed Sacrament. And it’s just a carbon, not the original, so it’s easy as hell to change. It’s hard to concentrate in her class though. It’s bad enough it’s math, but then you got to sit there and stare at her and try to think about numbers. The only figure I can think about is hers. Why don’t you keep me after school?</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Art class is hard to concentrate in too. I thought it’d be easy, so I took it. I’m sure as hell not a goddamn artist. But Miss Spence won’t leave me alone. She’s always saying what a good job I’m doing on whatever the project is. Stands behind me and breaths down my neck while I’m working. She must need glasses, ’cause she’ll lean real far in to look. So close her tit touches me on the shoulder or arm sometimes. I wish Mrs. Whitman’d do that, but she doesn’t really look that close at your work, just wants to see that you did it. Miss Spence is always real interested in whatever I’m doing, praising every little thing. Asked to keep most all of my projects to use as examples for other classes. Fuckin’ embarrassing. I’m not any better than anybody else. Leave me alone already. Man, her calves are big as hell too.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Mrs. Mann can embarrass me in English class too. Good ol’ C.P. English. That time after she handed back our creative writing assignments, she stood up in front of the whole class and said that one student had gotten an A+ on theirs. I’d looked at my paper already, hid it under my notebook when I saw the grade. But she had to go and tell everybody. Really got ragged on for </span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">that. “Oh, Jim, aren’t you just so </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">smart</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Sometimes our TV will pull in a UHF station, but there’s usually nothing on there. The old man’s gets a lot better picture, but it’s not much bigger. It sits on top of a big color set that doesn’t work anymore. A tube’s burnt out or something. Just like the other one sitting in the hall. The old lady uses it for the old man’s work clothes. She irons ’em, folds ’em, stacks ’em on top after she does the laundry. She hangs most of the clothes on the line out back, but she dries her girdles and bras on a fan in her room so the neighbors won’t see.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> After Don graduated, he got a job busing tables. That keeps him gone a lot. When he is home, we still argue some, but don’t get into fistfights anymore. Not since that time he came in and caught me playing with something of his. Whatever it was, he got real pissed and started in on me. It was a weekend when the old man was actually home, and he came in and pretty much flung me across the room, then knocked Don down with a short right to the chin. It was </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">awesome</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. Dropped that son of a bitch like a rock. The old man yelled, “You wanna hit somebody? Then hit </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">me</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">!” I gotta say that for him. He knew how to put a stop to that kind of shit.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> I go see Doc every Wednesday. Have been for a few months now. A one-way road on either side of the building either takes you to the parking lot in back, or gets you out of it, depending. Puff always drops you off right here at the parking lot exit, takes off like a bat outta hell, picks you up in the same spot in an hour. Barely even comes to a stop. The door’s not even closed before she’s giving it the gas. Should get her some shades or something, maybe a trench coat. Your mission, Jim, should you decide to accept it . . . . Great. Mission Impossible again. Fuck it. Beats “Puff” anyway. Shit, now </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">that’s</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> back. Shut up in there! She did come in to the front desk the first time, but she hasn’t been in since. Fuck it. I’m glad she doesn’t hang around.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Metal handrail leads in from the parking lot. Top bar’s about waist high, the second bar comes to about your knee. If the sun was out, there’d be a couple shadows on the sidewalk. With the shadows from the four uprights, and the sixteen lines that cut the sidewalk into squares, it kinda looks like a railroad track. Not that straight or square or anything, but still kinda like some tracks. Walking down the middle, one, two, three, four, one—no five—six, seven, eight, stepping on the cracks instead of over ’em, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, it’s like being on a train heading away from all this shit. I think I usually get twenty-one steps—paces, ol’ Rod would say—when I remember not to just count off in fours. Today it’s twenty-two. Six steps—two at a time—kinda jag the shadows up like teeth on a hacksaw. When there are shadows. When it’s not cloudy. Handrail stops at the top. Seven more paces to the front door.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> I hear trains at night. In bed. The whistle in the distance, the rumbling a little bit. Wonder where it’s coming from, where it’s going, where I’d end up if I hopped it. Probably just fall under though, lose a leg or something.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px; text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I Can’t Slow This Engine Down</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The train is rolling down the track</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I’m heading out and wish I was heading back</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Sun won’t shine ’cause the rain won’t stop</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And I can’t slow this engine down</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">No, I can’t slow this engine down</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Thinking ’bout my woman and thinking ’bout my home</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Thinking just how many times I had to roam</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">To find what I was searching was what I’d left alone</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And I can’t slow this engine down</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">No, I can’t slow this engine down</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Don’t you know this load’s getting heavy on my feet</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Don’t you know these deadlines are hard to meet</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Don’t I know my life’s been so bittersweet</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">But I can’t slow this engine down</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">No, I can’t slow this engine down</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">So roll, roll, roll on into the night</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Roll, roll until I get it right</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I’ll wake up in the morning if I sleep tonight</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">But I can’t slow this engine down</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Said I can’t slow this engine down</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And sometimes it all just gets to me</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Running in a race where all but one gets beat</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Lord, won’t you let that one be me</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">’cause I can’t slow this engine down</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">No, I can’t slow this engine down</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">That secretary is always on the phone. Keeps it pinched between her ear and shoulder, so her hands are free for typing or opening letters. She’ll wave me on back with her right hand or wave me over to the waiting room with her left. Right hand today.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Door’s only half closed. Don’t bother knocking. Doc’s not even in here. Maybe he’s in the can. Pretty basic setup, I suppose. My couch against the wall, his chair kinda next to it, coffee table in front where he keeps his little timer—fifty minutes—and some magazines, desk over in the corner. He was kind of a surprise first time. A lot younger than I’d pictured. Kind of a relief. Makes him a little easier to talk to. His beard looks like Mr. French’s on Family Affair. Buffy! Jody! Cissy! Aren’t we all just so fuckin’ happy to be livin’ here with Uncle Bill! Trimmed real close on the sides and neck, a little longer on the chin and mustache. Not fat like French or anything, just got his beard. Been expecting somebody old, that was really gonna preach down at me. Like . . . Grandpa Walton maybe, but not nice. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Duhduhduh duh duh duhhh dint dint, dint dint duhduhduh duh duh duhhh duh duh.</span><span style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Welcome to Walton’s Mountain. On tonight’s episode, John Boy finally loses it, fucks Mary Ellen up the ass, then cuts Grandma in half longways on the circular saw</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. Doc doesn’t preach though. Just listens. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to relate to the guy at all, that it’d be like talking to the old man, but it’s been pretty cool so far. I guess. I couldn’t </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">hang out</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> with him or anything. He’s way too “get in touch with your emotions” and shit. But it hasn’t been as bad as I thought it would be.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Close the door before somebody else decides to just walk on in. Go ahead and hit the couch. There’s Doc’s yellow pad, used pages flipped back, a fresh page up, sitting in his chair with that damn pencil. His pencil. One of those plastic things, what are they called? Mechanical pencils? Drives me crazy with that thing. You stop talking when he wants you to keep going, so he taps the side of the pad with it. Fuck it. I’m taking it. Shove it in your pocket. That’ll get him.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> First time here, Doc said I didn’t have to lie down, but I did, and I’m gonna keep doing it. Fuckin’ head still hurts anyway. Man, did you tie one on last night. I don’t remember getting in, but I must’ve crashed hard. Don’t think I even dreamed once. For a change.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Wait, maybe I did. Yeah. It was snowing. It was already knee-deep. Ol’ Tony Griggs was walking in front of me, getting farther and farther ahead. Cute little Carolyn and fat Peter were a ways behind, falling farther and farther back. I was the only one grown up. They were still kids from Blessed Sacrament. Somebody kept shouting, “Bear!” I looked ahead at Tony’s back, looked back at Carolyn screaming, but other than them all I saw was woods and snow. It was tough as hell, pulling one leg out and taking a step, pulling the other leg out and taking a step. Tony was crossing a little bridge, just wide enough for him. Carolyn and Peter split up and left the trail. A big fuckin’ polar bear jumped up out of the snow off his hind legs and landed on his front, jumped and landed again. He was gaining quick. I yelled, tried to get him to chase me, but he didn’t. Maybe I didn’t yell loud enough. Maybe I just </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">tried</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> to yell. Tony was across the bridge. Peter made it into the trees. Carolyn was still out in the open, screaming. I just stood there. Just fuckin’ stood there. It kept getting closer, one jump at a time. She pulled one leg out of the snow, took a step, pulled the other leg out, took another step. The bear took long jumps. It was just a matter of time. She was just a kid, goddamn it. Just a fuckin’ kid.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Puff the puffin’ dragon, puffs by the sea. It’s easier to talk to Doc if you lie down. You don’t have to look at him. When I lie here, all I can see is his foot out of the corner of my eye when he starts swinging it. He’ll cross his legs like a girl and set that yellow pad on his knee, then scribble things down with his pencil. When he’s not writing, he gets to swinging that foot, and it’ll come in and out of view. Black loafers, with those faggy tassels. After he starts with the foot, if I’ve stopped talking, he’ll get to tapping that damn pencil to bring me back to the subject. Not today. Not with his special little pencil anyway. I can’t help it. I keep looking over my feet out the window, out at the sky, maybe a bird in the tree or a squirrel.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> It was probably the usual routine. Looked at the inkblots. Like you’re supposed to see something. Most just look like a bunch of blobs. No bats or butterflies. If you looked at ’em long enough you might see something, but hell, if you look at anything long enough you can start to imagine all kinds of shit. Leaves are coming out on the tree. Looking real hard, maybe blurring the eyes a little, I can make out . . . maybe a face . . . maybe some kid— Ah, fuck it.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Doc must be taking a dump. Had the Hershey squirts myself. Draft beer, man. That shit’ll kill ya. There’s really only three kinds of grunt. You got that soft shit, where the hole shapes it on the way out. That can be logs, but it’s usually creamy peanut butter hushpuppy turds. Then there’s the hard shit, that stretches the hole to whatever shape it is on the way out. A bunch of different size Milk Duds stuck together. That can splash a cold drop back up your ass if it hits just right. Either one of them can be floaters or sinkers, but it’s still just soft or hard, whether they float or not. Last, you got the squirts. Definitely the worst. Draft beer sucks, man. If not when you’re drinking it, then definitely the day after. Squirts are the worst when you wipe too, especially with those rolls of the cheap shit they sell in packs of twenty-four. John Wayne toilet paper. None of that Mr. Whipple’s Charmin. Feel the burn, baby, burn.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Doc asked if you believe in God. I don’t know why. Came right out of the blue. Maybe the old lady did see you had her Bible out that day. Then again, Doc’s never brought up the gun, so I don’t know if she talked to him about anything or not. Do I believe in God? Hell, I really don’t know anymore. Not with all the shit that goes on. If there is a God, why’s He let so many bad things happen? We learned about those Holy Wars in History, the Crusades. Seems like that’s all we ever talk about in there, wars and all. And time lasted a lot longer back then. Like, the Middle Ages went on for hundreds of years, but today you hear about the Fifties or the Sixties or the Roaring Twenties. It took I don’t even know how many generations to build the pyramids, but the mall went up in a few months. Things go fast as hell now. Maybe not everything. A year of school lasts for fuckin’ ever. Even one class seems like it’ll never end. But . . . . The Holy Wars. What the hell’s so damn holy about killing people? I know, it’s like, “We only kill for God,” or, “We only kill God’s enemies.” But the guys on the other side say the same damn thing. Maybe they won’t call Him by the same name, but they’re still talking about God. How many Gods are there?</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> There you go again. Raised Catholic, having to go to church every day before class, having to go to Catholic school so long, that shit can fuck you up. You get religion shoved down your throat all the time. It’s just another thing forced on you. That project in Mrs. Gabriel’s class—glad it wasn’t all nuns there; hell, there were more regular women who were teachers, and only three or four nuns at a time. You were just lucky enough to usually have a nun teacher. That was fourth grade, and you had to finish the sentence “Happiness is . . .” and write it down on some banner or something. Kind of like a paper pennant. Everybody did one. What did you put down? “Happiness is to love Jesus.” Man, didn’t even believe that then. Just felt like it was what I was supposed to write, that that’s how I was supposed to feel. Man, did the nuns smile when they saw mine on the wall. They asked who made that one, and Mrs. Gabriel would light up, say it was me. Little Jimmy Moore. Ain’t he so fuckin’ sweet? I hated that “Jimmy” shit, even then. Just wanted to be called Jim. Not James, damn it, and sure as hell not goddamn Jimmy. “Happiness is . . . ”? How the hell should I know?</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Puff used to make me and Don do rosaries on her bed with her when we were kids. Five Hail Marys, then an Our Father on the big beads. Over and over and over. What’s the fuckin’ point?</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"></span><br />
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><img alt="l_21bb5780295e80e3c224b4949aa4761d.jpg" src="webkit-fake-url://0A668EDA-AD47-4F77-B960-4F650392BCAD/l_21bb5780295e80e3c224b4949aa4761d.jpg" /></span><br />
</div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><br />
</span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> You must BELIEVE IN GOD and FEAR GOD and WORSHIP GOD and ADORE GOD and GOD, GOD, GOd, God, god, god, god. Shit gets old. Me and Don couldn’t even say “gah”—must’ve been short for “golly”—’cause it sounded too much like “God” to the old lady, and saying that would’ve been breaking a commandment. Taking the Lord’s name in vain. Right up near the top. Above murder even.</span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Had to go to mass every day before class, be an altar boy every other Saturday and every single Sunday. Me and Don still have to serve the eight o’clock mass Sundays. We’re the only fuckin’ family at the early mass. Everybody else is just old and alone, or together but with no kids. Who the fuck else is gonna serve? You always got a hangover, fighting to keep your eyes open, knowing you’ve got to be jerking your head up every time you start to nod. Can quote whole passages from the service. We honor Linus, Cletus, Clements, Sixtus, Cornelius, Siprience, Lawrence, Cosoganus, John and Paul, Cosmos and Damien, and all the saints. Probably couldn’t spell half the shit right, but that’s what Father Connolly says every fuckin’ mass. Linus? Hey, what about Charlie Brown, man? Cosoganus? What the hell were his folks thinking? Damien? Isn’t he the evil little shit in that movie?</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Had it crammed down your throat your whole life and Doc asks, “Do you believe in God?” Couldn’t even give him an answer. Said you’d have to think about it. Do that a lot, have to think about something before you know what you think about it. He asked what I thought was my best trait or feature, and I told him I’d have to get back to him on it. He asked again the next week if I’d thought about it, and I had. A lot. Thought that I’m not too much of a dumbass, not too damn ugly, kinda got a sense of humor once in a while. Finally settled on my legs. A lot of hair on ’em. Some guys got hair all over their backs. That shit’s gross. But I got some pretty hairy </span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">legs. Hairy enough to look cool in shorts.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Do I believe in God? Really don’t know anymore. Starting to wonder if I ever did. Maybe just kind of scared not to. But if there is a God, God isn’t a he or a she, or white or black or red or yellow, or Catholic or Jewish or Hindu or Muslim or anything else. And if there is a God, God sure as hell doesn’t need money. The usher brings the basket with the collections up the aisle holding it over his head like it’s holy, with everybody smiling and singing. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Hurray! We’re havin’ Beef-a-Roni!</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Ha! More like, “Praise the Lord, we got you a few more bucks.” Father Connolly smiles real big, sticks his arms way the hell out to take the basket, holds it as far away from him as he can with that fuckin’ smile and sticks it under the altar. After mass, I gotta bring it back to the sacristy. He just holds it normal then, looks in it, without smiling, then sticks it in the closet on his side of the room. I’ll be taking off my cassock and surplice. My surplice and cassock really. You put on your cassock and surplice, but you take off your surplice and cassock. You take off your shoes and socks, but you put on your socks and shoes. I’ve never lifted anything out. Not even a bill or two. Nobody’d know. Wouldn’t take anything in a collection envelope, but one or two of the loose bills. Maybe a five or a ten. Sometimes even a twenty in there. Took a swig of wine out of the cruet once. Rank as hell. Father Connolly mixes some with a couple drops of water and drinks it right before handing out communion. The old man never takes communion. He doesn’t believe it really is flesh, that it really turns into the actual body of Christ. Me neither, but I still eat it. It’s just bread. How could it be his real body? You take all the hosts ever handed out, they add up to a lot more than just one skinny guy’s body. And I don’t wanna hear it’s like those fish and loaves he used to feed all those people. That shit can’t be true. A bunch of fairy tales to hook kids into believing. Oooh, magic. Know any card tricks, Jesus? Is that a rabbit in your . . . toga, or are you just glad to see me? </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Toga! Toga! Toga!</span></i></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Do I believe in God? If there is a God, He must’ve made everybody and He wouldn’t back one side or the other, in a Crusade or a World War or in Korea or Vietnam or anywhere else. God isn’t telling anybody to kill anybody else for any reason. Puff says there’s gonna be peace in the Middle East before Jesus comes back. That ain’t gonna be any time soon. Have they ever got along over there? Has anybody really ever got along anywhere? Shit, it’s back to History. Who fought who. Who won, who lost. Who the hell cares? Let it go already. If there is a God, God’s gotta be pretty pissed off with us humans in general.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Damn, I went through all of that shit with Doc. He just sat through most of it, took a few notes until I finished babbling, then said it sounded like I might believe in God, but that I didn’t necessarily believe in religion. I don’t know. I don’t know if I believe in God either. But if there is a God, then God’s got one lousy sense of humor.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> The Giant Slide. Something like sixteen lanes down three big humps. A zillion steps to get up to the top. Shiny metal with smooth wood dividers between the lanes. I never got to ride it. It cost money. They closed it down after somebody planted a razor blade in one of the dividers. Took all year to build it, didn’t even last a whole summer.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Me and Don were playing around in the house once. The old lady’d taken her wooden crucifix off the living room wall. Must’ve been to clean it. Left it lying on the table the lamp sits on. Palm Sunday, she sticks the palm branch from church up on the wall behind that crucifix. You have to burn the branches if they touch the ground. Or the floor. The old man’s the same way about flags. If you let it touch the ground, it’s desecrated and has to be burned. The cross had been taken down, and taken apart. It looks normal from the front, with Jesus nailed to it, all bloody around the head where the thorns are, bloody in the hands and feet where the nails are, bloody on the side where the spear’d gone in, but the cross part is real thick. Hanging on the wall, he looks up at the ceiling like, “Damn, this hurts!” But you take it down, you can take it apart. The back pops out, a separate piece of wood from the hollow front. There’s a couple little candles you can mount in the two holes drilled halfway through each end of the crossbeam. Maybe they’re for praying around. Maybe just for when the power goes out. They’ve never even been unwrapped, much less lit. Don was chasing me around the house. From the living room, through the den, the kitchen, into the hall, past our room, the bathroom, the old man’s room. He’s been sleeping in there long as I can remember, but his clothes are still in the closet in Puff’s room. Past her bedroom, back into the living room. On one lap, I picked up that back piece of the cross. After running through the den and the kitchen again, I ducked behind the wall near the back door instead of running down the hall. Don came through the kitchen, I jumped out, holding the crucifix by the top and pointing the bottom at him like a knife, kind of stuck him in the stomach. Probably just realized what I was doing at the last minute and felt guilty and caused it all myself, but it was like when you get hit in the eye, so that you kind of see a flash of lightning. You got your eye closed, something hits it and it hurts like hell and there’s this flash of bright white light, like a flashbulb. Happened to both eyes right when I stuck that cross in Don’s gut. Got real cold inside for a second. Shit like that makes you think.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Sister Frances. Fifth grade. She was pretty cool. The big-ass cross around her neck, not a little one like the other nuns. She was the first to not wear the whole habit. Didn’t have anything covering her head. The rest of her gear wasn’t even black either. Light blue. She walked the whole class—both classes—downtown to see a movie. 2001. A bunch of monkeys fighting. Some guy wearing tight pants. A stewardess walking upside down delivering meals. A big, black domino-looking thing with no dots. Cool spaceships, weird music. A computer named Hal. She must’ve gone too far in class the next day when she talked to us about the monkey scene, said it had to do with evolution. Puff pitched a bitch at me about it, said there’s no such thing, that God created everyone and everything just as it is. She says the Grand Canyon has always looked just the way it does now, that any fossils found in the walls were put there by God for some reason that we’re not supposed to ask about. To think for even a minute that we used to be apes is enough to send you straight to hell. “Read the Bible,” she said.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Puff doesn’t even believe in dinosaurs. Says the skeletons are just a bunch of old bones scientists dug up and stuck together. Yeah, no shit. But they couldn’t find most of the bones, and anything missing they just made out of plaster, made the whole thing look like whatever they wanted it to look like. She must not have been the only one pissed off. Sister Frances left after just that one year. Doing the Lord’s work somewhere else, I guess.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Me and Doc have been over girls too. I love ’em. But they’re hard to get if you don’t have a car or money. Five bucks allowance, on Friday, right before I go out, spent on smokes and beer, on Friday, right after I go out. In seventh and eighth, when I had a crush on Tina Alstead and I knew she didn’t like me, I kept on pretending she did. She wore this silver bracelet every day, with a POW’s name on it. COL. JOHN P. McABEE. It looked cool on her, and I guess I was even kind of . . . proud of her or something, but still kind of jealous about it too. Wearing somebody else’s name on her arm all the time. She was gonna wear it ’til he came home. I’d call her up nights, never think of anything to talk about, just sit there for five minutes, ten minutes, hardly saying a damn thing until she finally said she had to go. Me and Tony dared each other to tell Tina and Carolyn that we loved them. It took ’til the end of the day, but I did it. Tina just looked over at Carolyn and said, “Isn’t that sweet?” Tony only told Carolyn that he liked her a lot. She got real red and said, “Thank you.” I used to think Carolyn did kind of like me, and she was cute, and real nice. But Tina was prettier, and blond, so I liked her instead. Why do I do that? Get a thing for a girl who won’t have anything to do with me? I called a girl in G.T. Cindy. Best-looking girl in school. Smart, popular, but still sweet as hell. Long, straight hair, hardly any eyebrows at all they’re so blond. Not too tall, not too short, not too big, not too small. Just right. Took forever to get up the nerve, but I gave her a call. Tried calling for an hour and a half first, and got a busy signal. When it finally did ring, I wished it’d still been busy. You could tell it was her just by the way she said “Hello.” Told her it was Jim Moore, asked if she was going to the football game. That fuckin’ game at Cummings. Your voice was shaking too. You pussy. You had a crush on her ever since Sellars-Gunn. I could see her meeting me at the game, us sitting together, maybe holding hands when we left. When we went out again, I’d give her a little peck on the cheek good night. She’d be nice as hell, not care that I didn’t have any wheels or money or anything. I even saw us going to the prom, and I don’t even want to go to the goddamn prom. Not ’cause I couldn’t rent a tux, but ’cause I don’t dance. We’d have dated until we graduated, then got married. Had some kids, been </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">good</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> parents. You could tell it was her just by the way she said “Hello.” She said she didn’t know if she was going to the game, and if she did, she’d probably go with somebody else. You just said OK, hung up. Maybe twenty seconds total. At most. Next day in class, Miss Fairfield asked her to hand back our homework. Cindy had to ask what your name was before she gave you yours.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><br />
</span> <br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px; text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I Fell For You</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I fell for you</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">You know it’s true</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And it makes me blue</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">That I fell for you</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Fell flat on my face</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">It’s not a disgrace</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I just want a taste</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">’cause I fell for you</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Love at first sight?</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I heard love is blind</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Doesn’t matter this time</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Since I fell for you</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Feel I should stay away</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I should start it today</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">But what can I do</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">You know, I fell for you</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I’ll do what I can</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Write about you again</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Hope it never wears thin</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">’cause I fell for you</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px; text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Go Away She Cried</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Just go away she cried</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I don’t want you here by my side</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">So just go away she cried</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">To say I want you would be a lie</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Now just go away she cried</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Can’t keep these feelings bottled up inside</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Just go away she cried</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">She used to laugh, she used to joke</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Now she acts like her spirit’s broke</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I thought we stood on solid ground</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Now she don’t want me around</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">What I done, got no idea</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">But I can’t right the wrong, I fear</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Just go away she cried</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">She just got tired of having me to love</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">What I got just ain’t enough</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Didn’t let on she was letting me go</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Just said one thing I had to know</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">That I’m dead weight, she’s dropping the anchor</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Rolled her eyes when I thought to thank her</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Said there’s just one thing I got to say</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I just want you to go away</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Laurie. In Spanish. Cute as hell, tiny. Right after lunch, so I usually got a buzz, and I’ll sit there and look at her crotch and lick my lips. I’d love to munch out on that sweet thing. ¡Ay, carámba! Box lunch at the Y. Hair pie. The vertical smile. Not one of those Asian ones that’s on a slant. Not that I’d throw one of those out of bed either. Unless she wanted to fuck on the floor. Little Laurie, I’d slobber that thing up for you, get it ready for a beef injection. Yow! Half of the desks on one side of the room face the other half of the desks on the other side, with an aisle in between. The rows are angled, so you sort of face the front but more face the middle no matter where you sit. Laurie and I both sit in the back row, but on opposite sides of the room. She’ll sit in her desk, turned toward me, leaning against the armrest and the back of the seat with her legs spread a little, that thing aimed right at me. She can’t know, or she’d never do it. She’s real nice. She doesn’t even wear jeans. Pants, but not jeans. Always dresses nice, talks real quiet. One of the smartest in class too. Never fucks up when she’s got to read a line out loud. Sometimes I’d swear she looks me right in the eye when I check her out and stop licking long enough to look up at her face. She even cracks a smile sometimes. Never does bring those knees together either, so . . . . Nah, she’d never have anything to do with a head like you.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px; text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Give It To Me</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">You can’t be sweet-talked</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">You say I can’t talk dirty to you</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">You say you’ve heard it all</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And my approach is nothing new</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Don’t like no fast hands</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Say that things have to happen slow</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Well, I’m just a young man</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Who is always ready to go</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Give it to me</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Got to have it and I got to have it now</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">So just spread those knees</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I’m going down and I’ll show you how</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">You say you know my game</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And that you aren’t going to play</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I just want to test my aim</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">When we’re through you don’t have to stay</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">So won’t you loosen up</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">You might even find that you like it</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Don’t say you can’t force love</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">You’ll never know until you have tried it</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Give it to me</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Got to have it and I got to have it now</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">So just spread those knees</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I’m going down and I’ll show you how</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><br />
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span><br />
</div>tj judehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02502294263834268458noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6737908248333078855.post-86931899953035684002009-10-26T18:32:00.000-07:002009-10-31T06:41:14.346-07:00stain, Part V<div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Don’s porno mags. Stashed in the bottom drawer. Good for . . . “contemplatin’ your navel.” Chokin’ the chicken. Jackin’ off. Must’ve been fifth grade when that started. Sister Frances. Got to be a hobby real quick. First thing after school, you’d get home, take a piss, drop your pants around your ankles, sit on the john. Had to wait for Don to get out first, but then you’d get in there and sit down, start telling yourself you shouldn’t do it. That you wouldn’t do it. Even pulled that “it’s a sin” shit, like you couldn’t do it. Then decide you wouldn’t do it unless it got hard. If it really needed to be relieved, it would rise to the occasion and then you’d deal with it. If it didn’t need the attention, you’d leave it alone. Thing’s always needy. Stands up every time, yells, “Beat me!” Start thinking about one of the girls in class, somebody other than Tina, pretend she was pulling up the skirt on her uniform, taking off her little white panties, that she had some peach fuzz going on and she’d park that thing on your leg and rub it around. You’d cup your balls with your left hand, grab your dick with the right, start stroking, up and down, up and down, with the turtleneck rolling back and forth over the head. Who’s it gonna be today? Real slow, up and down, up and down, nice and easy, Carolyn, you sweet thing, taking off your blouse, showing me your pretty little tits, nipples all hard. Working slow, up to harder and faster, Lindsey, you stuck-up bitch, thinking you’re too damn good for anybody, I know what you need, yeah, it hurts a little, but you like it, don’t you, getting up to hard as hell and real fast, Angie, Angie the pisser, come on, kiss it, put it in your mouth. No, not you, Tina, you’re not a slut. Mmm. Sister? I never knew . . . .</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> A few minutes. Nobody gets hurt. Nobody’s disappointed.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px; text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Love On A Pedestal</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Put my love up on a pedestal</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Now it’s way above my head</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Said my love is on a pedestal</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And it’s got me seeing red</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I met you</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">You were all I ever wanted</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">But something wasn’t right</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I met you</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Your were all I ever needed</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Then I held to you too tight</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Now my love is on a pedestal</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And it’s way above my head</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Said my love is on a pedestal</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I regret the things I did</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Been in love</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">But never like this baby</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I just don’t know what to do</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Been in love</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">With so many other ladies</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">But it’s always fallen through</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Said my love is on a pedestal</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And it’s way above my head</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Now my love is on a pedestal</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I regret the things I said</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Couldn’t even come at first. Just got to that point and the balls’d get tight as hell and the dick’d throb but nothing came out. Hurt like hell really, but felt good too. When something did come out, it was just a drop on the head. Scared you, didn’t it? Thought it was pus. There’d be cum on the bellies of the sluts in Don’s harder porn, but always black and white pictures and looking like wax or something. Now you can hit yourself under the chin with a good one. Then reach back and get a washcloth off the stack on top of the toilet tank. Be a big line of that nasty shit running down your chest. On the first load anyway. If you make a second trip, it’ll be a lot smaller. Maybe enough to fill your bellybutton. Can go four, five times, like Saturdays when you got nothing else to do. That’s when Puff comes banging on the door to get you out. You’d do it even more, but it gets to where it hurts and hardly anything comes out at all. You wipe up whatever there is, wet the rag, ball it up, toss it in the hamper. The weirdest shit in the world too. Thick as hell when it’s hot, runny when it gets cold. Magazine sluts always got their legs spread wide and their lips pulled back, showing that big gash. Looks like a wishbone all spread out like that. Like, come on and kiss it, Jim. Flick your tongue over my clit. Mmm. Lick me ’til I come on your face. Stick it up in me, yeah.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Shit. Just what I need to have a woody when Doc walks in.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Plans? Doc wanted to know my plans. Don’t have any. Why make plans? A waste of time. The old man’s got no money to send me to school, and I’m not making the grades for a scholarship, so it’s not like there’s a lot of options. Didn’t even take the SAT. Why stay sober on a Friday night just to go to school on fuckin’ Saturday without a hangover and take a test? When I’m out of Williams, I’m done. Hell, nothing I really want to do could ever work out anyway. What were you gonna say, that you wanna be a rock star? You’d actually have to know how to play an instrument, or sing, or at least be able to write some good lyrics. Bernie Taupin. That might be cool, make the bucks without having to deal with people looking at you and shit. Don gave me his copy of Madman Across The Water after Elton said he was queer. Still won’t let me use the turntable, or play his other albums, but I do anyway whenever he leaves. He doesn’t even keep ’em in alphabetical order, much less ones he’s got from the same band in the order they came out in. He’ll leave, I close the door, crank it a little, act like I’m singing. Make faces I strain so hard, all bowed up pretending I’ve got a microphone. Like I’m screaming into it, jumping around a little, just no sound coming out. Even try to breathe at the right time, take breaths between lines or verses.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Don’t listen to Madman much anymore. Any Elton. “Ticking” comes to mind a lot lately. From Caribou. Fat Peter’s got that album. It’s pretty cool for a slow song. But I usually need more guitars. The louder the better. Joe Fuckin’ Perry. Ted Nugent. Never could see what one guy sees in another guy, why he’d want to suck a dick or pack some big hairy ass. My ass is exit only. It’s still a good album though. “Indian Sunset.” </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I learned to hurl a tomahawk / And ride a painted pony wild</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. Cool. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And now you ask that I should watch / The red man’s race be slowly crushed / What kind of words are these to hear / From Yellow Dog who white man fears?</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Ol’ Whitey gets ragged on a lot these days. Women, niggers. Like he’s the reason for all the problems in the world, for all the problems ever. You’d think being white and a guy means you got everything. Bullshit. It’s never been enough to just be white and a guy. You got to have that third thing too. Money. Property. Power. Just as important. That’s when you’re somebody. That’s when you call the shots. The old man never had shit. Neither will I.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Women should be able to do whatever the hell they want. I got nothing against the Equal Rights Amendment. You want to work, work. Glad Puff does, or she’d be home giving me hell. You want an abortion, fine. There’d be less kids born that nobody wants. Puff calls it murder, but that’s bullshit. You’re not really a baby ’til you come out. And then you got to start breathing. The old man said how Puff had a stillborn after me. Went all the way through being pregnant, then had a dead baby instead of a live one. No birth certificate, no funeral, no grave. It just never lived. And if it never lived, then I didn’t kill it. You can’t kill something that never was alive. If it’s only a couple months old and still inside you, it’s not a real baby. You can’t murder anybody who never was somebody. Just those that are already living. Goddamn it.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"></span><br />
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><img alt="l_179c59f7df310d1fcc6e958b6ec4179e.jpg" src="webkit-fake-url://D80D550F-2337-467B-A5DD-E5A001FA8E12/l_179c59f7df310d1fcc6e958b6ec4179e.jpg" /></span><br />
</div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><br />
</span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Puff couldn’t have kids after me. She thinks that’s the only reason to have sex. The old man’s got his own room.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Hello, I’m Louise Brown. I’m the test-tube baby. Talk about just killing a baby before it’s really even a baby, what about just making one? Is that right? They’re even trying to get this one woman to have a baby for another woman. Get a husband and wife to donate the egg and the jizz to make a baby in the lab, then put it in some other woman and make her pregnant. A </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">surrogate</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> mother. Since the one woman can’t have kids herself.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px; text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Surrogate Soul</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">In search of reason</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">By way of rhyme</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">No act of treason</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Committed no crime</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Born out of season</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Wrong place, wrong time</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Love like a lesion</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Subliminally sublime</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Of flesh and blood I am made</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Constructed much the same as any man</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The words I use</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The moves I make</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Things I love</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Things I hate</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">All aspects of life</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Become trivial and trite</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">When man is controlled</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">By a surrogate soul</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Depression is easy</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Live alone in a shell</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Personalities change</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">At times of heaven</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">At others of hell</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Aggression no answer</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Violence no cure</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">War man’s prescription</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Perish now on your sword</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">A man from Nazareth</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Once walked on this earth</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Offering life, receiving death</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Born of a virgin?</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Asked man to be born again</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Put your faith in the word</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Stop this living in sin</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Man with ears</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Still cannot hear</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Man under control</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Of a surrogate soul</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Women want to go to college? No reason why they shouldn’t. Be glad when I’m done with school, but if somebody wants more of that shit, go for it. Niggers should do whatever they want too. As long as it’s legal. But why do they got to burn shit down, fuck shit up in riots? Martin Luther King didn’t. Always their own fuckin’ neighborhood too. Some even say they should all get guns and kill honkies. Fuck you. Go back to Africa if you don’t like it here. Sound like the fuckin’ Klan. You really want to kill somebody, you don’t deserve to live here, Klan, nigger, or anything else. You really want to kill somebody, you don’t deserve to live period. I don’t care how bad you got it, killing ain’t the answer. Your Black Power bullshit ain’t gonna make you no friends. Fuckin’ Malcolm X calling us white devils. What if I called you a black devil? Then </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I’m</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> racist? What the hell are you? Other than a dead nigger. By your own fuckin’ kind too. Took a dumb redneck to blow King away. Fuck you and your militant bullshit. Whitey’s evil for judging you by the color of your skin? Right. Man, if somebody is oppressed or repressed or depressed or whatever, but they really just want to turn the tables, to be on top instead, they’re no better than the ones holding ’em down to begin with. Worse even. Like if you were a slave, and you got freed, then you wanted a slave of your own? You should know better than to pull the same shit. Do you want equality or do you want revenge? To hell with you. King might’ve had to put up with some shit, but he didn’t really take any shit, and he didn’t fuck any shit up either. That’s cool, but you and your kind, X, can kiss my white ass.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> I didn’t fuck the whole world up. What’ve I done that’s so bad? I mean— I mean shit like the Indians. Or the slaves. That was a hundred years ago. More. We never had slaves. No black alive today ever was a slave, or a white who ever owned one. Doubt Puff’s folks way back when ever could’ve afforded any. And the old man’s family never had shit to speak of either, and they lived way the hell up in Michigan. Never once even heard him say "nigger." The old lady does, but not in a bad way. She told some lady at church about this black woman from work, said, “She’s such a good nigger.” Me and Don used to call each other nigger all the time when we’d get pissed off. There was nothing worse than being called black. But I’d never call a nigger that to their face or anything. Even voted for Clarence for Student Body President. He says he’s an Oreo, but he’s still black. I could’ve voted for somebody white. I’ve even been at parties where one of those Enochs from the football team was there. If he was toasting a doob and handed it to me, I’d hit it. I wouldn’t even wipe off the end first. Not if he was looking.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> There’s all kinds of people at school. That Checci guy from Yugoslavia or Czechoslovakia or wherever. Always smiling. Always. And Anwar from Egypt. Smart as hell. Surya from India. He even eats hamburgers. Lupé from wherever the hell she’s from. A bunch of different people from a bunch of different places. And every one of ’em glad to be here. If they wanted to go back home, they could. But they don’t. They want to live here. If you don’t, then fuckin’ leave.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><img alt="l_918165a0a6fb51a452e269fd8f1630d1.jpg" src="webkit-fake-url://6B38CFFD-9B9A-478C-A98D-7DC01BCEE811/l_918165a0a6fb51a452e269fd8f1630d1.jpg" /></span><br />
</div></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">That black funeral a couple years ago. Dwight, a grade ahead at Blessed Sacrament, died while they were operating on him for a hernia. Tony Griggs called and told me, asked if I wanted to go to the funeral. His mom took us. Man, that church was </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">packed</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. We were the only white people there. Stood in this little room off to one side of the altar ’cause there wasn’t any room out where the pews were. Never seen anything like it. Not just crying, but wailing and shit, bawling out loud right there in front of everybody, shouting “Amen!” and “Hallelujah!” They didn’t even care they were in church. Me and Tony didn’t say shit the whole time. Didn’t even get to see Dwight. The coffin was open in front of the altar, but there was too many people for us to get out there. Got some dirty looks too. Fuck you. We knew Dwight from kindergarten, when he was in first. We played at recess every fuckin’ day. We were all just kids who had to dress alike for eight or nine years. He’d have wanted us to be there.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Fuck it, man. Judging from History classes, whatever color you are, wherever the hell you come from, if you look back, you’ll see you were fighting your own kind, or making slaves out of ’em, or fighting somebody else in a war, and maybe making slaves out of them. Something. Jews were white slaves, working for Egyptians, and they’re kind of black. Germans and Jews are both white, but they don’t get along. The Indians raped and killed each other before Whitey came over and discovered ’em. Black tribes in Africa would even eat the guys they killed. North and South Vietnam. North Korea and South Korea. The same kind of people in the same goddamn countries. And tiny little countries too. Not big like us, even back in the Civil War. It’s harder to get along when you’ve got so many people.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Puff was ragging on the old man to me once and said that “Moore” was really just a form of “Moor” which means black. Like the old man’s part nigger. Maybe I’ve never so much as seen a picture of any grandparents or anything, since they were all dead before I was born, but I bet they were all white as hell, and their parents and grandparents before ’em. I guess you did see Puff’s mother that one time. The day she died. She was in a bed somewhere. A nursing home, I guess, and we were all standing around looking at her. Me and Don, the old man and Puff, Aunt Elsie and Uncle John. She was all shriveled up and moaning, no teeth, stringy gray hair. They made me and Don go out and play right after we got there. I don’t think Don was even in kindergarten yet. I barely remember it, but I remember it. One of the first things I do remember. Her dying.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> They showed on TV about how there were separate water fountains and bathrooms and stuff for blacks. Seems weird, but it wasn’t that long ago. I was living, even if I can’t remember it. Blacks couldn’t eat at the lunch counter and had to ride in the back of a bus. They can do whatever they want now though. Can make hundreds of thousands of dollars just playing ball. Get rich just for being a fuckin’ athlete. What the hell would you be if you’d never left Africa? Probably be starving to death or dying of some disease or getting eaten by some animal or some other tribe. Whitey might not have meant to do you any favors bringing you over here, but he did in the long run. Even though you couldn’t cut it as slaves, slavery worked out pretty well for you after all.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Besides, if it’s bad to buy a slave, isn’t it even worse to sell one? And even worse than that if you’re selling your own kind, and then for a few beads or something? Sure, Whitey was in on it, but he wasn’t alone. He didn’t invent it. He might’ve been the best at it—or worst, depending how you look at it—but he didn’t invent the shit. Africans had slaves for themselves before they ever started selling ’em to us. Indians were killing Indians long before Columbus ever came over. In ninth, Mrs. Hightower even taught us about how there’s still a lot of slave trade records around, and how they show that white people almost never had to round up slaves for themselves. They just bought prisoners from different tribes.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> That shit at the Olympics with blacks not putting their hands over their hearts for the anthem. Raising their fists instead. Hell, if slave owners hadn’t bred your ancestors, you wouldn’t be such good athletes now. And there’s got to be a little white blood in there too, somewhere along the way. Bet that helped. If not, why doesn’t Africa sweep the Olympics every time with all of its pure breeds? Some white guy pairing off your parents and putting a little of himself into the mix made you what you are today. You should be thankful.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Fuck it. I’m sick of the guilt. The old man or the old lady or the nuns or the priests or somebody else always looking down their nose at me, telling me I’m to blame for something or everything. I don’t need the rap for something that’s not my fault. I didn’t do it, goddamn it. I didn’t. Hell, if I ever even got to eat out, I’d rather sit in a booth than at the counter anyway. The one time I rode on a bus, when Puff sent me and Don up to Salisbury to stay with Aunt Elsie and Uncle John for a week one summer, I rode in the back ’cause I wanted to.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> That black kid outside of Kentucky Fried Chicken. Looked about my age. We were sitting at a stoplight, I was in the back seat looking out at him. I was jealous, ’cause he had a whole bucket of that shit, and I’d never even had a piece of the Colonel’s. Turned out, it was really an empty bucket, and he was pulling bones from the trash to fill it with. Didn’t look like he even cared if anybody was watching. Maybe he’d have been better off staying in Africa. Wouldn’t have been any worse off anyway.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><br />
</span> <br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px; text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">One Goal</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Is there not one goal</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Towards which we all can strive</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">One goal</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Must we take others’ lives</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">In a world splashed with colors</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Religions and creeds</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">One goal</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Must exist for all needs</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">How many children will starve overnight</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">How many die ’cause their color’s not right</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">How many lives governed by the hands of a few</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">How many realize what’s long overdue</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">One goal</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Towards which we all can strive</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">One goal</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Must we take others’ lives</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">In a world splashed with colors</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Religions and creeds</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">One goal</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Must exist for all needs</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Aunt Elsie and Uncle John. Those two </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">stay</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> mad at each other. One Christmas, Aunt Elsie’d put out a bowl of pecans for everybody to munch on. When Uncle John saw ’em on the counter, he asked if they were the same ones she’d bought at the store. She said yeah, and he got all pissed, said he’d told her before that some of ’em tasted rotten. She just rolled her eyes, said they weren’t all bad, and that we could just be careful eating ’em. He said, “Woman, if some of ’em are bad, then throw them all away!” She didn’t though. I didn’t eat any.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"></span><br />
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><img alt="l_346d410441a974497d92b2c7e783c52b.jpg" src="webkit-fake-url://D4A9C6B3-796B-485A-9D16-87FAE7553E60/l_346d410441a974497d92b2c7e783c52b.jpg" /></span><br />
</div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><br />
</span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> That time Aunt Elsie didn’t know I was around, she told Uncle John his memory was about as short as his pecker. He was all out of joint ’cause the parakeet had got outside again and was loose in the backyard. The cage was in the kitchen, with the door always open so it could fly around. It would eat and shit and sleep in the cage, but perch damn near anywhere else. It got out more than a few times, when somebody came in or went out and it would fly right at your head and on out the door before you could close it. Uncle John would just about lose it every time, bitch about the bird flying around loose in the first place, act like he hated the damn thing, but at the same time be all worried that it would fly off and get killed. Aunt Elsie’d just go out in the yard, grab the hose, douse that little son of a bitch with water. It’d drop to the ground and flop around, not be able to fly it was so wet. Then she’d lay a dishtowel over it, scoop it up and carry it back in. All the time rolling her eyes, shaking her head at Uncle John. Country fuckin’ bumpkins. But good people. Both worked at Cannon Mills, making towels, ’til they retired. They just farm now.</span></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Hippies had the right idea. Farming on a commune, everybody working for what they eat. The old man hated ’em, but they were cool. Getting high, getting laid. Peace, man. What’s wrong with that? Have a sit-in, not a riot. Or a bed-in. Like Lennon. He’s cool. I don’t know what he sees in Yoko, but if that’s what trips his trigger, more power to him. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Power to the people right on</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. I’d like to be like him, or maybe just . . . be a friend of his or something, somebody who could hang out with him. Not for his fame or money. Just be cool like him, talk with him. Maybe he could help me with my lyrics, teach me to play guitar.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px; text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Gone Hollywood</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Wings on the water</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Chasing a rainbow</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Touched by the stone hands of love</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Wings on the water</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I ain’t getting nowhere</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I think I’ve had me enough</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I’m gonna make a call</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Round up the boys</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Get up the band</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And start making some noise</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Then you can look for me under the sign</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">That reads Hollywood and Vine</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">’cause that is where I’m gonna be</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I’m gonna rope you with my lariat</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">We’ll ride off inside my chariot</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The main attraction, the only sight to see</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I’m gone Hollywood</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Don’t wanna be misunderstood</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I got the devil right by the hooves</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I’m gone Hollywood</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Gone Hollywood</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Listen to me and listen good</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Best get to gettin’ while the gettin’s good</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I’m gone Hollywood</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Wings on the water</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Chasing a rainbow</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Touched by the stone hands of love</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Wings on the water</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I ain’t getting nowhere</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I think I’ve had me enough</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I’m gonna make a call</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Round up the boys</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Get up the band</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And start making some noise</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I spy a camera and strike up a pose</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Shoveling cocaine into my nose</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">In the city of angels, the city of sin</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Influenced by alcohol</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Telling myself that I’m having a ball</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Wings on the water, I’m getting nowhere again</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I’m gone Hollywood</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Don’t wanna be misunderstood</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I got the devil right by the hooves</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I’m gone Hollywood</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Gone Hollywood</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Listen to me and listen good</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Best get to gettin’ while the gettin’s good</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I’m gone Hollywood</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Opie came running out on the front porch yelling, “It’s Mr. Frisbee, the egg man!” I thought Lennon was the Egg Man. And the Walrus. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Koo koo kichoo</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> I used to think maybe I’d like to be a writer. Not one of those boring-ass English fucks we had to read in G.T., but somebody like that guy who wrote the book about Holden Caulfield. Blew me away. We never even had anything as dirty as Shakespeare in Catholic school, no black rams tupping any white ewes or anything. Man, I was pulling for Iago. Desdemona shouldn’t have been fucking a nigger anyway, but Iago just about had everything work out. He was just so </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">close</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. In Catcher In The Rye, the guy’s cussing and talking about farts and getting drunk all the time. I never even knew books like that existed. The old lady would’ve killed me if she’d known I was reading it, if she’d known what all was in it.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> I got no plans. Told Doc I just didn’t have any right now. You can never really even know if you have a future, so why bother makin’ pla— There’s the door. Finally.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Sorry to keep you waiting, Jim.” Doc picks up his pad, heads over to his desk, starts shuffling papers around, opens and shuts a couple drawers. Wonder what he’s looking for? Ha! He walks back to the chair and checks down in the cushion. Maybe can’t find your pencil, Doc? “We’ll be ready in just a minute, Jim. Please be patient.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “No problem.” I be patient, you be doctor. Me Tarzan, you Jane. Where wishbone, Jane? </span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">“I’ve just been gettin’ comfortable.” What else’ve I got to do? Doc, you really do need to get some new shoes. Them tassels </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">scream</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> homo. Now he’s heading back to his desk. Man, we’ve spent I don’t even know how many sessions going over all that kind of shit. Don’t know how much more time we can waste on it. Not ready to move on to . . . to anything . . . deeper. He says whatever we discuss is strictly confidential, but I don’t know if I can buy that. It’s not like what’s bugging me is anything simple. Like, “Oooh, Mommy doesn’t love me,” or, “Daddy beats me.” Get over it already. Who doesn’t have little shit like that to deal with?</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Doc’s sitting down. He brought a good ol’ number two with him. Set the timer. Only forty minutes? Fine. I’d just as soon get the hell out of here anyway.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “How are you feeling today, Jim?” He asks that every time.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Fine, I guess.” So you lie. Still kind of hung over.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Do you remember where we left off last time?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Uh . . . nah . . . I don’t think so.” Hell, how am I supposed to remember? He’ll flip through his pad like he’s gonna find out. Man, why’d you have to ask if I believe in God? That’s been bouncing around my head ever since. I go to mass, but I got no choice about that. And, yeah, I’ve even read some of the old lady’s Bible, but not for any good reason.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Well, why don’t we just start fresh, Jim?” Knew he wouldn’t find anything. “What would you like to talk about today?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Nothin’ in particular.” That got him flipping pages. He’ll try to find something old to hash up. Oooh, hash. Under glass. Stick a straight pin through a pack of matches so that you can lay the pack flat on a table and the pin will be sticking straight up. Mount a big ol’ chunk of hash on the end of the pin, light it, blow it out when it gets going like a piece of incense, cover it with an </span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">upside-down glass. A clear one, so you can see it filling up with smoke. When it gets full, nice and white, put your mouth down there, tilt the glass up a crack, suck the smoke out real quick, close it and let it fill again. RUSH.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> In one of the readings at church, Father Connolly was talking about the flood. Only he was saying that Noah had seven pairs of animals that were “clean” ones and then one pair that was “unclean.” I always thought there was just the one pair of each. Looked it up. There’s two versions of the story. One does just mention one pair of animals. Think that’s the one we usually got at mass when one of the old priests read that story. Monsignor O’Brien and his cigar took his mother off to start a church in Wilmington after they built ours. Father Bowman was around just long enough to talk Coach Plummer’s wife into running off with him. Father Carr had already taken Sister Beverly Ann off in his convertible with the new paint job. All of them must’ve used to read the version with just two of every animal, but Father Connolly read the other one. Guess it’s got all the extra animals for Noah to eat and sacrifice and shit.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Yes, here we are. Your mother says you’ve been having nightmares. Is that true?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Shit. Caught me with my pants down there, Doc. “Well . . . uh . . . yeah . . . I guess so.” So she </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">does</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> talk to him. What the hell’d she have to tell him that for? How the hell’d she know anyway?</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Would you like to tell me about them?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Uh . . . sure.” Last thing in the world I want to do. “Not sure where to start though.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> A couple quick knocks. The door opens. The secretary’s head. “Call for you, Doctor.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Doc jumps up, drops his pad and the number two in his chair. “Sorry, Jim. I really need to take this. I won’t be a minute.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “OK.” You’re talking to his back. “No problem.” Now you’re talking to the door. Don’t suppose I should stop the timer there for you, Doc, huh? Fuckin’ old lady. Talking behind my back. Jesus Christ. The creation story’s got two different versions in her Bible too. And with David and Goliath, in one place it talks about how Goliath was bad-mouthing the Israel guys and they were all too pussy to do anything. Then this kid David comes along and hears him talking shit and really fucks him up. Cuts his head </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">off</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> after he hits him with the rock. But later on there’s this list of David’s heroes. One of ’em is called the guy who killed Goliath. That’s the day Puff walked in on me. I haven’t read anymore. Seems the guys who wrote those stories couldn’t keep the facts straight. Or they just made it up as they went along. The nuns used to tell us that they were prophets or saints or something, and God told ’em what to write down, but it seems like God could’ve told ’em the same thing every time, and not changed it. Why’d he even have to tell it twice? If it’s just the same story, why have ’em both in there like they’re both holy or something? Besides, if somebody was to tell me that God’d been talking to him and telling him to write stuff down . . . . Let’s just say I’d have to keep my distance from that son of a bitch. Maybe I really wanted to know more than just what the deal was with Noah and his how-many-ever pairs of animals, but all I got was more questions. Hell, I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking anyway. It’s just a damn book.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> There sure was a whole lot of killing going on back then, and God was doing most of it. Or at least letting it happen, when people pissed Him off. No wonder the old lady says He’s not some doting grandfather. He didn’t put up with any shit, that’s for sure. Fuckin’ vicious. Almost makes me want to just keep on living, ’cause He sure as hell won’t be giving you any breaks when you die. Whenever you die. And if He’s for real.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><br />
</span> <br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px; text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The Raven And The Dove</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The darkness can seduce you</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And overtake your soul</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">It can override your senses</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And overtake control</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And I’ve been down that road</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">So many times before</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And I know I will return</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Because it leaves you wanting more</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I’ve flown with the raven</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And I’ve flown with the dove</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Raised hell from down below</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Prayed to heaven up above</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Lay fallen in the tunnel</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And I strain to see the light</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I wander in a jungle</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Travel only at night</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Can’t see where it is I’m going</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Feel I’ve been this way before</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Yeah, the light it keeps me running</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">But the darkness keeps me poor</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I’ve flown with the raven</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And I’ve flown with the dove</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Raised hell from down below</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Prayed to heaven up above</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">How far must I run</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">How will I know when my journey’s done</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">How high must I fly</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Where will it take me when I die</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Maybe the old lady’s got Don in on it. He spying on me? Fuckin’ rat.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> A lot of killing in her Bible. Things are great, we start pissing God off, He kills a bunch of people to put everybody back in line, things go back to being great until we piss Him off again. Then more killing and dying. Like all those wars in History. Last year, Mr. Troxler showed us film of the concentration camps. What the hell’s so bad about being a Jew? Jesus. I used to think about how six hundred thousand guys got killed in the Civil War, and that blew me away. But then six </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">million</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Jews get gassed or whatever. Fuck. War </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">is</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> hell.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px; text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Blood On The Flag</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Shot from the saddle in the heat of the battle</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The wounded cry as the cannons roar</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Load up my musket, fire into the line</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Men drop like flies but keep coming for more</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I’ve seen the Union blues, the sky is Confederate gray</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I’ll give my life for General Lee</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Kill or be killed, they die or you’re dead</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Man killing man because it’s wrong to enslave them</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Now there’s blood on the flag</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Brother against brother, it’s one thing or another</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">But now there’s blood on the flag</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">With no rhyme or reason, killing’s always in season</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And now there’s blood on the flag</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Hit by an arrow that flew straight and narrow</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The howl of braves makes blood run cold</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Load up my rifle, fire when one’s in sight</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">They’re well outnumbered but well more than bold</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">We depleted their herds, ran them off of their land</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Now they dare to try and avenge this</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Kill or be killed, they die or you’re dead</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Fight for the land, it’s all ours if we take it</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Now there’s blood on the flag</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Brother against brother, it’s one thing or another</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">But now there’s blood on the flag</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">With no rhyme or reason, killing’s always in season</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And now there’s blood on the flag</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Jumped from the chopper as shells hit and dropped ’er</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">War is killing, killing is fun</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Loaded with ammo, fire if something moves</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Behind enemy lines it’s just me and my gun</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I’m here to do battle, though I’m not sure quite why</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Good soldiers don’t ask any questions</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Kill or be killed, they die or you’re dead</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">War never ends, we just change the location</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Now there’s blood on the flag</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Brother against brother, it’s one thing or another</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">But now there’s blood on the flag</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">With no rhyme or reason, killing’s always in season</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And now there’s blood on the flag</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">All those Jews weren’t even soldiers either, but just regular people. We read some of Anne Frank’s diary too. That was an innocent kid getting killed, and for what? I mean— That’s just an example. Good, Doc’s back.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “I’m sorry, Jim. That shouldn’t happen again. Really, I apologize.” He sits back down and gets his foot going.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “No big deal.” You’re just getting paid so I can lie here on the couch. Give me a TV and I might as well be at home. I still can’t believe Barney used an inkblot on Otis.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Let’s see. Your mother says you’ve been having nightmares?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Yeah, I guess.” The old lady says most people go straight to hell when they die. A very few get to go straight to heaven, people who’re like saints and shit. Some just have to go to purgatory before they get to go to heaven, because they weren’t too bad and God’s good enough to let ’em off easy in purgatory, even though we’re practically all sinners who deserve to go straight to hell. Even babies, man. They’re sinners when they’re born. They have to be baptized so they can get their sin washed off of ’em. Even if you’re some kind of native or something who never even heard of Jesus, you still couldn’t get past purgatory. You just wouldn’t have to go to hell at all. Used to have to sit on her bed and say rosaries. A Hail Mary for every little bead, an Our Father for the big ones. Me and Don’d take turns with the Hail Marys, we’d all say the Our Fathers. Five Hail Marys, one Our Father. Five more Hail Marys, another Our Father. Five more, one more, five more, one more. When we finally finished, she’d pray for a glass of water for everybody in purgatory.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Fuckin’ Don spit on her Bible once. I saw a few sheets of notebook paper on his bed. He’d been writing, “I will not spit on the Bible” over and over, like if you got caught at school doing something and had to write on the board.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Asked Puff about Gandhi once. We learned about him and he seemed to be pretty good, and she was preaching and I wanted to shut her up or at least hear something worth listening to. I thought he’d have got to go straight to heaven. He said it took a lot more guts to stand in front of a cannon with a smile on your face than it took to stand behind a cannon and blow the smile off the fucker standing in front of you. Puff just shook her head at me like I was stupid, said you have to be Christian to go to heaven. It’s best if you’re Catholic, ’cause they’re the best Christians, but you’ve got to at least be some kind of Christian. People who commit suicide go straight to hell forever, no questions ask—</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Jim. About your dreams.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Oh, yeah, well, I’m not sure where to start. I mean, the dreams are . . . they’re really all kinda . . . about the same . . . thing.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “And what is that?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> None of your goddamn business is what. Kids. Dying. Me just sitting there and watching it happen. “Uh, they’re about . . . .” Pull something out of your ass, man, and quick. “They’re about . . . about the night . . . the night . . . it was one night last fall . . . the night . . . the night of the game.” Hell, that’s the truth too. It really was that night. “The . . . the football game. Williams Cummings. You know, the big cross-town rivalry and all.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Of course. I’m well aware of those games, Jim. I’m usually there. I </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">was</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> there, as I imagine many of the people in town were. I believe the Bulldogs beat the Cavaliers by a late field goal. A great one, that was. I take it you went as well. You must have been happy with the outcome.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Well, we were supposed to go. I guess I wish we had gone now.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “We?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Yeah. Me ’n . . . me ’n . . . Swade.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Suede? Did you say Suede?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Yeah. It’s . . . it’s kind’ve a nickname. Well, it was. I called him that. He didn’t like it.” Which is exactly why I called him that.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “I see. And you two were supposed to go to the game?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Well, he told his parents we were goin’, but . . . .” Man, this couch sucks. I never really noticed how uncomfortable it is. Uh oh. He’s tapping the number two.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “But what, Jim?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> But what? But what? Man, if you only knew. There goes the pencil again.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Listen, Jim. Why don’t you just start at the beginning? Tell me how that night began. Try to relax. Close your eyes if that seems to be helpful for you. Just take your time, ease into it, tell me everything that happened as you remember it. What were you doing when that night began?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Oh. OK. Let’s see. I was sittin’ on the front porch at my house, over on Glenwood Avenue. It’s the block between Rich & Thompson's Funeral Home and Pine Hill Cemetery. A real jumpin’ neighborhood, you know?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Go on.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Yeah. Well, anyway, I was sittin’ there in this old wicker chair, waitin’ for my ride. Swade. I remember the chair was kinda rockin’ under me while I was wrappin’ a rubber band around my ponytail. See, the chair’s only got three good legs. There’s an upside-down flowerpot where the fourth one used’ta be. I don’t know why the folks don’t get rid of that thing. I mean, it’s ugly as hell, and—</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Jim, I don’t think the chair is that important.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Oh.” You’re the one who wanted details, Doc. “Well, I was just sittin’ there, and . . . uh . . . I heard this noise, this . . . </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">skritch</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. A rake on a sidewalk. Across the street, three houses up, Mr. Shanahan was rakin’ leaves from his front yard into a pile at the curb.” It was a pretty big pile too. He’d always wait ’til the trees were bare and then rake just the one time. Those big orange trucks the city sends out vacuum up the piles. They grind branches too if they aren’t too big to— There goes the foot. Uh huh, now the tapping.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Jim, Mr. Shanahan was raking his yard.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Yeah. Sorry. Yeah, he was, uh, rakin’ the leaves into a pile. Made me think about how me and Don . . . how we used’ta . . . .” We’d use an old sheet to haul leaves out to the curb. Lay it down, rake the leaves from a section of the yard onto it, grab up the corner— Yeah, yeah, yeah. Tap, tap, tap.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “You were reminded of Don.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Yeah. You remember Don? My brother? We talked about him before.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “I </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">remember</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">, Jim.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> What the hell you so testy for? You should be used to this by now. “Well, we used’ta . . . we used’ta . . . build forts in leaf piles like that when . . . when we were kids. We’d hollow out the center, duck down, wait for a car to drive by . . . .” Shit! This ain’t gonna be easy.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Go on, Jim.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Go on, Jim</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Get in touch with your emotions, Jim</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. Bite my </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">ass</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">, Doc. “We’d . . . we’d hollow out the center, see, and then wait for a car . . . then . . . then we’d . . . we’d jump up and shoot at it like we had machine guns, you know? We . . . .” Damn it! I don’t want to cry in front of this guy. Fuck my emotions. Be a man, goddamn it. And don’t start tapping that damn pencil again either. “We . . . we were just kids, you know, just a coupla dumb kids. We didn’t know any better. We just didn’t know . . . .”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “It’s all right, Jim. You’re doing fine. Mr. Shanahan was raking his yard.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Yeah. OK. Yeah, he was rakin’. Well, he finished his pile, hacked that filterless Camel cough of his, spit in the leaves.” Mr. Shanahan flicked a butt in the road one time. I went and picked it up after he’d gone in. The end was real wet. I took a drag. I didn’t know how to inhale—I couldn’t have been more than five or six—and I just sucked it straight down like air. Talk about coughing. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Tap, tap, tap</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. “Uh, Mr. Shanahan stood the rake up against the tree in fronta his house and went wheezin’ inside.” He used to yell at me and Don for climbing that tree. We’d try to sneak a peek in Teri’s room. Sweet little Teri. He’d threaten to— Shit. Stay focused.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Uh, that’s when the blue Cordoba turned the corner. I got up, jumped the three steps from the porch to the sidewalk, headed out to the road. I heard the engine kick in, looked up and saw Swade plow his mom’s car right through Mr. Shanahan’s leaves. He crossed the street, pulled up to the curb in fronta the house, rolled his window down, stuck his skinny white arm out and plucked a leaf from the corner of the windshield. I just stared at him, shook my head as I walked around to the other side of the car.” Hell, can’t help shaking it now just thinking about it.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “He was there to pick you up for the game?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Well, that’s what his parents thought anyway. We didn’t really plan on goin’.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “I see. What did you two have planned?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Nothin’ much. We were just gonna mess around.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “I see. Well, why don’t you tell me a little about . . . Suede, was it?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Swade? OK. Yeah, well, let’s see. He had this dumb grin. Crooked teeth. His hair was short, parted on the side. He always wore those straight-leg Levi’s—and not even pre-washed either, but those stiff, dark blue things—with these stupid cuffs rolled on the legs. Old leather Docksides and no socks, I don’t care how cold it was. Had this T-shirt with a yellow smiley face with a bloody bullet hole in the forehead. He’s a real . . . I mean, he was a real . . . .” This sucks. Maybe I’ll just let Doc catch up, wait ’til he quits taking no—</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Why do you make it a point to refer to him in the past tense?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Oh. Well, because . . . ’cause . . . because he’s dead.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “I see.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Man, you wrote that down quick.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “How did that happen, Jim?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “He . . . he wrecked the car. They said he got thrown from it. Through the windshield.” I heard they had to pull some of his teeth out of a tree.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “That’s tragic. When did this happen?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Tragic? Tragic my ass. He deserved worse, Doc. He deserved a lot worse. “Uh . . . it was that night. After . . . after we’d gone . . . out.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “So you were not in the car at the time of the accident?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “No. Not at the time of— No, I wasn’t in the car then.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Well, it’s lucky for you that you weren’t.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Flipping the page already? Lot of notes today, Doc? “Yeah, I’m just lucky I guess.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “By your description, I gather that you didn’t care much for this boy, yet you went out with him anyway. Why was that?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Boy</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">, huh? That what you think of me too?</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Jim, why did you go out with him?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Well, he had a car, and I needed to get outta the house.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “You </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">needed</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> to get out of the house?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Well, let’s just say that I really </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">wanted</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> to.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Fine. We can come back to that. Let’s continue with the events of that night.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Well, Swade pulled up, I opened the door and got in.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">“Swade, man, what the hell’dya do that for? Old man Shanahan just finished rakin’ those leaves. Fucker looked like he was gonna drop dead in the pile.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Hell, I dunno. Somethin’ to do. And don’t call me that . . . </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Jimmy</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Lay off that ‘Jimmy’ shit, man. It’s Jim.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Yeah, and my name’s Wade, dickless.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “You better feel again.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Fuck you.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “You better think again. You ain’t man enough to pull that shit off.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Kiss my ass.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “That’d take a while, ’cause you’re all ass.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Fuck you.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">“Swade’d asked his parents for the car so we could go to the game. Biggest game of the year, they wouldn’t let us miss it. He could get the car pretty much whenever he wanted anyway, but it was always nice to have a good reason, especially with his folks.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “And why was that?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “You couldn’t trust ’em.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “How so?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Well, he’d tell ’em he was gonna spend the night at somebody’s house, but then they’d call over there to check out his story. Or . . . well, I’ve stayed at Swade’s, and . . . this one time we snuck out the window in his room, but they came in to check on us before going to bed. Then they waited up for us, busted us sneakin’ back in. Nosy f— I mean . . . . You couldn’t do anything with them around.” At least I can count on Puff and the old man not to check up on me.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “They just sound like concerned parents.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Overly concerned, more like it. Fuckin’ nosy. “Well, since it was Friday, not a school night, I didn’t need permission to go out. I just had’ta be in by eleven. So I didn’t tell my folks anything. I just left. I mean, I got my license, but they’d never let me use either one of the cars, so I don’t bother askin’. I just get somebody to come pick me up, and then leave.” The only guy I know who’s got a curfew. At least one before midnight. Fuckin’ sucks. Embarrassing. Fuckin’ </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">kids</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> shouldn’t be allowed out late. You should get </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">them</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> in before dark, but . . . . I’m not a kid.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “I remember the street lights were just comin’ on when I got in. That little flicker and buzz thing they do. At the stop sign—where Glenwood runs into Main Street—Swade kinda slapped me on the arm with the back of his fingers. You know, just tryin’ to get my attention.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “I understand.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “He wanted to know if I was . . .”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “If you were what?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “To find out if I had . . .”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “If you had what?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">“Hey, man. You able to get any weed off your brother?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Yeah.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">“To find out . . . if I had . . . to find out if I had any . . . </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">smoke</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">.” Can’t believe you just said that. Shit, bet he’ll write it down. “Uh, you sure this won’t be gettin’ back to my parents, right?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “As I’ve told you before, Jim, whatever we discuss here is strictly between us. Don’t hold back for fear of me telling anyone anything. Besides, I’m quite familiar with ‘smoke.’ I did live through the ’60s.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Yeah? Cool. I just wondered if I should be . . . . censorin’.”</span></span><br />
</div>tj judehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02502294263834268458noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6737908248333078855.post-13746594715179357452009-10-26T18:24:00.000-07:002009-10-31T06:41:59.038-07:00stain, Part VI<div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Not at all. I’m not here to condemn you, or criticize you, or to judge you in any way. Mind you, I’m not saying that I condone your actions either, I’m just saying that I may be able to relate to certain things. But if we’re ever going to get at whatever it is that’s troubling you, you have to get in touch with your emotions and share them with me. Don’t keep yourself so bottled up.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Geez. That again. “OK. Well, I hiked the leg of my jeans up, pulled my bag outta my sock.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">“Look’s like he got some Columbian this week, man. Check it out.” I unrolled the sack, held it open across the seat at Swade. It was practically </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">all</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> buds. Not half shake like that Mexican shit.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Cool, man. You done good. Real good. Now, check this out.” Swade reached under his seat, pulled out a bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Well, well, well. Whadda we got here?” I rolled my bag up, licked it, sealed it, worked it into my pocket, took the bottle from Swade and pulled it out far enough to see the label. “What the— Four Roses? What’s this shit?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Fuckin’ whiskey.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Fuckin’ rotgut.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Fuck you.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Yeah, right.” I wrapped the bottle back up, handed it to Swade. “Where the hell’dya get it?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> He slid it back under the seat. “You remember Monk? From the apartments?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Yeah. Old Yeller.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Yeah. He’s home this weekend. From school. Ran into ’im at the mall last night. Gave ’im what cash I had, asked ’im to get me a fifth. Said to come by today and pick it up. That’s it.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Shit, he coulda got some rum or somethin’.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Hell, that’s what he got, and that’s what we’re drinkin’. Quit bitchin’. It’s not like I can take the shit back. Jesus. Why you gotta be such an asshole about everything?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Just my way, I guess. Why do you gotta be such a pussy?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Fuck you.” Swade made like he was gonna slap my arm again, but I balled up my fist at him, so he didn’t. He just shook his head, looked out his window. When he turned back, he had that fuckin’ grin going. “Yeah, um, by the way . . . .” He wanted something. “You got any cash? For chaser?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Maybe. Maybe not.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Hell, it’s Friday ain’t it? Didn’tcha get that big fiver?” The grin got even bigger. He could hit his folks up anytime, tell ’em he needed something for lunch, or he wanted it for the mall, the arcade there, Pied Piper’s. But he’d only get an ice cream sandwich in the cafeteria, and they’re just fifteen cents. The good ones too, with a foil wrapper instead of a paper one. And pizza day, he’d get a slice. A square. Rectangle. Thirty-five cents. Swade usually had money. If he didn’t drink it or spend it on smokes, he’d blow it on foosball. Fuckin’ waste. I’d have been buying some herb. Since Don started busing tables, he’s usually got something I can dip into, but I’d rather buy my own. Hell, at the very least, it’d be nice not to ever have to bum a smoke.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Yeah, it’s fuckin’ Friday. Maybe I do got a five. Sounds like more’n you got.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Can you get us some chaser or not?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “I guess I can get somethin’. I gotta get smokes. Give this thing some gas, get us the hell outta here.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">“Swade drove to the Kwickie Mart two blocks from the house. The one next to the carwash?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Yes, I know it.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Where they got those stalls with the wands that have a handle on ’em?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Yes, I know it.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “That look kinda like real long pistols?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “I’m </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">familiar</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> with the place, Jim, yes.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Yeah, well, he pulled in, parked right in fronta the store.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">“Hey, I could use some weeds myself, man. But, like I said, I’m outta cash. I spent it on the booze. You cover me for a pack?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Why didn’tcha ask that old man of yours for some money? It’s not like I’m rollin’ in jack you know. Didn’t he give you somethin’ to get in the game with?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Hell, I hit him up twice earlier this week, and then again last night, man. And the old lady’d already filled up the tank, so I couldn’t ask for gas money. They’d wanna know why I was broke already if I asked for more. What am I supposed to say? ‘Sorry, Dad, but I got drunk every night this week, and beer ain’t cheap, you know.’ Hell, you can spare me a pack. Do it, and I won’t charge ya for gas.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Jesus, you’re a fuckin’ prince.” I climbed out of the car, pulled my smokes from the pocket of my jacket, fished the last one out of the pack, straightened it, stuck it in the side of my mouth while I dug my Bic out of my jeans. Swade opened his door while I was lighting the Mule. I couldn’t help wondering what he was gonna hit me up for next, but he didn’t say anything. He just got out, pulled his leather flight jacket from the back seat, put it on, shoved his hands in the pockets. He came up behind me when I opened the door.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Hold it, man. I’m goin’ in too.” He cut in front of me, walked over to the aisle where they got medicine and shit. I went to the coolers in the back. I was looking through the glass, pricing what they had on the shelves, when I saw a sign on the far door: “Ginger ale: 2 for 1.” It was the cheap shit, in plastic bottles, not the good stuff that comes in glass. I grabbed a couple quarts, carried ’em to the counter, asked the guy for a couple Marlboro Reds, soft pack.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “How much are these Tums?” Swade was holding a roll over his head. I didn’t know why the hell he wanted to know, ’cause I sure as hell wasn’t gonna pay for ’em. He put the roll back when he heard the price. The man rang me up. Swade walked out while I was pocketing my change and the guy was bagging the drinks and smokes. I picked the bag up, went out to the car.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Ready for action, Swa— Shit, I mean, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Wade</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. Let’s have at that bottle.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Hang on a second, man. We can at least get outta the fuckin’ parkin’ lot first.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> After he’d turned back onto Main, Swade pulled a bottle of Visine, still in its box, out of the pocket of his jacket. “Hey, man. Look what I found.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Shit! You stole it?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Nah, man. I used the five-finger discount.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Shit! What if you got caught?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Fuck it. I didn’t get caught, did I? The shit costs two-fifty. You afford that? We’ll need it ’fore we go home.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Maybe, but what if you had got caught? What the fuck would you’a done then? Where the hell’d that leave me?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Hey, I didn’t get caught. If I had, I guess I’da run. Maybe you’da had’ta walk home. But that didn’t happen, so lighten the fuck up. Besides, I never pay for this shit. I always rip it off. Ain’t been caught yet. I’m too smooth.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Smooth as suede?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Watch it, man.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Yeah, right.” I shook my head. Then, with my best Spanish accent, “I say, Swade,” I rubbed my palm on the seat. “I say you are as smooth as this fine Corinthian leather.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Fuck you, Ricardo.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">“You seen that commercial?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Doc quits writing, starts swinging his foot. “Yes I have, Jim. Clever. Now, what happened next?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Well hell, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> thought it was funny. Maybe humor isn’t one of your better emotions, Doc. “Um, I reached in the bag, flipped a pack of cigarettes at Swade, put the other one in the pocket of my jacket. I guess it’s not really a jacket. It’s one of those dark blue sweatshirts with a hood. Not a pullover, but with a zipper. I zip it halfway. It’s got a hole in the front I burned in it with a cigarette. I guess that’s what happened anyway. I mean, I don’t really remember doin’ it. I sewed a piece of an old dress sock in—”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Jim. About that night. You were leaving the Kwickie Mart.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Oh yeah. Well, I gave Swade a pack of smokes, took out one of the quarts, handed it over.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">“What the hell’s this? Ginger ale?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Hell yeah. Brown liquor, light chaser. Besides, it was the cheapest thing they had.” I stuck the other bottle between my legs. Swade turned off of Main. He drove down Ketchum Street, past the City Park, turned onto Waverly Way. That’s not normally a place we’d tool around in, ’cause there’s usually cops keeping an eye on things. There’s a lot of money living over in that neck of the woods. All the houses are big as hell and sitting in the middle of a big yard, not right on top of each other. It’s good that there’s not much traffic, but not good that the only other car you’d see would probably have a set of rollers on the roof. Last thing we needed was to see blue lights behind us. But with the game on the other side of town, Swade figured the streets’d be empty, and they were. Everybody was over at Cummings. We cruised around for a while, passing the liquor back and forth, swigging shots and washing ’em down with the chaser.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px; text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">One Step Ahead Of The Law</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Burnin’ rubber</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Leavin’ tread</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Bumper to bumper</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">She’s one bad sled</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">She got some miles</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">She brought some smiles</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Law’s on her trail</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Gonna track her straight to hell</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Settin’ the pace</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Laws will follow</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">One helluva race</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Too dry to swallow</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">It ain’t gonna end</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Can’t park her, my friend</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Keep up the beat</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Keep eatin’ up street</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I’m one step ahead of the law</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The man is hot on my ass</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I gots to be quick on the draw</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Can’t let him head me off at the pass</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">“Man, this stuff is rank.” I shook my head, but I couldn’t shake that taste out. “I wish Monk’d had better sense.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Quit bitchin’. It does the trick.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Yeah, and then some.” I took another shot. “Whoo! Jesus H. Christ!” I took a long pull on the ginger ale, tried to put out the fire. “This shit might be good for the burn, but that don’t quite cut it. I need somethin’ to get that taste outta my mouth.” I pulled the baggie from one pocket and my brass pipe from the other, packed the bowl, lit it, took a deep toke, handed it over to Swade. We took turns hitting it ’til it was spent. We both fired up a cigarette.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I wish I could burn a Mule now, but Doc doesn’t let you smoke in here. Guess you’d better just keep going. “Let’s see . . . . Oh yeah. We were listenin’ to the Boston album. Well, the cassette. I don’t know if you’ve heard it or not, but if you ever listen to the radio, you probably have. At least “Long Time.” They play that a lot.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Sorry, Jim. I listen to classical music.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Oh.” Geez. What kinda weird fuck are you, Doc? “Well, uh, the Cordoba’s got one of those new in-dash jobs. Real sharp. Swade’s only got—he only </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">had</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">—that one tape that I ever knew of. Played it all the time. I turned up the volume when ‘Peace Of Mind’ came on. That’s a pretty good tune. Even better, it blocked out the sound of Swade breathin’ through his nose, which was really startin’ to get on my nerves just then.” I remember easing back in the seat, leaning up against the headrest. I was starting to feel pretty damn good. I was out of the house, catching a buzz, even if it was with Swade. At least he had some wheels. And that was one fine car. Especially if you’re used to riding around in an old station wagon. I remember me and Don riding in the back of the old man’s one time when he had the tailgate window down a little. When he put it up, my hair got caught. He must not’ve been giving us crew cuts then. I didn’t have the guts to tell him I was stuck in the damn thing, even though I couldn’t pull my hair out and it hurt like hell. Stayed there ’til we got home. Don asked him to put the window back down so I could get it out. The old man gave me one hell of a whipping for not telling him about it soon—</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Jim, please. Can we continue?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Sorry.” I remember this other time I was riding in the back of the station wagon—it might’ve been the old lady’s—and I tried to get a truck driver to blow his horn for me. Holding my hand up and acting like I was pulling on one myself. We were out on the highway. Can’t remember where the hell we were going though. The fucker just gave me the finger. “Sorry. Where was I?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Suede was breathing through his nose.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Huh?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Suede was breathing through his nose.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Oh. Yeah. Let’s see. Uh, we . . . I guess that’s when we headed over to Circle Drive. That’s that one-way, four-block loop over—”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “I know exactly where it is.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Near Williams?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “I </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">know</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">, Jim.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Right. Well, Swade drove around it once doin’ the speed limit. Then a squirrel ran out in front of us. I kinda yelled.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">“Look out!”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Yeah, man. I see it.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Geez. It’s cloudy as hell. If it’s gonna rain, why the hell doesn’t it just go ahead and do it?</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Tap, tap, tap</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. “Jim? You warned Suede about the squirrel?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Yeah.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “And then?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Then? Then . . . . Well . . . the squirrel’d run right out in front of us. But . . . Swade, he . . . he didn’t try to miss it. He aimed for it. There was a thump under the floorboard, so I knew he’d scored a hit. I mean, it was . . . just a squirrel, but it still kinda pissed me off.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “What did you do?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Do? Nothin’. I mean, I asked him what the hell he wanted to do that for.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “And what was his response?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “He didn’t answer. He just sped up a little and went back around Circle.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">When the headlights hit it, I could see the tail twitching back and forth. Swade drove at the squirrel again. This time, there was a bump under the front tire. He went around a third time, a fourth time, a fifth time, speeding up a little and flattening the squirrel a little more onto the pavement with each pass. He was laughing like hell.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> I was laughing too, but only ’cause I was getting dizzy from the ride. I was laughing so hard I had trouble catching my breath. “Stop it, man. I can’t take it anymore. You gotta get off this road before I lose it.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Swade turned off of Circle, pulled over to the curb and stopped. We both laughed a little while longer. I packed another bowl. He slapped me on the arm again. “Where to now?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Hell, I don’t care. Anywhere’s fine with me.” I lit the bowl and passed it.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Remind me to drive over to the game later and get the score. Dad’s gonna ask who won.” Swade got back on the road. “How’s the liquor holdin’ out?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> I pulled the bottle from between my legs, slipped it out of the bag. It was half empty.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Swade held the bowl with one hand and steered with the other. “Check it out, man. More leaves. I just love this time of year!” He aimed for the pile, pushed the pedal down. “Hot damn!” Leaves flew up over the hood and covered the windshield for a split second before blowing over the roof. “Goddamn, that shit’s fun!”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Jesus, you’re easy to amuse.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Fuck you.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get your panties in a wad, shit-for-brains.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I don’t know. I guess it was better than sitting at home. Swing those tassels, Doc. Beats tapping.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “What next, Jim?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Oh, we just kept drivin’ around.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">“Hey, man. You gonna bogart that bowl all night?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Fuck. I forgot I had it.” Swade took a toke, handed the pipe back.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Hey, don’t look now, man, but there’s a </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">big</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> pile.” It was spread out kind of low and wide, like it’d been there a while and the wind’d flattened it. The edge was damn near halfway into our lane. “Wouldn’t want you to miss out.” I hit the bowl hard, held the toke in.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Fuckin’ A, man.” Swade headed for the leaves.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> I blew out, then hit the bowl hard again. I wanted him to say something about me double toking, but he didn’t. God, that shit would really stretch your lungs out when it got in there. It was great.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Hey, man. Check this out.” Swade slowed down and eased into the leaves. He stopped dead when just the tail end of the car was still in the pile. “Watch the speedometer, man.” He punched the pedal to the floor. The needle shot up to eighty-five as the back tire spun. When we hit pavement, the tire squealed. The back end whipped around. Swade hit the brakes.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Watch it, man! I almost dropped the fuckin’ bottle!”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Hey, ‘almost’ don’t mean shit, man. Gimme another hit.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Of what? The bottle or the bowl?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Both. I’m just gettin’ started.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> I took another shot and held the bottle across the seat. I looked over when Swade didn’t take it. He looked kind of green in the dashboard light, was kind of just gazing ahead with his mouth hanging open. “Hey, wuss. You fucked up? I thought you wanted a shot.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> He jerked his head around. “Huh? Yeah, cool.” He took the bottle, but he didn’t hit it. He just put it between his legs.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> I put my lighter to the bowl. “This one’s dead already.” That pipe isn’t very big. “How’s about I pack another?” Swade didn’t answer. I packed one anyway. “Hey, why don’t we go on over to the game, man? We been raisin’ hell around here too much anyway. Somebody mighta called the law.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Huh? Oh yeah. Yeah. Hell, you’re a nervous son of a bitch ain’tcha?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Who you callin’ a bitch?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Your old lady, man.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Yeah, well, if the shoe fits . . . shove it up your ass.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Fuck you.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Yeah, right.” I shook my head. “Let’s head to the game, man. Who knows, we might see some chicks there or somethin’.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Maybe.” Swade twisted his hands on the wheel, farted the leather grip. “Hey, if we don’t see any chicks, maybe we could pick a fight. I’d love to kick somebody’s ass.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “You could kiss my ass.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Fuck you. You heard me. We could get in a fight. Kick some Cummings ass.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “I’d rather get some pussy.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Well, if we can’t, we could kick some ass.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “I don’t see where one’s as good as the other. I’d rather have some pussy.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Shit, man. You </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">are</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> a pussy.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Well, you are what you eat . . . dick.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Fuck you. Pussy.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “This pussy’d kick yer ass any day. I just don’t see how one’s as good as the other.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “I’m just sayin’ . . . . Ah, fuck it. Whatever.” Swade passed the bottle back. “Put a lid on that for a while, man. I’m headin’ for Scummings.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">“So the two of you did go to the game after all?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Well, we drove over there, but we—” Ding! Yes! Finally. I thought that timer’d never go off.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “All right, Jim. That’s it for today. But I must say, once again I’m disappointed with the way you continue to avoid the issue, whatever the issue may be.” Doc doesn’t sound too happy. Kind of pissed even. Must be getting in touch with his emotions.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Sorry, I guess I just—”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “‘Sorry’ doesn’t cut it, Jim. I . . . I . . . . I didn’t want to have to say this, but I don’t think you should come back until you’re willing to get down to the heart of the matter. There’s no point to it if you don’t tell me what it is that’s bothering you.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Yeah, but—”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “No ‘buts,’ Jim. Now, I’m sorry, our time is up.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Doc walks to his desk, starts shuffling papers again. I get up from the couch, head for the door, grab the knob. Don’t turn it though. Feel kind of bad about pissing him off. Now I let </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">him</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> down too. Maybe I should’ve told him. Maybe I still can. Nah. You can’t do it, man. You just can’t. You’ll just have to try and live with it. Doc’s going through his drawers again. Turn the knob, pull the door.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Hang on, Jim. One more thing. You haven’t seen my pencil have you?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> I shove my hand in my pocket, feel what he’s looking for. “Nah. Haven’t seen it.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I don’t know how the old lady does it. She comes swooping in to pick me up just as I get out. Every time. Never have seen her lurking in the parking lot. Bet she leaves the house a little early, parks across the street at the hospital or something, watching and waiting, all ducked down in the seat, peeking over the dash. I walk out, head down the sidewalk, and BOOM, there’s the station wagon pulling up before I even get to the end. She always stops so that her door is even with the sidewalk though, instead of stopping short of it. I could just walk straight out in front of the car and on over to the passenger side, but </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">no</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">, I got to walk all the goddamn way around the front end first. Adds nine, ten steps. Ah, shit. Forgot to slam the door. No puff. Puff the puffin’ puffer, puffs and she puffs.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> The Christian station. What are the fuckin’ odds? Could get her to turn it down, at least a little, but that would mean having to talk to her. What the hell about? Wait. “Doc says I don’t haf’ta come back anymore.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Really? He said that?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Damn, you don’t have to sound so surprised. “Well, he said I don’t haf’ta come back if I don’t wanna.” That’s kind of what he said anyway.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Well, good. I’m glad.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Yeah. I bet you are. I just bet you are. Not gonna turn that radio down though, are you? </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Whoso sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall his blood be shed</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. Goddamn. Don’t you ever get tired of listening to that shit? And how’d you know about my dreams? It had to be Don.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">There’s a place in the shadows of my mind</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> . . . . Finally worked out those lyrics or whatever. A first verse anyway. It sucks, but at least it’s out of your head. Or it was ’til now. Maybe I’ll work on it some more. If I have time.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px; text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Revolver</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">There’s a place in the shadows of my mind</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Where dark thoughts gather and pull me in</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">When I’m walking the ledge and doing so blind</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I slip and I find I’ve been drawn in again</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">With one in the chamber and the hammer drawn</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">A hair trigger away from ending it all</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Catch myself with my hand wrapped around the problem solver</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Revolver</span></span><br />
</div><div><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: 12px;"><br />
</span></span><br />
</div>tj judehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02502294263834268458noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6737908248333078855.post-19558637902698420412009-10-26T17:52:00.000-07:002009-10-31T06:42:35.983-07:00stain, Part VII<div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: right;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">stain n. 1</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> a color, discoloration, streak, or spot resulting from or as from staining</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: right;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">2</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> a moral blemish; dishonor; guilt; taint</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Another late lunch. Another Big Roast Beef, large fry, a Coke. Usual booth in the back. No window, an overhead light out. My little cave. Mike through the side door. Shit, he saw me. Here to tell me my twenty minutes are up? Well, I’m </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">about</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> done. You just gonna stand there? What the fuck ya staring at? Hell, if you actually did some of the shit work you’re always giving me to do, maybe the sun wouldn’t glare off your safety cap like that. You goin’ for the halo look? Scuff that thing up, man. Get it fuckin’ dirty already. It’s way too white. Fuckin’ blinding, man. That’s it, move the hell out of the doorway. I can see! It’s a goddamn miracle! Geez, you’re takin’ it off? Don’t know if I’ve ever seen you without it. Oh man. Nice hair, dude. It’s Major Anthony Nelson. I know </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> dream of Jeannie. Master looks weird without the cap. Looks weird without the fuckin’ grin too.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Jim . . . .” Something’s up. “It’s your daddy.” What about him? “He’s at the hospital.” What the fuck for? “Looks like his heart.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Don’t smile. Do </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">not</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> smile. Mike puts the cap back on, cocks it. Yeah, you’re cool. Looks back over his shoulder a couple times as he walks off. Stops at the door, looks again. Give ’im a little wave. Don’t let the door hit you in the ass.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Shit. The old man’s dead. Or soon to be. Wonder can you take the rest of the day off? Guess you can finish eating anyway. Dead, huh? About time.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Greasy damn fries. Forgot to get a napkin. Fuck it, wipe that shit on your jeans. Man, they feel nasty. Kick your feet up on the seat. Might as well be comfortable. Levi’s. Boot cut. They quit sellin’ flares, and I ain’t goin’ for straight legs. Faded out real good. Holes where the knees used to be. Just about perfect. The old lady’ll make you cut ’em off soon. Just make ’em shorter than your boxers, so they hang out. Have to tuck ’em up around the house, pull ’em out when you leave. Mike wanted the pit cleaned before lunch. A fuckin’ </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">bitch</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. Seven, eight feet square? Just wide enough to hold the big-ass grinder sitting in the middle of it. The floor in there’s got to be a good three feet lower than the rest of the plant. Open the door and jump down in. Trimmings from all the machines—the three gallon and the half—along with any bad jugs that get crushed or got inclusions you cut out with a box cutter first, get sucked through those pipes running across the floor, up the walls, across the ceiling, out to the pit and into the grinder. The regrind gets sucked back out to the machines where it’s mixed with virgin pellets sucked in from the silo out front. Well, not number three, the new gallon. It isn’t hooked up to the silo. The virgin for it gets sucked out of thousand-pound boxes. Gaylords. Mike said to go get a gaylord and bring it in. I said OK. No problem. Just one thing though. What the fuck’s a gaylord? Why the fuck couldn’t they just call it a big goddamn box? You gotta bring ’em in from the warehouse with a forklift, move it to the machine with a pallet jack. You need to bring in another one after lunch too. Don’t forget, or Mike’ll have to tell you to do it. Slide the two stainless steel tubes in to suck the pellets through the hoses leading up to the hopper. Got to keep an eye on the skinny window on the side to make sure it’s full. It needs to stay full. Make sure it’s always full. The glass meter thing that’s always got water in it tells you something too. Fuck, I never remember what. The virgin mixes with regrind from the pit. The mix drops into the barrel where it’s melted, pumped through the nozzle, split in the manifold. Four sleeves of that melted shit drop between the open halves of the mold. It clacks closed, air’s blown in, it clicks back open, out come milk jugs. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Clack, pfft, click</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. Four more gallons. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Clack, pfft, click</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. Eight more halves. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Clack, pfft, click. Clack, pfft, click</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. Blow molding.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> I’m glad the old man retired before I started working. Not that Mike is much of a boss. They didn’t even need anybody on first shift, but Buddy’s the plant manager, friends with the old man. Hired me as a favor, I guess. Wouldn’t work second, and </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">fuck</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> third. Then they let two niggers go after a week. "Slow down, save some of that for </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">after</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> break." Lazy motherfuckers. Eat fuckin’ cold chicken for lunch. Gristle and everything. Suck the fuckin’ bone dry. Bessie and the black women’ll be sitting in the breakroom, and you walk in there without anyone noticing and catch Buddy talkin’ shit with ’em like you ain’t never heard. "Why would he wanna lick your asshole?" She was like, "I guess he didn’t wanna get no shit on his dick." Or they’re pickin’ their hair over the same damn tables you gotta eat at. "Black people ain’t got to wash they hayuh. Just got to pick the nits out."</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> The pit. Coated with dust. Powder. A few loose trimmings too, that somehow didn’t make it into the grinder. Once a week, every week, you put on a mask over your mouth and nose, strap on goggles, stick in earplugs, roll down your sleeves if you’ve got any on, climb down into that hole, close the door behind you. Loud as shit, even with the earplugs. Hot as hell. Runs twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, unless it’s fucked up or the place is closed. Only one window. Not really even a window, just a square hole, way at the top of the wall, with a heavy screen. Can barely turn around, keep bumping the broom handle against the grinder sweeping off the walls, or bumping it against the walls sweeping off the grinder. Balance on the ledge in front of the door, clean from the top down, sweep everything to the floor, scoop it up with a shovel, dump it in the big plastic garbage can squeezed in the corner. Not too full or it gets too heavy. Haul the can out to the dumpster, push it over the top if there’s too much in there to open the doors, let it fall on top of the trash, climb up, jump in, empty the can, toss it out, climb down, go back for more. Blow off with an air hose at one of the machines when you’re done. There’s usually water in the line that sprays out after you get going, makes the shit stick worse than just sweat. Maybe the glass meter thing has something to do with that.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Mike laughed at me one time climbing out. Said I looked like Santa Claus. Asshole. Always smiling. Never heard him cuss once. It </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">is</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> kind of like walking through snow when you first get in. Your Chuck Taylors leave a trail of dark footprints where the concrete shows through, then leave a trail of white ones on the way to the dumpster.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> You should head back. Your shoelace is loose. Better tie it. Need some new high-tops too. Things won’t stay white at work. Can’t even remember when I started wearing All-Stars. Sixth grade? Fifth? The pricks at Williams wore Nikes, with the fuckin’ swoosh, but half of ’em wouldn’t even say the name right. Like it’s one fuckin’ syllable. Hey, check out my new </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Nikes</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">, man. You’re gonna drop forty bucks on a pair of fuckin’ shoes, at least get the goddamn name right.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> You should head back. Katrina’ll be mad for makin’ her late for break again. At least she doesn’t start counting her time after she gets out of the bathroom, like Bessie. Can hardly understand a thing that woman says though. German. Built like a goddamn tank. Fuckin’ mustache about as thick as mine. Her and Rosie on the half-gallon, all day, every day. Only ones who never switch off packing and bagging. Katrina </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">always</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> packs. Lets Rosie haul those bundles out to the dock, load ’em in the trailer. Hardly ever even look at each other, much less speak. Katrina just fuckin’ hates little Rosie. Calls her </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Jeepsee</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. Even to her face.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><br />
</span> <br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px; text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">German Cockroach</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Buddy and I are sitting in the breakroom,</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">a pack of Twinkies on the table in front of him,</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">a cup of bitter, vending-machine coffee facing me.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Katrina tromps in from the half-gallon press,</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">her fingers hooked around the handles of three milk jugs</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">she rattles in Buddy’s face.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">“Nein, nein. You fix, Buddy. Schlecht, Buddy. Bad.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Buddy just nods, reaches for another Twinkie.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">A little roach crawls from the pack as he crinkles back the cellophane.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">He whaps at it with his palm, but it escapes,</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">scurries to the edge of the table and under.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Katrina screams, tugs at the front of her blouse furiously</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">with both hands. Jugs hit the floor as Buddy and I stare.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">She regains her composure as quickly as she’d lost it.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">“Bugs. They crawl from seams. At train station. Soldat—soldier—he see.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">He know we come from camp. He take us back.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">She picks the jugs from the floor,</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">shakes them again in Buddy’s face. “You fix.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Katrina tramps out to the half-gallon press as the roach</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">goosesteps its way back across the century</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">to nibble on Buddy’s Twinkie.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">You should head back. Loading trucks. That’s about as good as it gets. The machines’ll keep cranking out jugs whether there’s trailers at the docks or not. Just got to keep packing ’em. An aluminum bin at each machine. Three sides and a bottom, open in front and on top. The bottom has a square cut out in the middle at the front edge above the tilt lever. Put in a piece of cardboard, stack five sets of four gallons against the back of the bin, stand a cardboard divider against those, stack five more sets of four against the divider, pull a plastic bag down from the roll over the bin and slip it over, rip it loose, tilt the bin onto the bench, push the whole thing into the bag. Grab up the corners, spin the bundle to twist it closed, get a metal tie from the tray on top of the bench, use the tool to close it. A straight handle with a drill bit kind of thing inside, with a hook sticking out the end. Slip the hook through the loops on the tie, pull the handle, the hook turns as it comes out and twists the tie, then gets pulled back in—a spring?—without turning. Three full pulls twists it tight. Less than three leaves it loose. More than three and it snaps.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Two people at each machine. A 10-minute break in the morning and afternoon, twenty minutes for lunch. One packs, the other bags, they switch after break. Some count time like Bessie, after the bathroom, so breaks are never on time, and everybody’s pissed off when you get there. Beats the pit, or mopping, or wiping grease. Sweeping’s not too bad, but loading trucks is best. Start with the stacks closest to the trailer, work your way up the dock. Grab a bundle in each hand, above the metal tie, start counting steps from the stack to the back of the trailer, then counting back to the stack. That gets old, and you usually forget and just count off in fours instead. One, two, three, four, one, two, three, four. Get a beat going in your head, start trying to come up with lyrics, go over ’em a zillion times ’til they’re memorized, write ’em in your notebook in the car after work. Go someplace safe first, where nobody’ll see. The dirt road off 70. Past the mall. The old barns. Me and Grant used to party there some, maybe Swade sometimes. Get a six and a large cup of crushed ice at the Kwickie Mart, pack the Little Playmate, back into the big barn, pop open a can, pull the notebook from under the seat and get whatever’s in your head out of there.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> You should head back. Get your safety cap. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Safety</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> cap. A cheap hard hat. Maybe half as thick. It’ll give on the sides, but you could probably stand on top of the fucker. Beat to shit, dirty as hell, cracked on one side. Just about perfect. Pull your hair back first. Damn nasty-ass dust all in that shit too. Cap on, straight. Trash to the can at the side door, in through the flap on the way out. Sun’s fuckin’ bright.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> To hell with the son of a bitch.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Whoa, man. Watch out for the fuckin’ garbage truck. Man, that shit reeks. Spoiled milk? Fuckin’ diesel. God knows what else. Oh, so </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">now</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> you’re gonna empty our dumpster after I already had to climb in and out of that fucker a zillion times? Sure as shit. Pull that U-turn, out of Hardee’s parking lot, up the hill to the plant. The place is just a brick wall from here. The back of the shop where they fix the little shit that breaks down on this side of the back drive, the side of the warehouse and the garage on the other, the dumpster in between. The plant sittin’ opposite all of that. You can tell what’s the oldest by the bricks. Most of the buildings are old as fuckin’ hell, made out of that red brick that’s a bunch of different shades. Like most of downtown is. Hell, all Burlington must’ve been made out of that at one time. Some new places are brick too, but lots of them aren’t red. Tan maybe, like the mall. Or a place like Doc’s, which is old, but the brick’s painted white. The new part of the plant where number three sits is new brick, all one color, lighter than the old red, and a lot smoother.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> The smell’s not so bad this far behind the truck. It comes in at an angle, blocks most of the drive. Just stand back and watch the show. You’d think it was pissed off at the dumpster, roaring while it creeps up, sticking its arms out and knocking the dumpster around a little before picking it up, heaving it over its back and shaking it empty. The open top catches most of the trash, but some spills over. Yeah, you just leave that for me to clean up, why don’tcha? Slam the dumpster back to the ground, beep loud as hell at me backing up, curl your arms in and head on down the road. The shovel’s in the warehouse.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Hey!” Fuckin’ Mike again. Down the loading ramp out of the plant. “Hey! Jim! You can </span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">leave that. Why don’tcha go on over to the hospital?” Just shrug, keep scraping up the trash. He stops at the edge. You feel like you gotta watch? Yeah, I see ya. But I ain’t gotta </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">look</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> at ya. Just keep the corner of my eye on you. In your supervisor’s uniform. Brown leather work boots, brown pants, tan shirt with a white name patch over the pocket. And that damn cap, cocked just right, not so much as a scratch on it.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Scoop up a shovelful near his foot. Fucker ain’t gonna move, huh? What the hell’s that on top that flipped over? Pull it closer. Fuck! Push that thing away! Shit, man, you had your mouth open too! Mike </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">ewws</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> like a damn girl. It </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">is</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> gross. A used . . . what’s it called? A maxi-pad? A purple-black stain no bigger than a quarter. Like a miniature inkblot.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Uh, well, maybe you can just finish this up, then go.” The fucker leans right down in your fuckin’ face, grins. “I guess she weren’t pregnant, huh?” You’re a riot aren’tcha, shit for brains? What the fuck are ya tryin’ to do? Gimme a kiss? He steps back, shoves his hands in his pockets, shakes his head, leaves. Steady with that shovel now. Real slow, ease on over to the dumpster. That shit’s </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">got</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> to be toxic, man. Red alert. Well, I guess it </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">used</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> to be red. Purple alert? “Good Lord, Jim.” Shit, Mike’s coming back. Whoa, what the hell are you watching him for? You’re gonna drop that thing. “Go on over and see him.” Maybe he’ll just go away. Maybe. If you really hope so. Maybe. OK, maybe not. “Heck, that coulda been you, ya know.” Mike nods at the stain. “If not for your daddy.” He heads back up the ramp. Finally.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Fuck ’im. Fuck ’em both. Flip that thing in the dumpster, clean up the rest of this shit. Put the shovel back in the warehouse. Let’s get the fuck out of here.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><br />
</span> <br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px; text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Kick It In</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The angry young man</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">In over his head</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Got something to say that shouldn’t be said</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Gun in his hand</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">His eyes seeing red</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">No longer victim of trepidation and dread</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Kick it in</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Kick it down</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Kick it over</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Kick it around</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Kick it in</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The angry young man</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Been freed from his doubt</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">No longer concerned how things will work out</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Take it in stride</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">One day at a time</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">No longer looking for reason and rhyme</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Kick it in</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Kick it down</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Kick it over</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Kick it around</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Kick it in</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The angry young man</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">He’s tired of strife</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Ain’t gonna let it take control of his life</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Been so unsure</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Been so insecure</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Gonna go with the flow and you know he’ll endure</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Kick it in</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Kick it down</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Kick it over</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Kick it around</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Kick it in</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The door of the Raunchwagon creaks. Man, the bitch holds a lot of heat with the windows up. Let that shit roll on out. The old man bought it used about five years ago. One of the salesmen’s cars. Why do you need a salesman for milk jugs? Seems like the people who need ’em would just come looking for you. Even if you do need one, why make him ride around in a Ranchwagon? It was pale blue once. Pretty much faded white now. Not even one hubcap. Climb in the front seat, reach over and roll down the back windows, then the passenger’s. Ease into the seat, keep your back off that vinyl, close your door and roll the window down. Pump the gas a couple times, crank ’er up. Come on bitch. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Yes</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. Man, you need a muffler. You say that every time. Well, shit, that’s when I think about it. Toss your cap over on the floorboard, put on your shades. Back out, roll this piece of shit away from here. Need gas. Again. Probably use some oil too. Burn a quart a week. A trail of blue smoke. Goddamn AC doesn’t work. Already had a hundred and sixteen thousand on it when the old man gave it to you. You’d been working a few weeks, a month. It’d just been sitting in the driveway. He hasn’t had much use for it since he retired. The old lady probably got sick of having to take you in in the morning, talked him into letting you use it. Fucker was pissed when you covered up the Marine Corps bumper sticker on the middle of the tailgate with one you got from that bar in Chapel Hill. He’s Not Here. Like I was gonna ride around with that Marine shit on there. Not that anybody’d mistake you for a jarhead.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> It’s usually quarter after by the time you punch in. At least ten after. Supposed to be there by seven. That’s the only thing they could complain about though.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px; text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Workingman’s Blues</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I got the workingman’s blues</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Worn down the soles of my shoes</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">My attitude fades with my jeans.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Time goes by like clouds in the sky</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Working like a dog, just a cog in the working machine</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">With the workingman’s blues.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I got the workingman’s blues, yeah.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Can’t get ahead in this life</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Best I can do is get by.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">There ain’t no way to lose the workingman’s blues.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px; text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I Quit Dreamin’</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Was a time</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Long time ago</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Seems forever has passed</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Had delusions of grandeur</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Made me want so much more</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Couldn’t see what I had</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Wondered what was in store</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">For I knew that someday</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Things would turn my way</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Knew life was gonna change</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And start screamin’</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">But now I know</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Life ain’t no picture show</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">No noble seed did I sow</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I quit dreamin’</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">You get bored as hell loading trucks. You gotta write the shit down to get it out of your head. Already filled five notebooks. Lyrics, fucked-up . . . what? Cartoons? A lot’s just a verse or a chorus or even just a few lines. Not finished. Probably never will be. Just write ’em down so they’ll quit bouncing around my brain, stash ’em under my seat. What the hell else you gonna do with ’em?</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Friday nights, head to The Bar. Right at the railroad tracks, but still this side of ’em. Always bikers there, but usually a bunch of people from Elon College too. Beer by the pitcher for quarter toss. Don’t fit in with either crowd, but it’s cheaper than drinking up in Elon. The Lighthouse gets a nickel more a bottle. At Dewar’s, it’s a fuckin’ dime. And The Bar’s the only one of ’em with gooseneck Buds.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Fuckin’ Swade introducing me to that guy at Dewar’s that time. “This is Jim. Nobody fucks with him, and he don’t fuck with nobody.” That was cool. Kind of how it is at The Bar. Nobody fucks with you if you don’t fuck with them first.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Swade. Competed over </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">every</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">thing. Who can smoke the most. Who can drink the most. Who can drink the fastest. You’d try to ignore him, but he’d keep at it. You’d have to beat him at whatever it was after he pushed hard enough, just to shut him the fuck up. Always trying to beat you at something. Always. Never did.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> The Battle of the Bands. Every Friday. At The Bar. Who the fuck named that place, anyway? A bunch of local yokels’ll come in and play some rock-n-roll, maybe some college boys’ll try some punk, maybe some rednecks from the Cummings side of the tracks’ll twang some country shit. Taking turns. Two stages, one in either corner facing the bar. One band sets up while the other plays. Only go maybe half an hour, more if the crowd’s into it, less if the crowd thinks they suck. Big John might let ’em drink free if they’re real good. Most of it’s shit. Sometimes it’s pretty cool. That dude from Williams is there every week, sometimes with a band, sometimes just playing guitar and singing solo. We might’ve had a class together, maybe sophomore year. Maybe. Never talked or anything. He plays mainly original shit. He’ll jam with some of the same guys sometimes, but they’ll never have the same name twice. Snidely Whiplash. Barney Google. Skylab Falling. Clothes Hamster. Turd. Even played as fuckin’ schwa once. Just had the “ə” taped on the bass drum. Had to look that one up. Something about a vowel sound.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Some of your stuff is better than his. The music’s pretty good, but the words aren’t much. Not that yours are worth a shit, just that some aren’t as bad as some of his. Never have gotten quite enough beer in you to ask him to have a look at your shit. Come close once or twice though. He’d probably think you were a fag. Like, hey, do you want to go out to my car and see some things I’ve </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">written</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">? Ooh. Teachers called him Rick or Richard, but he’s Rip at The Bar. Never was in class much.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Kasha. Goddamn. Good-looking blond works behind the bar. Think she goes to Elon. Sure doesn’t fit in with the bikers. Big John doesn’t let anybody fuck with her. That’s cool. Nobody grabbing her ass or anything. If they do pull that shit, Big John tosses ’em out. Picks ’em the fuck up by the collar and the belt and throws ’em through the door. Seen ’im do it a couple of times. He doesn’t put up with any shit. Kasha. Oh man. Eyes like Aqua-Velva. She handles herself pretty well, even without Big John around. Calls ’em all darlin’. Cool as hell. So’s her boyfriend. The fucker. Tends bar at Dewar’s.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px; text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I’m Kinda In Love</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I’m kinda in love</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">You know, I ain’t even told ya</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">That I’m kinda in love</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Although I don’t really know ya</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">But I’m kinda in love</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Yeah, I just wanna hold ya</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Because I’m kinda in love</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I’m crazy ’bout you Blondie</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">You got those wild blue eyes</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Your laugh unique as thunder</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Rollin’ ’cross a summer sky</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">You’re beautiful with people</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">You handle men so well</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">You can call everybody “darlin’”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Hear what they have to tell</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Everyone’s an equal</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Can’t play no favorites here</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">You catch me as I’m staring</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And bring another beer</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">So why can’t I see</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">There is no you and me</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Don’t want to understand</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">You already have a man</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Gotta keep my dream in sight</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I’ll be back tomorrow night</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">You leave me at the bar</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">You head out with your man</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Don’t think to say good-bye</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I play cool as I can</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I’ll wait ’til you get back</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I know you’re just on break</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I imagine you with no one</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I’ll give my love if you will take</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">But I know I’m only dreaming</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Wish we could coincide</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Maybe you’re right together</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And I should let it slide</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">But I just can’t see</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">There is no you and me</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Don’t want to understand</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">You already have a man</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Gotta keep my dream in sight</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I’ll be back tomorrow night</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">’Cause I’m kinda in love</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">You know, I ain’t even told ya</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">That I’m kinda in love</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Although I don’t really know ya</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">But I’m kinda in love</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Yeah, I just wanna hold ya</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Because I’m kinda in love</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><br />
</span> <br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Work buys you beer, if nothing else. Helps keep your mind off of— Off of other shit. When you got something to do, fuckin’ do it. Fuck savin’ it for “after break.” Get whatever nasty shit it is over with, even if there’s just more nasty shit waiting. Some trailers come in with old cardboard, dividers from a shipment where whoever got the jugs didn’t want the cardboard. Can’t be re-used. Buddy makes you load it on the pickup. Then come to find out he just drives the shit to the recycling place, gets cash for it. He wasn’t around last time, and Mike just wanted the shit out of the trailer so it could be loaded again. Told him I could get rid of it if the pickup was around. Any reason to get the fuck out of the plant for a while is a good reason, even if they just blow a hose or need a coupling and you have to take the Raunchwagon somewhere to pick up a replacement. But gettin’ outta there and gettin’ cash for doin’ it? Didn’t know that pickup was straight drive though. Mike asked could you drive three on a tree. Didn’t want to look stupid, didn’t want him to know I didn’t even know what the hell he meant. Just said, “Yeah.” Three on a tree. Man, talk about learning the </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">hard</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> way. Know exactly what grinding gears means now. Fuck.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> There’s a lot of purges on Mondays. At least a couple machines won’t run over the weekend. None run on a holiday. Mike starts ’em back up, runs plastic through the barrel to get all the burned black shit out. Leaves the mold open, runs the melted shit straight down to the floor. Shit sets up into one big chunk. A purge. When it’s cool enough to handle, take it to the grinder out on the dock beside the band saw. Cut it in small enough pieces to chuck up into the grinder hopper. Cut another piece while it’s chewin’ up the last one. Throw in a piece too big, it jams. Turn the power off, unplug it, tilt the hopper back ’til it’s leaning against the wall, pry the chunk loose. When the drawer’s full, dump it in an old gaylord. They sell that shit cheap to somebody who doesn’t care about inclusions.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Inclusions. Purges. Hoppers. Fuckin’ gaylords.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Black shit. Chunks of plastic. Big funnel-lookin’ thing. Big fuckin’ boxes.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> You stay busy, you keep your mind occupied. It all sucks, but it all keeps you busy. Minimum wage is supposed to go up soon. May hit four, four and a quarter. Payday every other Friday. That’s a good night at The Bar. Off week is usually a little tight. First paycheck, went up to the john, got in your stall, opened it up. Two hundred twenty-one dollars and thirty-six cents. Right in my fuckin’ hand. Hell, the paper route Don dumped off on me was the only money I’d seen growing up. Maybe five bucks from Aunt Elsie and Uncle John for a birthday. A quarter from the old man to go to Barnacle Bill’s Fishing Pier at the Dine Ashore Restaurant. Always had to go in August. Surf City. The first thing on the sign that welcomes you: No Surfing. Water’s rough that late in the year, it’s not as sunny. Jellyfish floating around, rolling in the surf, dead on the beach. Senator Scott’s place. Owns the plant too. All the supervisors get a free week there.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> I might’ve got a quarter tip from somebody on the paper route. Collected once a month, paid the Times-News what they were owed, kept the few bucks left over. That one old lady knitted you a scarf for Christmas. Longer than you were tall. Four shades of fuckin’ pink. Asked where it was next time you went to collect. Felt bad about making her feel bad. Asshole. You could’ve worn it at least to her place.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> She always paid in change from that little zipper coin purse thing she kept in her pocketbook. You used to have one of those. You were real little, up at Big Star getting a piece of bubble gum. Got your penny out, zipped it up, shoved it in your pocket. Fat Colleen was working the register, must’ve seen you putting something in your pocket, wanted to know what it was. Reached over the counter, pulled it out herself. Told the old lady after. She must’ve told the old man, ’cause he made you tell him what happened. Got pissed off, said he was gonna go cuss the bitch out, tell the manager that none of us would ever shop there again. Me and Don were the only ones to ever buy shit there anyway. The old lady shops at Winn-Dixie. Says it’s cheaper. She might’ve had one of us go up there if she needed a gallon of milk or something, like if Aunt Elsie and Uncle John were coming over and she didn’t want ’em to know we drank powdered milk. I still bought gum there when I had a penny, at least until the Kwickie Mart opened. They got Zots and Sprees and all kinds of shit. Stole money out of the old lady’s pocketbook a couple times, went there and got a big bag of Nacho Cheese Doritos and a quart of Borden Dutch Chocolate Milk. Ate ’em up in the treehouse.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Me and Don coming from Big Star that time. Stopped at the corner. You pushed the button to change the light so you could cross Church Street. While we were waiting, you asked Don what the red box on the telephone pole was, sitting right above the button. He dared you to pull the handle in it. The light turned green right after. Don took off running, so you did too. Stopped halfway down the block, looked back at the pole. Don kept going. You knew you’d fucked up. Just didn’t know how. Heard the siren all the way from downtown. It kept getting louder. A man ran out of Rich & Thompson's Funeral Home shaking his head at the firemen when they jumped out of the truck. Felt sick to my stomach. Then you get home, and fuckin’ Don is telling the old lady how he was yelling at you from the other side of the street not to pull the thing, but how you pulled it anyway. After the whipping, the old man took you to the fire department, made you stand beside the car while he went in. The big door was open, a bunch of firemen were sitting around a table just inside, right beside the truck. The old man talked to ’em for a minute, pointed out at you. They all shook their heads.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Fuck it. Man, I actually wondered how the hell I was ever gonna spend all of that first paycheck. How? How about easy as hell? Making it last to next payday is the hard part. Usually stay high without having to rip Don off. Get drunk pretty regular.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Don always knew you were stealing from him. You’d find four big bags and think you could take a little out of each and he’d never know. It was a quarter pound. Four ounces all weighed out. You were dipping into his OZs, making them light. He came in to hit his stash once. That’s still the only time he ever has when you were there. You were on your bed reading the comics, and him and a friend came in. Heard Don open the drawer, get the paper bag out and open it, tell his friend it looked like his little brother’d hit him up pretty hard that week. You just kept the paper up to hide behind. His friend grabbed your arm, jerked it down, got right up in your face. "Quit rippin’ off your brother’s pot!" They laughed all the way out. Didn’t quit stealing from him though. If he’d been selling it and the bags were light, it might’ve been a problem, but he was just smoking it. Fuckin’ Mexican. Ten bucks an ounce.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Buy my own now. Columbian. For fifteen. Hard finding anybody to party with though. Grant’s at school. In Charlotte. Spend the weekend at his apartment sometimes. His college friends usually hang out there too. That one fucker asked whose piece of shit was parked out front. Could only have been talking about the Raunchwagon. Grant told him. The guy tried to change the subject, asked what you did for a living. You mumbled something about milk jugs. Then another guy comes in, asks the same shit. First guy laughs. "He’s in </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">plastics</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">."</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Hell, if they didn’t go off to school, anybody else I knew from Williams joined the army. Even Swade would’ve been somebody to hang with. But his folks got money, so he’d have gone to school too. What the fuck else you gonna do? Drive around, get a beer at The Bar, hit the bars up in Elon, see if there’s any chicks. They’ll be with a guy or a group. Even if you did see a girl alone, even if she was good-looking as hell and came right up to you and said she wanted to go bump uglies or something, even if she was just a hot slut who said she wanted to go fuck your brains out, she’d probably see the Raunchwagon, laugh, change her mind. So you go to one of the bars, drink beer until you have to piss like a Russian racehorse, then leave. Sometimes just take a leak behind the bar and go back in, but there’s usually somebody hanging around, so you’ll get in the car and take off, find somewhere dark to piss, drive to whatever bar back across on whichever side of town you’re not on already. Try to park far enough away so that nobody’ll see you getting in or out. Not that it’d be anybody you know. Or just go home and crash.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Hungover at work early, getting better by lunch, ready for a beer at four o’clock. Always get your work done though, hungover or not. Mike told the old man it didn’t matter how bad the job was, you’d get in there and do it right. The old man walks a lot these days. Always end up at the plant.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> I used to have to walk home in the afternoons. Before leaving, I’d go upstairs, sit in my stall, twist a number on my wallet—still can’t roll in the air too good—burn it on the way home. Walking right down Main Street. It’s been widened to four lanes most of the way, but it’s still not much for traffic. Just held that thing like it was a cigarette, smoked on down the sidewalk like it was nobody’s business. Tapped it out on the brick wall at the corner from the house, stuck the roach in my pocket for later. Now you got wheels, don’t have to go straight home. Can drive around and burn one. Still like to have a joint. A bowl is too much hassle driving, and too plain to see. The bong is out of the question. You got water to deal with, you need two hands, you’re fucked if you get stopped. It may be the best way to get high, but you got to be inside to use one, or at least parked in a safe place. The barns. You can take BHs there.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> That was the best thing about that first paycheck. A new bong. A real one, not just homemade like Big Red. Bought at The Pipe Line in Elon. A lot like Old Yeller. Straight up and down, carburetor on the back. No dry chamber or anything, just a two-foot tall tube. Green. Not clear, but still see-through. Took your old birthstone ring you got one Christmas with an emerald in it. May is the emerald. Taurus the bull. Just a piece of green glass. Pried it out of the ring, super-glued it to the front of the tube, up near the top. Esmerelda. The girl in The Hunchback Of Notre Dame. Old flick on PBS. Nothing else to do Saturday night. The actor slash poet guy was in love with Esmerelda the gypsy girl. She didn’t love him back, but he was willing to let her go ’cause he loved her so much, just wanted her to be happy. The Chief Justice guy, who first found ol’ Quasimodo on the doorstep or somewhere when he was just a hunchbaby, he loved Esmerelda too, but she really didn’t want anything to do with him. Had funky sideburns and bangs. No lips at all either. But Chiefy wanted to kill Esmerelda since she didn’t love him. And Quasimodo loved her, but she wasn’t about to let that thing near her. She should have. They say he’s a good hump. But Ezebel loved some soldier named Phoebus, and he told her he loved her, but he really just wanted to fuck her. Sounds about right. You love somebody, but they don’t love you back. You find out somebody else does love you, but it’s somebody you want nothing to do with. And all anybody really needs is a good fuck, but they can’t get one.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><br />
</span> <br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px; text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Love Makes Fools</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Can’t count the hours</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I’ve spent thinking of you</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">How I was gonna make you mine</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">But you had other ideas</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Dreams of your own</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">That didn’t include me</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I wanted you for my wife</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">You said let’s be friends for life</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Where have I heard that before</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">As a general rule</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Love makes fools</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I felt anger</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Wanted to hate you</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Wanted you to love me until you hurt</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I felt pain and frustration</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Felt sorry for myself</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">So alone I could not love again</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">As I had loved you</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">But sadder still is the fact</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">That I still feel the same</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">After all this time</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">After all that’s past</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I would give for you my life</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">If only you would ask</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I know it to be true</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Love makes fools</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I imagine us together</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I imagine you alone</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">You, so altogether woman</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The epitome to me</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">You can choose men</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">From the lines awaiting you</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And I imagine you alone</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Thinking of me</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">When I never cross your mind</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">As I envision you</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">This I know because we’re not together</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">But still I won’t believe</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">When there’s nothing I can do</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Love makes fools</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">At the end, ol’ Quasimodo leans against a gargoyle on top of the church. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Why was I not made of stone like you?</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> I hear ya, Quaz.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Once in a while, some girl calls you cute. Or somebody </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">says</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> some girl called you cute. More of a hunchback on the inside, I guess. Maybe some on the outside. A hunchdick.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Kathy. Still the only time you been laid. Two years ago. Eighteen, and about ten seconds of pussy. And that some shit you didn’t even want.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> People thought the world was flat. Chief Justice guy thought the printing press was evil, that everybody reading would turn the whole fuckin’ world upside down. The king took a bath once a year. Bet he never got laid either. Bull</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">shit</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. He’s the fuckin’ </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">king</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. As much pussy as he wants, whenever he wants. He </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">was</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> pretty old though.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> The old man’s got his own room.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Need music. Cassettes under the seat. Ooh, The Doors sounded good on the way in this morning. Still owe Don ten bucks on the Super Tuner. It mounted pretty good under the dash. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">This is the end, beautiful friend</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. A little more volume from them Jensens. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">This is the end, my only friend, the end</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. Someday you’ll get ’em out of those old towels in the back seat and mount ’em right. Someday you’ll replace ’em with triaxials. Fish that half joint out. Roach clip under the mat. Need your Bic. Left knee at 8 o’clock to steer. Maybe 7 o’clock. 7:30. Ish. Fuckin’ wind. Put some window back in that crack. Yeah, burn baby. Take it deep. Hold it in. Kill that fucker. Let it go. Oh, man. Hit it again. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Can you picture what will be, so limitless and free?</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Hold it in. Flick the ashes out the window. Let it go. Hit it again. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And all the children are insane</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. Hold it in.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Roll the window back down, stick your head out. Airbrush. Whoa, stay in your lane. Another toke. Hold it in. Put some window back in that crack. Let it go. One more good one. Feel that shit expand. Tap the roach out in the ashtray. Let it go. Red light. Fire up a Marlboro.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">“Jimmy! Get out here! You’re next!” You ran to the back porch but stopped at the door to watch Don climb down from the kitchen chair that was wobbling on the four upside-down metal milk crates. His new crew cut was even more lopsided than his old one. He brushed stubble off his bare stomach as he passed. The old man caught you not looking, scared the hell out of you when he grabbed your arm and jerked you out to the porch. “I said you’re next!” You actually looked at his face for a split second before you realized what was happening. His eyes were red behind his glasses. His tan shirt had a white name patch over the pocket. Dean. Don’s hair was stuck to the shirt, to his brown pants, the tops of his brown leather work boots.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">He took a face from the ancient gallery and he walked on down the hall</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. Check the rearview. Some guy with long hair, sunglass eyes. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">He came to a door, and he looked inside. Father</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">— </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Barmp barmp</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. Who’s blowin’ that horn? Old fucker behind you. Light’s green. Give it the gas.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Your knife was too loud on your plate sawing up the Salisbury steak. He cleared his throat, pulled a piece of bread out of the loaf. “Butter!” We passed the saucer. You dropped it beside his chair. The half stick of margarine on the floor, the white saucer in pieces. No use trying to pick it up. “Idiot!” His hot breath on top of your head. “You think money grows on trees?” He got up, whipped off his belt.</span></span><br />
</div>tj judehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02502294263834268458noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6737908248333078855.post-3951278490543941582009-10-26T17:50:00.000-07:002009-10-31T06:43:30.084-07:00stain, Part VIII<div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Turn on Glenwood. The old lady’s car in the driveway. She must’ve got the word too, come home. Country Squire. Fake wood paneling shit. If she’d pull in farther, you could park behind her. But he’d have to move the old refrigerator out of the way first. And the washing machine. Get ’em both off those two-by-fours.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">“You wait ’til </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">he</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> gets home!” The old lady found the change missing from her pocketbook. “</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">He’ll</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> deal with you later!” You’d be seeing the belt again. You’d try not to cry. That’d get him. She shook her head. “My own child. Can’t even trust my own child. You kids are just like </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">him</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Don’t even stop, man. Just keep going. No doubt about it, our place is definitely the old kind of brick. Yard’s mainly red clay, with patches of grass. Especially the side yard where I park. Lots of brick houses around here. Not old man Shanahan’s though. Big white thing. Teri’s room was upstairs.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> A couple more paychecks, get a pad of your own. May take three. Or four. Right on Main, to the Kwickie Mart. Fuckin’ carwash. Just ignore it. Leave ’er running, in case she doesn’t want to crank when you get back.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> The clerk’s new. Kind of tubby, but not bad. Six of Schlitz. Cold ones from the back. She’s checking you out. Walk cool. Put your beer on the counter. There’s a ten. Ask for a large cup of ice. The guy who usually works here gives me a cup of ice free. ID? Yeah, I got one. I’ll just wait while you do the math. I gave you a ten, this is change for a five. That’s OK. Yeah, a bag would be great. I still need that ice though. Thank you too.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Raunchwagon’s smoking pretty hard. That ought to impress her. Should’ve got a quart of oil. Fuck it. Smoking like that, there’s bound to still be plenty in it. Smokes worse when it’s parked. Just sits there chugging and smoking. Which sounds like a damn good idea for me. Least the wind’s blowing the other way. Rev ’er up, blow that shit out. Jesus. Fuckin’ smoke bomb. Come on, don’t cut off, chug back up to a good idle. There you go. Pack the cooler. Pop a can, toss the tab in the empty sack. Your Cold Titties beer huggie under the seat. Get back on Main.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Found your shot record in the old lady’s room. Your "Health and Immunization Record." With the dates of when you had the mumps, the measles, the chicken pox. There was a picture of me and Don too. You had a cut under your mouth, where that white X of a scar is now. Don said you fell, drove what teeth you had right through your fuckin’ lip. Then did it again a week later.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Second beer’s good as the first. Siren, shit, pull that can down. OK, just a fuckin’ ambulance. Pulling in the emergency entrance. The hospital? Get the fuck out of here. Take a right.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">“I was seb’nteen when we landed on Guadalcanal.” The old man was pretty drunk. “Had’ta lie ’bout my age so the Marines’d take me.” He got the Schlitz to his mouth, tilted his head back, swallowed a couple times. His cheeks were puffed when he pulled the can down, and he swallowed again. “You damn kids got it made. Never knew where </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">my</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> next meal was comin’ from.” He started mumbling, his eyes closed, his chin dropped to his chest.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> You wanted to leave, but you couldn’t. You watched and waited, barely able to blink. His hair was still pretty thick above his ears, but so thin on top you couldn’t even tell it was a crew cut anymore. The can tilted over. Beer poured in his lap. He came back. “Fuckin’ Japs. They might’a </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">shot</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> me, but them slant-eyed yella bastards couldn’t </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">kill</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> me. Hell no! That island’s stained with more’a their blood than mine. I’ll kill ev’ry goddamn one of ’em.” He saw his pants, felt ’em, clenched his teeth. “Get me another beer, goddamn it!”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> You ran to the refrigerator, ran back, hoping he’d passed out. But he was standing there holding his belt. “You took long enough.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Another siren. Shit, blue lights in the mirror. Pull over. Stash that beer under the seat. Try not to bend over doing it. Wait, he’s going around. Shit. Heart’s pounding. Fuckin’ guts are cold. Deep breath. Drink your beer. Get back on the road. Turn right.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">“A </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">what</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">?” He’d heard you. He’d come in right when Trapper was telling Frank to let the cut under his nose heal. Wanted to know what your plans were. You not going to school. Him not working. Wanted to know what you were gonna do. For a living. You weren’t sure. Then he wanted to know, while you were just lying there, what you thought you </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">might</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> like to do. You looked him right in the chest, said it. He kind of snorted. “A </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">writer</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">?” He kind of snorted again. “And write what?” You weren’t sure about that either. Well, he thought you needed a real job. He’d talk to Buddy. One more snort as he left. “She wants to </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">write</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The hospital again. Fuck it. Pull in. Drain your brew. Number three. Shit! Speed bump! Why the hell don’t they paint that fucker? How’re you supposed to see a black speed bump on black pavement? Damn it, the shit’s on your shirt. Idiot! There’s a space at the end. Gonna have to cut ’er off this time. You’ll have to stay long enough for her to cool down, so she’ll crank again. </span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Lose the shades. Fuckin’ beer on your chest. Hair looks like shit. The hell with this. See if she’ll crank back up. Come on bitch. Shit. Ain’t gonna happen. You’re going in.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Automatic doors. Maxwell Smart going to Control Headquarters. Captain Kirk coming on the bridge. A woman at the front desk. She’s staring at the spot on your shirt. Just give me the room number. Sure, tell me how to get there. Hop the elevator, up to the second floor, turn left, head down the hall. Peek in first, man. No visitors. Just a nurse’s back. Yeah, those are his glasses on the table. Thick brown bifocals.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Back off before they see you. Keep walking. There’s a bathroom at the end of the hall. Slap that door open with both hands. A man in a white lab coat standing in front of one of the johns, his eyes about to pop out over his shoulder. Sorry about that, Chief. He’s got a stethoscope around his neck. He shakes his head, turns it back to the pisser.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Head for the stalls. Check under the closed ones for feet. None. Take the last one, latch the door. Lift the seat. Unzip your fly, work your dick out, roll the turtleneck back a little, take aim. OK, just piss, man. Come on, piss. Close your eyes. Just go ahead and piss. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Piss</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. Think how good it’ll feel. Let it go. Come on, piss. Piss. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Piss</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. Shit, it’s no good. Beam me up, Scotty. Never gonna go with somebody in here listening. He’d hear it hitting the water, and it’d just be a dribble ’cause you’d be trying so hard, instead of making a lot of noise like a real man. A goddamn tinkle. If you could even get that much out. Hell, you’d be lucky to go even with nobody in here. Be scared somebody w</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">ould come in before you got going good.</span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"></span><br />
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><img alt="pastedGraphic.pdf" src="webkit-fake-url://81BA683D-0BDE-4E8D-A952-788996CF3CEA/pastedGraphic.pdf" /></span><br />
</div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><br />
</span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Pussy. Can’t piss in a crowd. Drop the seat, drop your pants, sit down. Chin in your hands, elbows on your knees. Close your eyes. That’s gotta be the doc flushing. And that’s gotta be the water at the sink. Yeah, that’s it. The stream’s gotta be hitting above the waterline. Barely making any noise. Pussy. Sitting here like a girl. Doc’s still washing his hands.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><br />
</span> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The wave hit as you waded in. You tried to jump over it, to get out to where Don was floating on an inner tube. The old man was standing there, waist deep, watching us. The wave caught you in the stomach, pulled you under. You swallowed saltwater. The undertow dragged you across shells on the bottom. You just knew were dead, or soon to be. Something grabbed your ankle, pulled you out. The old man held you upside down while you coughed. Don laughed ’til he told him to shut the hell up. “You all right?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The hand dryer comes on, loud as hell. It stops just as the bathroom door closes. Maybe Mike’s right. Maybe you do owe him. Pull some paper off the roll, blow your nose. Doesn’t tear worth shit. Jesus! The whole fuckin’ roll came off, rolled over into the next stall. Reach under and grab it. Whoa, this seat’s loose. About to fall off your throne here. There’s the roll. Pull it back in here. Push yourself back up. Put the roll back on. Fuck! Dropped it again! Punch that goddamn dispenser. Fuck! Skinned your goddamn knuckle! Idiot! Get the hell up. Pull up your pants. Tuck in your shirt. Button your jeans. Pull up your zipper. Shit! It’s caught on my fuckin’ boxers. Work it the hell loose, you moron. You dressed now? All by yourself? Don’t need to call mommy in or anything? Then get the hell out of this stall.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Yeah, you owe him all right. Thanks to him, you’re not just a stain in the trash. You’re a stain on this whole fuckin’ world. Check yourself in the mirror. Fuckin’ shirt. Wash your hands. Hit the button on the dryer, rub your hands dry. Hit it again, bend down and try drying your shirt. Check the mirror. The spot’s lighter, but it’s still there, and now there’s a little peak beside it where you stretched the shirt out. Idiot! What’s that gap in the reflection? Between the exhaust part and the box part mounted on the wall? They don’t butt right up against each other. Twist that thing. It turns all the way up. Hit the button again. Fuckin’ air blows right in your face. You didn’t have to stretch the shirt at all. You could’ve dried it without hardly even bending over. Moron.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Fuck it. Pat the peak down, rub it flat as you can. Pull a Kleenex from the box on the counter. Blow your nose. Check the mirror for boogers. Head back to his room. Deep breath. Go on in.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> The nurse’s back again. Still blocking his face. She wraps a blood-pressure cuff around his arm, pumps it up, checks the gauge, writes on her clipboard chart. “It looks like you’ll live through </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">my</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> shift anyway.” She laughs, pats him on the shoulder, pulls the cuff off, hangs it on the wall, turns and sees me. “Well, well. I guess somebody cares about you after all.” Step aside, let her out. Damn. She actually smiled.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> He’s looking at you. Can feel it. His arm’s laying on top of the sheet. There’s a tube stuck in it, inside his elbow, taped down. He’s still looking. A hospital gown covers his chest above the sheet. He’s still looking. Another tube’s wrapped around his face, with two little points sticking up his big nose. He’s still looking.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> I want to leave, but I can’t.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Jim.” His voice sounds weak. “Glad you’re here.” He clears his throat, raises his arm off the bed, starts to mess around with the tube.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Yeah, well, Mike told me to— I mean, he told me you were here.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> He’s picking at the tape. “Mike, huh?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Yeah.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> He quits fuckin’ with the tape, pulls the tube around his face away from his nose, looks at it, puts it back. “Good ol’ Mike.” He shakes his head, starts rubbing his hand across his chest, smoothing out his gown. “I had to bring him over here once. Because of his finger. You ever seen it?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> I </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">have</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> stared at it a few times. The tip’s missing from the middle finger of his right hand. About halfway down the nail. “Yeah, I’ve seen it.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Yeah, well, he caught it in a mold. On number two. I thought he might cry there for a while. Made me bring him here. Even wanted me to look for it under the machine. Like they’d sew it back on.” He shakes his head. Probably figured a Band-Aid would’ve done the trick.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “So, what happened? What’s the doctor say?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> He’s looking again. OK, now he’s back to smoothing out his gown. “I was out for a walk, started having trouble breathing. My chest was hurting. I got back home and laid down, but that just made me feel sick. I called the doctor, and he had them send an ambulance.” There goes the head again. “I’d have driven myself if I had a car.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> I see. So now it’s </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">my</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> fault. “But . . . what’d they say the problem was?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “They think I might have had a mild heart attack. Maybe. They don’t know. I’ve got to stay here tonight, have some more tests in the morning.” He starts fuckin’ with the tape again, then stops. He’s looking again. Fuck it. Look right back at him.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> What, you want to stare me down? I can hear us breathing. He drops his eyes a little. I win? Wait. He must be checking out the spot on your shirt. He looks weird without his glasses. He looks . . . I don’t know . . . like a stranger, but one I’ve seen before. Somebody I can’t quite place. Quit staring at him already. I can’t. Damn, he won’t even look at you now. Stop staring. I can’t. He won’t even look at me.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> He clears his throat. “Where’s your mother?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “I don’t know. I mean, I didn’t go home. I mean, I just came here from work.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> He starts playing with the tape again. “How are things at the plant?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Same ol’ sh— I mean, same old . . . thing. I . . . uh . . . I cleaned the pit today.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “The pit, huh?” He kicks his left leg out from under the sheet, crosses it over his right. Halfway down his shin, on the outside, there’s a scar. Not a line like when you get stitches, but kind of round, about as big as a softball, kind of speckled looking, sort of like a big patch of freckles. The whole thing dips in a little, like part of his leg’s been scooped out. The skin looks weird. Flaky, almost. Kind of dead even.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> He never talked much about the war. A few times when he was real drunk. He was a Marine, he fought in World War II, he landed on Guadalcanal when he should’ve been going to school. He got shot, got malaria. Never really thought about where he’d been hit. He’s looking at you again. He works the leg back under the sheet. Even covered up, I can’t help looking at it. It’s just us breathing again.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Man, you’re barely even in the room. Right where you were when the nurse smiled at you. Lean against the wall. Some clear shit dripping out of the bag hanging on the side of his bed, down the tube to his arm. He starts picking at the tape again, clears his throat. “There was a guy named Lassiter in our unit. One mean son of a bitch. Cut the ears off Japs he killed and wore them on a string hanging off his belt. The kind of guy you wanted to stay on the good side of. He was manning the machine gun one day when we were attacked. He always yelled like a madman when he was firing it, but that day he was really howling. He was so loud I couldn’t help but look over at him. That’s when he got hit. Right in the face. I jumped up, ran and took his place. I didn’t have time to think about it, I just did it. I had to kick what was left of him out of the way. There was blood everywhere, pieces of skull and brain. I grabbed hold of that gun, started blasting. Damn Japs kept running right into my line of fire. It was like they were drawn to it. Like moths to the porch light.” He shakes his head. “I couldn’t even tell how many I killed. They just kept coming, and I kept shooting until there weren’t any more to shoot at. I didn’t even know I’d been hit until it was over.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> He won’t stop fuckin’ with the tape. It’s just us breathing again. I can’t quit thinking about the scar hiding under the sheet. The old man. The killer. How do </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">you</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> sleep at night? Do </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">you</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> have nightmares?</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Hell, that was </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">war</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">, man. You </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">had</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> to do it. It was you or them. Could I have done it? I don’t know. I’d like to think I could, but I doubt it. What the fuck’s wrong with me? Pussy. I doubt I could ever kill anybody. I mean— I never </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">wanted</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> to kill nobody.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> He’s looking at you. “That’s the way it was back then, Jim. Hell, you weren’t even a man until you got your first kill.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> I feel sick. I don’t know the guy with no glasses. He looks familiar. I feel sick as shit. “I’ll be back in a minute.” Practically run out of the room, damn near bump into a janitor who’s whistling as he mops the hall. Back to the bathroom, plant your hands against the edge of the counter. Deep breath. Fuck. Who the hell’s that staring back at you from the mirror? Breathe, man. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Breathe</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Pull your hair back behind your ears a minute.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Goddamn. It’s him. It’s </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">him</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. Over the sink, man, quick. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Hyuuuuck! Hyuuuuuuck!</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Schlitz backs up on top of chunks of Big Roast Beef and fries. Scoop ’em out, dump ’em in the trash. Wipe your face, wash your hands, rinse the sink. Back to your stall, sit down. The bathroom door just opened. It’s the whistler. He’s still pushing his mop. Breathe.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">“Jim!” Mike was on top of the half-gallon press. “Bring me a three-quarter Allen wrench.” You put your broom down, went to his toolbox, grabbed a wrench, carried it over. “That’s a box wrench.” You went back, got another wrench, took that to him. “That’s a crescent wrench, Jim. I need an Allen wrench.” You went one more time, brought the only other wrench you could find. “Not a durn monkey wrench, Jim. An </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Allen</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> wrench.” Mike climbed down, shaking his head. “You mean to tell me your daddy can put all these machines together, get this whole plant up and runnin’ and keep it goin’, and you don’t even know what an Allen wrench is?” He stopped right in front of you. “You sure you’re Dean’s boy?” He walked over to his toolbox, got what he needed. You picked up your broom, went back to sweeping the floor.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">That toolbox on the shelf under the stairs in the basement. With the little Master lock. Those keys in the old man’s drawer did fit it. Wasn’t much in there, just a rusty pair of pliers in the top tray, along with some blades for a box cutter. In the bottom, under the tray, was a box of bullets. Well, “cartridges” is what it says. Rifle cartridges. Took one out to see if it fit the carbine. Lifted the bolt, slid it back, put the cartridge in. Fit like a glove. Slid the bolt over it, locked it down. Man, were your hands shaking. That was some </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">power</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> you were holding. That thing’d split a tree. Looked across the bed, into the mirror on the old lady’s dresser, took aim at your head. Wondered what’d happen if you pulled the trigger, if your reflection would shatter into a million pieces and spray all over the place, or if there’d just be a little hole and a few big shards jagging you up into a kaleidoscope or something, without a real big mess to clean up. But then you just took the cartridge back out, put it back in the box in the basement, locked the toolbox, put the keys back in his drawer.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> The bathroom door again. Somebody’s going into one of the other stalls. Get up, flush. Back to the sink, wash your hands again. My old man. You’re just like </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">him</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. Man, your eyes are bloodshot as hell. Get your Visine out of your pocket. Couple drops in each eye. Deep breath. Shake it off. Back to his room.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> He’s got his glasses on. “You all right?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Yeah.” Take a couple steps closer to the bed. He’s looking at you. “I am now.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px; text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Shot To Pieces</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Face down in a foxhole</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Shot up, see me bleed</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Enemy surrounded us</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Cut off what we need</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Looks as if there’s no escape</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Nowhere we can run</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Should have known it would end this way</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Live and die by the gun</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Shot to pieces</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Bullets shredding my flesh</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Shot to pieces</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I’m just a bloody mess</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">My body cut to ribbons</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Firsthand encounter with death</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Never seen so much blood</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Everything spattered red</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">My buddy wasn’t with me long</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Took a bullet to the head</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Wonder was he the lucky one</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Don’t have to see men cry</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">His death was quick, he was here and gone</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I suffer as I die</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Shot to pieces</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Bullets shredding my flesh</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Shot to pieces</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I’m just a bloody mess</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">My body cut to ribbons</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Firsthand encounter with death</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Heading for my home now</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Can’t say “hi” to ma</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I’ll be missing time I used to spend</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Talking with my pa</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Brought home in a body bag</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Zippered head to toe</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Funeral for the family</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Flag-draped coffin to behold</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Shot to pieces</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Bullets shredding my flesh</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Shot to pieces</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I’m just a bloody mess</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">My body cut to ribbons</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Firsthand encounter with death</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px; text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Storm’s Brewin’</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Storm’s brewin’</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Think I know what I’m doin’</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Think I’ll pull the trigger</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Of the gun I got held to my head</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">End it all</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Stop this fall</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The plunge I’ve taken off the deep end</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Who said this was the easy way out</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Which I’m about to end</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Storm’s brewin’</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Think I know what I’m doin’</span></span><br />
</div>tj judehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02502294263834268458noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6737908248333078855.post-46495184017882596512009-10-26T17:47:00.001-07:002009-10-31T06:44:18.149-07:00stain, Part IX<div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: right;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">flag n. 1</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> a piece of cloth with distinctive colors, patterns, or symbolic devices</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: right;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">vi. 2</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> to lose strength; grow weak or tired</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Working through the crowd at the mall, heading to Sears to get a new tie. A poster shop’s opened up where the old candle and incense store used to be. Farrah Fawcett’s sitting in the front window, smiling at you with her head thrown back, her nipples poking up under her one-piece, the right one pointing at the door.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> The place still reeks. Sweet smoke, perfumed wax. Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers’ new single, “Refugee,” thumps with too much bass out of four Bose speakers hanging in the corners. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Somewhere, somehow, somebody musta kicked you around some</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. Jim Morrison, Jimi Hendrix, and Janis Joplin stare down bigger than life from the back wall.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px; text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Heroes</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">These are our heroes</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Jim, Janis, and Jimi</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Casualties of war</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">A war fought by many</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Defiance, rebellion</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Call it what you will</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Is there a rock-n-roll heaven</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Or did rock shoot them to hell</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Generations change</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">No two are alike</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">They don’t share the same heroes</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">See things in different light</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">It’s often the elders</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Are condemning the young</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">For the heroes they’ve chosen</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">For the things that they’ve done</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">But these are our heroes</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Jim, Janis, and Jimi</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Casualties of war</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">A war fought by many</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Defiance, rebellion</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Call it what you will</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Is there a rock-n-roll heaven</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Or did rock shoot them to hell</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">“Hey, man. Need some help?” The mustache looks Cheech, but the voice is more Chong.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Nah, man. Just lookin’.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “That’s cool. We got T-shirts over on that wall,” he points to the back, then jerks his thumb over his shoulder toward the register. “Rollin’ papers and bowls are up front.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Check out the paraphernalia. It’s all laid out in the glass case. Not much to see, and what they do have is </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">way</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> overpriced. Not even </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">one</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> bong. Fuck this place. Ain’t got sh— What’s that on the shelf? A round stand, bunch of little flags in it. An index card up against it with “Desk Flags” in black magic marker. A few American ones up front, three or four North Carolina ones around one side, a couple of Stars and Bars around the other. That red and yellow one in the back looks familiar. Ask to see it. The guy takes the stand down, pulls the flag out.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “The Marines, man?” He lays it on the counter. “You don’t look like no Gomer.” Must be talking about my ponytail.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Nah, man. It’s not for me. I was thinkin’ about gettin’ it for . . . for my dad. How much?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Buck and a half, man. You want it?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Yeah, what the hell.” Pull a couple of ones out of your pocket, toss ’em on the counter.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Cheech ’n Chong punches some keys on the register. It dings and spits the drawer out. He picks up the ones, shakes his head at you while he un-wads ’em, lines up the George Washingtons. He snaps a clip in the drawer up, puts the bills under it, snaps the clip down, digs your change out and hands it over, pushes the drawer closed, asks do you want a receipt. Just shake your head back at him. He picks the flag up, holds it spread in front of him with both hands. A gold eagle sits on top of a gray globe that’s got a gold anchor running through it, like an arrow through a Valentine’s Day heart. The eagle’s got a white banner over its head with red letters on it. “Semper fidelis,” Cheech ’n Chong reads. “Sounds heavy, dude. What’s it mean?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> It does sound kind of familiar. Probably heard it from the old man. Maybe just “semper fi.” The guy’s waiting for an answer. “You got me, man. I don’t know what it means.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> He rolls the flag up, snaps a little rubber band around it. “Need a bag, man?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Nah.” Just stick it in your back pocket. Let’s get to Sears.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">“Pallbearers need to go to the back of the car.” The hearse driver was talking to me and Don. Yeah, no shit. Where the hell else would we go? “The head will need to point toward Main Street, so we’ll have to turn around before taking him in.” He pointed to a short wooden stake in the ground near the green and white striped tent that covered the hole and the white wooden folding chairs sitting in front of it. An orange ribbon on the stake waved in the breeze. “Pass that marker there, switch hands, turn around, and carry him in. You fellas got that?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Yeah, we </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">got</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> it.” That came out a little more pissed than I meant it to.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Take it easy,” Don mumbled. “The man’s just doin’ his job.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “I know. I just wanna get this over with.” It was cloudy as hell, and kind of cool for the middle of August. It started to rain a little as soon as we got to the back of the hearse. “Picked a helluva day to get buried, didn’t he?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> The nurse’d ripped the blood pressure cuff off his arm, joked how he was gonna live, at least through her shift. He didn’t. They’d called it a mild heart. Said we shouldn’t worry. Wasn’t even any need to put him in Intensive Care. Sure as hell wasn’t any need to put him in there now.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">You lived a block away from Rich & Thompson's Funeral Home for eighteen years without ever setting foot in the place. The old lady wanted you and Don to go give ’em some clothes to bury the . . . the body in. The three of us went through his things. The carbine was still standing in the back of the closet. She was set on finding something other than the old tan suit he wore to mass on Sundays. “He’s not gonna embarrass me in that get-up ever again.” Don found a gray jacket in a pile of clothes Aunt Elsie’d dumped off at the house when Uncle John died. The sleeves weren’t even—Uncle John’s left arm had been a couple inches shorter than his right—and there weren’t any pants to match. She handed Don the pants from the tan suit. “I guess you can take these old things after all. Besides, he could be wearin’ nothin’ but his boxers and nobody’d know.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Don laughed.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> She took his white shirt from the hanger, his old navy blue tie from the nail inside the closet door, his black wingtips from under the bed. She handed ’em all to Don as she went. “Don’t just standing there doin’ nothing, Jim. Get a pair of socks from the dresser.” You knew which drawer he kept ’em in. The same drawer where you’d found your bowl. The same drawer where he kept the key ring with the two little Master keys. They were right where you’d left ’em. You lifted ’em out while nobody was looking, stuck ’em in your pocket. Been carrying ’em around ever since. There was only one pair of dress socks. Black, with holes in both heels, and in one of the big toes. You showed the old lady. “Those’ll haf’ta do.” She gave the socks to Don. Me and him were almost out of the room when she called after us. “Be sure you tell ’em to button the jacket so that stain on his tie doesn’t show.” She shook her head. “That man shoulda worn a bib.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Don tossed me the clothes as we walked down the hall to our room to get changed. The old lady wasn’t about to let us go to Rich & Thompson’s wearing jeans. I got my new gray suit out of the closet, laid it on my bed. Graduation present from the folks. Don got the same thing, only navy blue. The old lady took me to the mall for the suit. Had a hard time convincing her that both plaid and polyester were out, at least as far as I was concerned, even if Sears didn’t know it yet. She wouldn’t give in on the bow tie though. Said it made you look like you were "somebody." The old man about spit up his beer when he saw that red clip-on piece of shit, after we got home and the old lady made me put on my new duds to show him. When I came in from work the next day, he was standing in the living room holding a new navy blue tie. A </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">real</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> tie, one of those straight ones like he wore, one that you have to tie yourself.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Cost eight bucks,” he mumbled when he chucked it at me. “Don’t mess it up.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Hey.” Don was putting on his white shirt with the button-down collar. I was picking lint from my new tie. “You gonna get that dressed up?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Nah, I just wanted to make sure this stuff was clean. Wouldn’t wanna embarrass the old lady at the funeral.” I put the tie down, got a hanger from the closet, folded the tan pants over it, hung the old man’s shirt and Uncle John’s jacket on top. Don was tucking his shirt in his good pants. “You think we oughta take a belt?” Don shrugged, said he’d go ask the old lady. As soon as he’d left the room, I rolled up my tie and shoved it in the pocket of Uncle John’s jacket, then put the old man’s tie in the closet with my suit. I put on my corduroys and Sunday shirt, pulled the hanger of clothes over my shoulder, met Don in the hall.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Got the belt,” he said. It was the black leather strap. It was cracked in the middle where it’d been doubled over so many times.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">A tall, skinny guy met us in the lobby at Rich & Thompson’s, told us his name was Mr. Frederick. He took the clothes, hung ’em on a coat rack in the corner, asked us to follow him to his office. You could’ve hung meat in that place it was so cold. The tile floor was about the same gray as Don’s model battleship. The baseboards were black.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Mr. Frederick’s office didn’t have a window. His desk had a lamp on it, with one leather chair behind it and two out in front facing it. He sat on the edge of his chair and looked at me, then Don. “I’ll need some information about your father.” His voice was real deep, even though he was just about whispering. “Date and place of birth. The names of his parents and surviving family members. Employment. Religious and social affiliations. That sort of thing.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> I looked over at Don. He was looking at me.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> We were able to answer most of the questions, but not all of ’em. Like, we knew when his birthday was, but Don made me call home to ask the old lady his exact age. He was—he had been—fifty-three. She said he didn’t have any social affiliations.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “We now need to make arrangements for the burial.” I wasn’t sure what Mr. Frederick was talking about, but figured getting a shovel would be a good start. Sheriff Taylor popped into my head, strumming his guitar and singing to ol’ Rafe. Rafe didn’t want to get a tetanus shot, and Andy was trying to scare him into it by telling him how great his funeral was gonna be. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Dig my grave with a silver spade</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. Rafe finally broke down and got the tetanus shot.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Mr. Frederick must’ve seen we didn’t have a clue. “We need to select a coffin. We have a range of . . . prices. Do you have a figure in mind?” Me and Don looked at each other again. I just asked to use the phone instead of waiting to be told to. The old lady said it was none of my business how much she could afford, but then said all he left was an insurance policy worth a couple thousand. Mr. Frederick said he’d show us something from the “economy line.” I pictured a plain pine box, but when we saw Model #300, it wasn’t so bad. Nothing fancy, but not bad. Kind of bronze looking, with a tan lining. Mr. Frederick said a vault wouldn’t be necessary. The concrete box the coffin goes in. If you can afford one. There was maybe twenty or twenty-five coffins in the room—creepy, man—and all of ’em were nicer than the one we got, but it still looked pretty decent.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Hey,” Don said. “Nobody’ll be able to see it once it’s in the ground anyway.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> He laughed. Mr. Frederick didn’t.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">It was just about noon when the funeral procession got to the gravesite. It started raining real light as soon as me and Don got to the back of the hearse. Mike was already there, blubbering like a baby and waiting for somebody to open the door and pull the box out. The driver of the limo—the family car—pulled a couple umbrellas from the trunk, opened one up for the old lady as she got out, then the other for Aunt Elsie. The hearse driver stood there with me and Don and Mike. The limo driver walked over with Mr. Frederick and two other guys I’d never seen before. Must’ve been from the funeral home. Wondered if they worked in back. Embalming and shit. Good thing they didn’t want to shake hands. Sick bastards. Goddamn </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">butchers</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> A little ways off from the main attraction, out of the way but not out of sight, there was a group of Marines. Seven grunts were spiffed up and standing in a row at attention with an officer out in front. They had white rifles at their sides, holding ’em by the tops of the barrels, the butts resting on the ground. The old man would’ve been glad to see those jarheads there. Didn’t tell anybody about it, but I’d called up the recruiting office downtown, told ’em that the old man had died, that he’d been one of them in World War II and had landed on Guadalcanal, got shot in the line of duty. Asked if he could be buried in the little military section they got at the cemetery, get one of those little white headstones with a cross on it. The sergeant said that area was reserved for men who’d been killed in battle, but that the old man would get a military footstone for his grave, and that it wouldn’t cost anything. He asked where and when the funeral was, said he’d see that some men were sent out, that everything would be taken care of. Didn’t know what he was talking about, but was glad to see those guys standing there. Felt kind of good about making that call. Hell, being a Marine was the only thing in his life I ever knew the old man was proud of.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px; text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Soldier</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Soldier boy</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Soldier toy</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Is soldier what you are indeed</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Soldier man</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Of Uncle Sam</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The call of war the call you heed</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Mr. Soldier, sir</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">In time of war</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">In time of need</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Are you gonna kill me</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Soldier</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Soldier dad</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">What a life you’ve had</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Would soldier son make you proud of me</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Soldier friend</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">You’ve changed where you’ve been</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">See things different, as the view is to me</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Of soldier boy</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">In lines so bold</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Like times of old</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">In a time to be</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Soldier</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Soldier vet</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Ain’t over it yet</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">A soldier what you’ll be for life</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Civilian now</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">But still, somehow</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Can’t shake the nightmares, can’t sleep with your wife</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Big soldier man</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The shell turns to sand</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">A shell what you are</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">In your wheelchair</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Soldier</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><br />
</span> <br />
<div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px; text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Monuments Of Stone</span></span><br />
</div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Wreaths of flowers</span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Monuments of stone</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Tombs erected for soldiers unknown</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Nations of man</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Follow their leader</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Living forever as a monument of stone</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Immortal words</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Of mortal man</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Carved into the soul</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Carved into the stone</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The stone so prim and proper</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">So poised and proud</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The stare fixed and vacant</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Gazing out above us all</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Time-weathered features</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Cut into stone</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">In time stone will crumble</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">As time will roll on</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Time will remove</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Monuments of stone</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Mr. Tell-the-Pallbearers-Where-to-Go opened the back door of the hearse and pulled the handle on the end of the coffin. Economy Model #300 slid out a few feet on the rollers mounted inside the car. Me and Don took a handle on either side. As we eased the box out, the other guys paired of and fell in behind us. Wondered why we needed so many guys, thought that six would’ve been plenty, that maybe they wanted to have eight ’cause they didn’t think me and Don could hold up our end. But when that thing cleared the car, I had to use both hands. Jesus, it was heavy. Got scared we’d drop the damn thing. Was glad we couldn’t afford anything bigger. The Deluxe probably would’ve pulled my fuckin’ arm out of socket.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> We stepped off the pavement, lugged the coffin toward that orange marker. Wet grass and slick dress shoes are not a good combination, especially under that much weight. Don’t let go, damn it. Don’t you </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">dare</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> let go. Just kind of shuffled along with everybody else, trying not to slip, worrying about Mike stepping on my heels, but we managed to get under the tent and set the box down without dropping it. God, the old lady would’ve loved that. Talk about embarrassing.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Me and Don took the seats beside her and Aunt Elsie. There must’ve been about twenty chairs under the tent. Not one was empty. There were people standing behind the chairs, and even more standing out in the rain ’cause they couldn’t fit under the tent. Most were from the plant. Mike was sitting right behind me, blew his nose loud as hell. He was still crying like a little girl. He put a hand on my shoulder, boo-hooed in my ear. “He was a great guy, Jim. You should be darn proud of him.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> A couple more Marines, one with three bars on the sleeve of his dress blues, the other with two, draped the ol’ Stars and Stripes over the coffin, then planted themselves at either end. They just stood there stiff as hell, facing each other across the box with those damn crew cuts peeking out from under their white hats. Was pretty sure theirs looked a lot better than anything me and Don ever got on the back porch. Heard Don talking to the old lady about that one time, asking why we weren’t getting the buzz cuts anymore. She said this one day the old man’d had to go down to the school, and all the kids were outside. Must’ve been recess. And if I was out there, I must not’ve had a Winn-Dixie patty for lunch. The old man told her two of the kids stood out like sore thumbs. It was me and Don, and our crew cuts were what made us stand out. He never did cut our hair again. Once in a while he’d say I looked like a girl, but he never cut it. Never even made me go get it cut.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Must’ve been pollen from all the flowers, ’cause my eyes started to water. Bent my head down, took a deep breath in through my nose, held it until they cleared.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Father Connolly walked over from where he’d been standing under a corner of the tent, his head bowed, his hands folded on his chest, his gray hair needing to be combed. Fucker still wears a swoop. He’s bald on top, but grows his hair long on one side and combs it over. Like nobody can tell. A little wind and it sticks straight out or hangs down. As usual—or usual when he wasn’t saying mass anyway—he was wearing nothing but black. Like the commercial for that greatest hits album. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Hello, I’m Johnny Cash</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. The man in black. Black shoes with black socks. Black pants. Black shirt with black buttons under a black jacket. There is the square of white collar on his neck, but that’s it. Couldn’t help wondering if he was wearing black boxers too. Nobody’d know. I fell into a burnin’ ring of fire. That’d be a good song for a Preparation H commercial. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And it burns, burns, burns, the ring of fire. The ring of fire.</span></i></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Friends,” Father Connolly and that damn soft voice I try not to fall asleep to during mass. He kept his hands folded, but dropped them down in front of his— Well, down below his waist. “We are here to say our final farewell to Dean. He was a good husband.” I snuck a peek at the old lady, but she didn’t even blink. “A loving father.” Cut my eyes at Don. He was smiling. “Defender of his country.” Couldn’t tell if the two Marines were even breathing. He went on just long enough for my eyelids to get heavy. “Let us remember him always.” He bowed his head again, raised his folded hands up to his chest as he walked back to his corner, then unfolded ’em and tried to straighten out his swoop.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> The two Marines came back to life, took a step toward the ends of the coffin, lifted the flag off. They stepped sideways together toward us, then, with their white gloves, folded the flag in thirds longways. The corporal started folding it into triangles as he moved toward the sergeant, one stiff baby step at a time. When he got to the end, he held the folded flag while the sergeant pulled what sounded like some loose change out of his pocket and stuck it in the folds. Then the corporal baby-stepped back to his end of the coffin while the sergeant baby-stepped toward the old lady, each one moving in a straight line and making the turns at right angles. The sergeant whispered something to her about pride, duty, and service to country as he handed her the flag.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Off in the distance, the officer barked an order. It was followed by the crack of seven rifles. He barked again for a second volley, then a third. Just when I thought it was over, a bugle started blowing taps. That kind of got to me. Goddamn jarheads.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px; text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Maintain</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I’m the son of my mother</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Just like any other</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The son of a husband and a wife</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The son of my father</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The brother to his daughter</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Out on my own leading my life</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Black sheep of the family</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Putting some distance between them and me</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Got to find out for myself what’s wrong and right</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">But I’ve got to maintain</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Body and soul</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Maintain</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">No, I can’t lose control</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Maintain</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">No more rolling the dice</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Maintain</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">At whatever the price</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Got a bottle for a friend</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Cigarettes constant companions</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Bad company is all I keep</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Don’t know what I’m thinking of</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I just can’t seem to get enough</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Party hearty until I sleep</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Black sheep of the family</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Putting some distance between them and me</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Got to find out for myself what’s right, you see</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And I’ve got to maintain</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Body and soul</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Maintain</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">No, I can’t lose control</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Maintain</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">No more running away</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Maintain</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Find my shelter and stay</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Unbuttoned my suit coat as I walked into the living room after the funeral. “Here, Jim.” The old lady handed me the folded flag. “Find a place to put this.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> It clinked when I took it from her. Reached inside, pulled out what the sergeant had put in. It was three empty shells. Three spent rifle shells. I guess they call ’em cartridges.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Good Lord, Jim.” The old lady was shaking her head. “What’s that you got on your tie?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I finally broke down and did it. Made an appointment with Dr. Braxton. Got the new tie, leaving the mall, gonna head over there now. That Grateful Dead song, that cover they did on Shakedown Street. A Little Rascals tune, wasn’t it? </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I said now Doctor, (Doctor) Mr. MD, (Doctor)</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. It won’t stop. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Oh, can you tell me (Doctor) What’s ailin’ me? (Doctor)</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. Driving me crazy. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">He said yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah. (Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah). All you need, all you really need</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. Shut the fuck up! The old man’s been in the ground about a week now, but that’s got nothing to do with going back. Been thinking about going for a long time. Don’t know why. Maybe ’cause sometimes I think I’m losing it. But it’s not like seeing him will change anything. Maybe it’ll do some good though. Maybe I can tell him everything now. Before it’s too late.</span></span><br />
</div>tj judehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02502294263834268458noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6737908248333078855.post-68646557800158832932009-10-26T17:46:00.000-07:002009-10-31T06:45:15.026-07:00stain, Part X<div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span><br />
<div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px; text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Crossroads</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Standing on the brink</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I’m at the crossroads of my life</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Taking time to think</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Making sure that I get it right</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Waste my time no more</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Because my time is all I’ve got</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Gonna open up the door</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">To find what’s real and what is not</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Maybe I should run</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Like hell away from here</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Get up with the sun</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And slip away from here</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Never looking back</span></span><br />
</div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><br />
</span> <br />
<div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Now life’s ahead of me</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Get on the right track</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Make dreams reality</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">But what is there that’s real</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">In life your open game</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">To man and Mother Nature</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">You’re not a face, you’re just a name</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I’ll never lose my past</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">It’s such a part of me</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">It’s something I can’t hide</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">My true identity</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Maybe I should stay</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Right here with what I’ve got</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Live just for the day</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And a day is all you’ve got</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Been searching all my life</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">To find security</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I’ll never find it twice</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And I know it don’t come free</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Had to take off work early. Mike wanted to know why. Just said I had a doctor’s appointment. Left earlier than I needed to, gave myself a little extra time to swing by the mall. Good thing I remembered to take the flag out of my back pocket before getting in the car. Almost forgot. Would’ve broke the plastic pole, sure as hell. I’ll take it over to the cemetery later, stick it in at his footstone.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Gonna have to pay for this session myself. Don’t even know if I can afford it. Don’t know what Doc charges. It’s payday though. Second Friday. Just hope I have enough left for necessities. Got to keep my head right. Got to bend my elbow. I need Mules. And get gas. I got to eat.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Drinking more liquor lately. Keeping a pint of Jack Daniel’s under the seat. Driving home the other night, you had to close one eye so there wouldn’t be so many lines on the road. Made it </span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">easier to pick a couple of ’em out to steer between. That’s fucked up. You get busted, you lose your license. Then you’ll be walking home from work again, having to stay home every fuckin’ night. To hell with that. Really go crazy then.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Probably wouldn’t be that bad though. I could get it reduced to Careless and Reckless instead of DUI, just have to pay a lawyer, go to court. Might set me back a paycheck. But the cops’d probably search the car, find Esmerelda in the boot. Sure hate to lose her. Keep the stink in by sealing her up in a plastic trash bag with a twist tie, with a few paper towels folded and rolled up and shoved in the top like a tampon. Just have to drain her before I stash her, and keep a jug of water back there to fill her up.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px; text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Bottle Of Booze</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">My baby’s up and left me</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">My car won’t even crank</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Don’t know what the problem could be</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And I just filled up the tank</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">So I hit the streets a-thumbin’</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Head to the liquor store</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Buy a bottle of rum and</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Stagger on out the door</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I’ll drink another bottle of booze</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">’Cause I got another case of the blues</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I don’t wanna remember what I can’t forget</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">A bottle of booze will be the death of me yet</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Now people are tryin’ to tell me</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I’d better watch my step</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Say friends are gonna leave me</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">But, hell, they already left</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">It’s nothin’ I can’t handle</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">There’s no need to sweat</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I got a friend whose name is Jack Daniel</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And he ain’t left me yet</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Well I lost my job this mornin’</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Boss called me a drunk</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Said my looks need improvin’</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And that I smelled</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">He said, man, I really stunk</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">My eyes so bloody red</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I can’t even see</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I could pass for dead</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">If the shakes didn’t have a hold on me</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I’ll drink another bottle of booze</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">’Cause I got another case of the blues</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I don’t wanna remember what I can’t forget</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">A bottle of booze will be the death of me yet</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px; text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The Bridge Is Out</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Nonstop blacktop</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Midnight drive</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">White lines blur</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Keep flashing by</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Running wide-open</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Through a dead man’s curve</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">By the time I saw the sign</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">It was too late to swerve</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The bridge is out</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">It’s no longer there</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">No way across</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I ain’t got a prayer</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The bridge is out</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">One-chance romance</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Now’s the time</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">My at-bat</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I roll the dice</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Taking a chance</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Can’t make no mistakes</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Or I’ll never get you back</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Be hanging out in space</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The bridge is out</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">It’s no longer there</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">No way across</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I ain’t got a prayer</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The bridge is out</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Been getting the green label shit ’cause it’s cheaper than Jack Black. Didn’t even know there </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">was</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> a green label until Don got it for me once, before I was legal. He’s still at the Sizzler. A cook now. Still share the room, but he might move into the old man’s now that . . . now that it’s empty.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Doc’s secretary wasn’t even on the phone. First time ever. Said they’d just bill me, made sure they had the right address. Doc’s office hasn’t changed at all. Just gonna sit on the couch ’til he gets in. You can lie down after—</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Jim. Hello.” Damn, Doc shaved his beard. And he’s got a fuckin’ </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">perm</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. Kept the mustache though. Mr. Kot</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">tare</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. Geez, never shook my hand before. Guess I was always lying down already when he came in though. “It’s been a long time. How are you feeling, Jim?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Fine, I guess.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “How long has it been?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Oh . . . a year, year and a half, I guess.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “That long? Well, it’s good to see you again. Very good. Please, make yourself comfortable. What can I do for you?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Lie down. Fuckin’ couch is even worse than I remember. “Uh, I don’t know. I just thought maybe we’d talk a little.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Of course.” Doc sets the timer, sits back in his chair. “I reviewed my notes from our earlier sessions. I remember your case, certainly, but I just wanted to refresh my memory. I hope you aren’t going to be as . . . </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">reluctant</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> as I had noted. You had a lot of trouble getting in touch with your emotions. We never really got to the heart of the matter then, did we? I always felt you weren’t sharing everything with me.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Yeah, I wasn’t . . . . It’s just . . . hard to talk about.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Well, you’ve made the first step. You’re here now. I take it whatever was bothering you then is still bothering you?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Yeah. Yeah, it’s the same . . . thing.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Well, let’s try to get it exposed, Jim. Let’s try to get in touch with it.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> What in the </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">hell</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> am I doing here? “OK.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Great. My notes indicate that on your last visit . . . .” Doc flips through some pages. “Oh, you were last in on the day before my daughter was born. It </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">has</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> been a while. Let’s see, I have it here that we were discussing a ballgame you and your friend attended. What was his name?” Doc flips some more pages. “Suede, wasn’t it?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Yeah. But we didn’t really go to the game.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “That’s right. I have it that you two were driving around town, getting yourselves into some mischief.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> I know I never said anything like that. Some </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">mischief</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">? “Well, we were gettin’ messed up.” God, I hate being straight. Feels weird. You should be buzzing pretty good by now. At least halfway through a doobie and a beer. “Swade was drivin’ . . . through leaves and stuff.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Doc keeps flipping pages. “Yes, yes. And you . . . let’s see . . . you were reminded of your </span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">childhood . . . when you and your brother would play fort in leaf piles.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Yeah. Yeah.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “And later that night, Suede was involved in an accident. The young man died, did he not?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> How the hell do I answer that? Yes, he did not. No, he did not. “Uh, yeah, he . . . died.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Is that what’s troubling you?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “No.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “I see. You still seem hesitant, Jim. I’m not going to let you do this again. Talk to me.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “I want to, Doc— I mean, Dr. Braxton. You just don’t know how hard it is to talk about. I’ve never told anybody.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “And it’s eating you up inside, Jim. That’s obvious. Dig deep now, and tell me. My notes say you went to the football game over at Cummings, even if you didn’t go in. Do you remember going?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Yeah, I remember.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Well, pick it up there, Jim. Close your eyes. See yourself in the car. Suede is driving. What do you see?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Well . . . . There’s police directin’ traffic with flashlights. The stadium parking lot’s full. The curbs are packed with cars. I . . . uh . . . mash my head up against the window, try to get a look at the scoreboard as we drive by the entrance.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">“I think it says 10 to 3, man. Looks like we’re up.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Shit, this place is crawlin’ with law.” Swade was giving the wheel a white-knuckle grip with both hands. “Hey, man. Gimme a cigarette.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “What’s wrong with yours? You got a pack.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Well, shit. Just fire me one up and pass it over.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> I lit a cigarette, handed it to him. “Hell, let’s just blow this place.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Shit! It was your fuckin’ idea to come over here.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Yeah, and now it’s my fuckin’ idea to leave.” We both sat up straight as hell. I didn’t make eye contact with the cop waving his flashlight at us. As soon as we cleared the school, I lit the bowl again.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Hey, lemme hit that thing, man.” Swade took a toke, coughed it back up. Pussy. “Damn, that stuff’s </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">killer</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Listen, man. I gots to drain my main vein, make my bladder gladder.” I can hold piss like a camel holds water, but even </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> got limits. “Find us a place to stop, man. My back teeth are floatin’.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Yeah, I gotta go myself. Shit. I got a fuckin’ </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">buzz</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Yeah, man. That’s the idea.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">“We </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">were</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> pretty messed up, I guess.” Well, Swade was. I could handle my shit a lot better than he could any day. I could outdrink him, outsmoke him, outdo him at whatever. He’d still try to get the best of me, but he never could. He’d want to torpedo a beer—take a church-key can opener, punch a triangle hole in the side of an unopened can, down at the bottom, on the side opposite the rip tab. Tilt the can sideways first, punch the hole in it, put your mouth over the hole, get a little suction going, turn it up, pop the tab and suck it down. Take a deep breath first, or you won’t be able to draw air for a while. That’s a mistake you only make once. Just about died. Three seconds to drain it. Swade never could do any better than four, and it usually took him five. He’d keep trying, and I’d keep beating him. Still like to swing that foot, huh, Doc? Well, you go ahead. Still wearing those tassels too. Man, I shouldn’t have come back. Yeah, you tap that new pencil of yours. Never did find the old one, huh? Wonder what happened to it? Big Red. Bet you didn’t even know you could get a bong bowl out of one of those things. Sure as shit. I took that pencil apart to see how it worked the day after I stole it. The eraser was mounted in this little sleeve deal that slid off the back, so you could load leads in it. Under that sleeve, there was this little copper piece. Pried it off with some pliers. It was kind of shaped like a cup. Round, flat on the bottom, with a little step around the middle where the whole thing got bigger, halfway up, so that the eraser sleeve thing fit on that fatter section real snug. The bottom already had a hole in it too, where the leads went in, which turned out to be just the right size for toking. Not too big, not too small. Tried it out down in the basement, pulled Big Red from behind the furnace and broke him in. The pot wouldn’t pull through before it burned, but the ash got sucked down no problem. The skinnier end of the bowl fit down in the copper tubing I’d used for the stem, and the step kept it from going all the way down in it. It was a goddamn bong bowl, ready to go. Couldn’t believe it. God, I pulled a bunch of hits through that thing too. Doc, I really should thank you for supplying me with the missing piece of that puzzle. Good ol’ Red. Not that he can compare with Esmerelda. I mean, she’s—</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Can we continue, Jim? Please?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Uh, yeah, uh . . . . Let’s see. Where was I?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “You had to urinate.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Oh. Right.” We drew numbers, and yer an eight. “I guess maybe, oh, six or seven blocks </span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">from the stadium, something like that, Swade turned on a side street.” Maybe it was only five or six blocks. I’m not real sure. Hell, it could’ve even been four.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “And?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “And? Oh, well, I started lookin’ for a good tree or somethin’, someplace dark enough that nobody’d be able to see me . . . you know . . . goin’.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “And?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “And . . . and that’s when Swade . . . when he . . . he . . . he saw some more leaves.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">“You gotta hold that piss a little while longer, man. I gotta take out another pile.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. Only make it quick, ’cause there’s somethin’ else that this man’s gotta do, and soon.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Yeah, yeah.” Swade steered for the pile, pushed the pedal down. “Man, I just love this time of year!”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I’m sick of this shit. Coming back was definitely a mistake. I could puke. Could really go for a few good BHs right now. Goddamn it! Esmerelda, why was I not made of stone? How much longer have we got anyway? Too damn long. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Way</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> too damn long. That timer’s not gonna be dinging any time soon. Won’t be saved by the bell this time.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Doc pulls himself up on the edge of his seat. That’s new. “Don’t stop, Jim. I think it’s important that we get through this. Now, Suede was driving toward the leaves. What happened next?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “I can’t, Doc. I just can’t.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Yes you can, Jim. You </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">can</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. You </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">must</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. Now, what happened next?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Get in touch with your emotions, Jim</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. Goddamn pussy. Crying. Fuck it. Fuck it all.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Jim, what happened next? Tell me what happened next.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Swade . . . he . . . he drove at the leaves. But . . . somethin’ . . . somethin’ . . . it looked . . . .”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Looked what, Jim?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “It looked . . . looked . . . .”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “It looked what?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Different, damn it.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Different? What looked different, Jim?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “The pile . . . it was . . . it was . . . .”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “It was what?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “It was . . . it was . . . .”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">What?</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “It was hollowed out, goddamn it! It was hollowed out!”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Doc’s new pencil hits the carpet. He bends and picks it up. “Oh my God.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Well, why don’t you put that in your fuckin’ notes? Go on, write it down, goddamn it. You and your fuckin’ emotions. Jesus Christ. Fuckin’ crying. Like a little girl. You happy now?</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Oh my God. Oh my God, Jim. I . . . I see now. I remember reading about it in the paper, seeing it on the news. My wife was pregnant. I remember thinking how devastated the parents must have been. Those two children. That boy. What was his name? Smalls? No, Small. Wade Small. Wade. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Swade</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. He lost control of his car while he was running from the police. He was killed. You were with him. You were in the car with him.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “I didn’t know! We didn’t know!”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Calm down, Jim. Calm down. It’s all right now. It’s all right. Oh my God. Oh my God.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Is that all you can say, Doc? Oh my God? You and your God. You used to want to know if I believed in God, didn’t you? Well, why don’t you just go ask those two kids about God, see what they have to say? </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">God</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. There is no fucking god.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “The worst part is over, Jim. We’re almost there. We’re almost through this, but we’re not quite finished yet. And we have to finish it, Jim. You have to go on. Tell me what happened.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Swade . . . he . . . he . . . he drove at the leaves. The headlights . . . they . . . they lit up the pile. I . . . I thought I saw somethin’. I yelled.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">“Look out!” Two heads popped up from the center. Four eyes bugged out in the glare. A couple of hard thuds. Bumps under the front tire. Thumps under the floorboard. Bumps under the back tire.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Goddamn. Fuckin’ crying. I can hear the old man now. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Be a man, damn it!</span></i></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “It’s OK, Jim. It’s OK. It wasn’t your fault. Really, it wasn’t your fault.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Goddamn. Doc’s hand on my shoulder. Get your shit together, Alice! You need a fuckin’ skirt? Be a man, for Christ’s sake! “I’m cool, Doc. I’m fine.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Are you sure?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Can you continue? I think we need to finish talking this through. I think that will help you get some closure. Can you continue?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Yeah, I think so. Yeah.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Tell me, what did you do . . . after?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Well, that’s . . . it’s . . . it’s not real clear. Next thing I remember is . . . bein’ back at the carwash. Beside the Kwickie Mart. Down from our house. Swade’d . . . pulled into one of the stalls.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">“You gotta swear you’ll keep your mouth shut, man! Swear!” Swade’s face was white as hell, and covered with sweat. “You gotta swear, man!”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Goddamn it! You </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">killed</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> those kids! You and your fuckin’ leaves! You </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">killed</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> ’em, goddamn it!”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “It was a deer, man! I’m gonna say we hit a deer. I’m gonna tell my parents we hit a deer.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Where the fuck was there a deer? At the goddamn ballgame? Somewhere in town? You </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">killed</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> those kids, goddamn it!”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “A dog then. We’ll say we hit a dog. A big dog. You gotta swear, man! We hit a big fuckin’ dog!”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Fuck you! You </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">killed</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> ’em, and then you </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">ran</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">! You fuckin’ </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">killed</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> ’em! Jesus Christ! You fuckin’ </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">killed</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> ’em!”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “It was a dog, goddamn it! We hit a big fuckin’ dog! You gotta swear, man! We hit a big fuckin’ dog!” Swade checked his pockets. “Shit! I need some change. Gimme a quarter, Jim. I gotta wash the car. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Jim!</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Gimme a quarter!”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> I was bent over, hugging my knees. The bottle of liquor had slid out of the bag, was lying on the floorboard. I picked it up, got out of the car, threw it against the cinder block wall. Liquor </span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">and glass sprayed back on me and the side of the car.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “What the fuck’re ya doin’?” Swade was still behind the wheel. “Get rid of the shit, yeah, but why the fuck break it? Where’s the herb, man? Get rid of the bowl.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> I reached in, picked the bowl and the bag up from the seat, shoved ’em in my pocket, grabbed my ginger ale, threw it against the wall. The plastic bottle bounced across the stall, off the far wall, off the hood of the car, landed at my feet. It was all swelled up, started to spew out at the cap.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Goddamn it!” Swade opened his door, climbed out. “Stop it, man! You’re gonna get us in trouble!”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Fuck you, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Swade</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">! Fuck you!” I took off running toward Glenwood. Swade was yelling after me.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Gimme a quarter, man! I gotta wash the car! It was a dog, man! You gotta swear!”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> I stopped a block from home, behind the line of bushes under the treehouse. I stood in the shadow of the tree, away from the street light, pissed on the branches. Everything started spinning. Lost my balance zipping up my fly, fell to my hands and knees, puked my guts up. I crawled back from the puddle, dropped onto my side.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I woke up shivering, curled in a ball, tried to tell myself that it was just a dream, just a bad dream. Please, Lord, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">please</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. Please, God, let it just be a </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">dream</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. I beg You, please, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">please</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> God. Make it just be a dream. I sat up, started shaking my head, but I couldn’t shake those two faces out. Got to my feet, squeezed through the bushes, stumbled across the field, across the street, toward home.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> I tripped over the curb in front of the house, got back up. But I couldn’t just go in. I couldn’t just go to bed. I staggered across the street again, up the block three houses, grabbed Mr. Shanahan’s rake from against the tree, started piling the leaves up at the curb.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> The porch light came on. The front door opened. “Who’s out there?” Mr. Shanahan walked across the porch in his slippers, tying his robe over his pajamas as he came down the steps. “Jim? Is that you, Jim? What’re you doin’ out here?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Stay outta the leaves! Stay outta the leaves!”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Jim! Settle down!” Mr. Shanahan wheezed trying to pull the rake away. “Good Lord, Jim! You’re drunk! What the hell’re you doin’ out here?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Stay outta the leaves!”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “Gimme the rake, Jim! It’s all right. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">It’s all right</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">. They’re just </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">leaves</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">.” He got the rake out of my hands, tossed it in the yard. “Calm down. They’re just leaves. Listen. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Listen to me!</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> You’d better go on home. Do you want me to walk you home?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> I dropped to my knees in the middle of the pile, started to hollow it out. I was crying like a baby. “Stay outta the leaves! Stay outta the leaves!”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “I’m going to get your parents, Jim. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Jim!</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Calm down. You’re just drunk.” Mr. Shanahan tightened his robe, walked off toward our house.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> I fell to my face in the pile. “Stay outta the leaves! Stay outta the leaves!”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Doc’s touching me again. I don’t think he’s even bothered writing any more. “No wonder you had trouble talking about it, Jim. I don’t know how you’ve managed to keep it in this long. You weren’t scared that I’d turn you in, were you? Were you scared that I’d turn you in? There’s no need to fear that. It’s tragic, Jim, yes. Two innocent children killed. But the accident was not your fault. That young man, Swade, he was the cause of it. He was the guilty party. If not when he . . . accidentally struck those children down, then when he chose to run. And yet, his death was no less tragic.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “He got what was comin’ to him, Doc.” An eye for an eye, right?</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “That’s a cynical viewpoint, Jim. But I guess I can understand your resentment. Still, you need to let it go. It’s over now, Jim. You need to let it go.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “I don’t know if I can. I don’t know if I can.” An eye for an eye? Well, there were two of those kids killed, and Swade was the only “eye” taken out in return. Seems to me we’re still one short.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> “You have to try, Jim. I know it’s hard, but you have to try. You have to find a way to bring yourself some peace.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> He’s right about that. “I know I do, Doc. I know I do.” He fuckin’ sure is right about </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">that</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I need a beer. Doc told me to make another appointment, but I didn’t. I got it off my chest. I don’t need his sympathy. I don’t need anything from anybody. Just a fuckin’ beer. And a good place to park so I can talk to Esmerelda. Hit the barns for a while, man, then head over to The Bar. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Sanctuary! Sanctuary!</span></i></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Shoulda eaten something before you went drinking. Battle of the Bands wasn’t hitting on shit. Damn, old lady’s got the front door locked. Since when do we lock the door? Where’s your keys? Dig ’em out, man. Shit, what’d you drop? Uh oh, the Master keys. Can’t lose them.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Man, I got to piss. Get to the can. Hurry, lift the lid. Aaaahhh. That’s it. I did manage one leak behind the bar, but that’s it. Oh, yeah, that’s good. Shake it a couple times. No more than that. No time to be playing with it.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Bed. I’m coming, bed. Bed good.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">There’s a knock at the front door. Mr. Frederick from Rich & Thompson’s Funeral Home is standing on the front porch. “We’ve found out what killed your father. We have the cure for it.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> We’re at the grave with shovels. Silver spades. There’s a headstone, not just a footstone. The moon lights it up. Mr. Frederick watches while I dig. The Deluxe is clean as new and sitting on the wet grass when I crawl out of the hole. I open the lid, help the old man climb out. He smells like the frog I had to dissect in Biology. Formaldehyde. He squints at the sun. He’s wearing his old tan suit.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> The two of us walk home. Everybody who’d come to the funeral or dropped by the house to tell us how sorry they were is standing in the living room. He thanks them for their concern, for all the cards, for the flowers at the grave. “Those were beautiful lilies,” he says. “That was a wonderful ham you brought for the family.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> Somebody blows their nose loud as hell in the corner. Mike stands there blubbering with a Marine standing at attention facing him from either side. “You’re a great guy, Dean. You should be darn proud of him, Jim.”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> We walk back to Pine Hill Cemetery, climb over the low stone wall. There aren’t any </span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">tombstones anymore, but just a lake, smooth as glass, with a wet, slick, concrete bank sloping down to the edge.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> The old man slips in his wingtips, slides down the bank and into the water. I wade in, carry him out in my arms. Jesus, he’s heavy. I’m afraid I’ll drop him. Don’t let go, damn it. Don’t you dare let go. Then </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> slip, and we both slide into Pine Hill Lake. I lug him back out, fall again, we go back in the water. Four times I carry him out, four times I slip, four times we slide in. I’m worn out, have trouble catching my breath. We finally manage to crawl up on the bank and sit there.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> I’ve got to know. I’ve got to ask. “Is it any better over there? On the other side?”</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"> He looks me right in the eye. I don’t look away. He takes off my tie, hands it to me. It’s folded into triangles when I take it from him. Something inside clinks. I reach in, pull it out. It’s a key ring with two little Master keys on it. I look over at him. “I’m going back,” he says, then stretches his legs straight in front of him, crosses his arms over his chest, looks down at his wingtips, slides down the bank, into the water. I can’t move. I just watch him go under, sit there clutching my tie in one hand and the keys in the other as the ripples spread and disappear.</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px; text-decoration: underline;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Man On A Fence</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">A man, a victim of his past</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">That’s his alibi</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">But it doesn’t hold water</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">A man, controlled by his vices</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">That’s his downfall</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">But it doesn’t really matter</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">A man on a fence</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Can fall one of two ways</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">But both ways are down</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And so only one way to fall</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">For a man on a fence</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">A man can realize his past</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Is detrimental to his future</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And change his ways</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">It’s not too late</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">For a man on a fence</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">A man cries for help</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">In a silent scream</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Lives a love in a dream</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">With a get-rich-quick scheme</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And it’s time to wake up</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Climb down from the fence</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">You’ve been walking on</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Can’t change what’s past</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">With change man can surpass</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">What man has gotten himself into</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">A man alone, a man on a fence</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Ground zero</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Dependency withdrawals</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">A small price to pay</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">For the freedom to live again</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">To breathe again</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">To understand again</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">To know on what to depend</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And what not to</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">What seems the worst time of times</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Can be for the best in the long run</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">If a man’s eyes are opened to sense</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">And a man can climb down</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">A man on a fence</span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 15.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span></span><br />
</div><div style="font: 12.0px Times New Roman; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">end</span></span><br />
</div></div>tj judehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02502294263834268458noreply@blogger.com0