The Education of a Young Gentleman
CONTENT WARNING: READER DISCRETION ADVISED Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air. —from Plath, Sylvia. “Lady Lazarus.” 1962. It was 1960. I was about nineteen, living at home with my parents. “Charles!” “Uh?” “Richie has a flat.” I rolled out of bed and stumbled after my mother into the kitchen. She thrust a receiver into my hand and lit a Chesterfield. I grunted. “Richie?” “Git your ass over here.” The line went dead. My mother stiffened and clasped her robe. I threw on my cleanest dirty shirt and hopped into the '52 Pontiac—a hunk of junk that cracked up Ollie, Richie’s father. An anxious excitement propelled me through the ghostly streets; I parked behind the dark shapes outside Richie’s and hurried into the suburban house using the passage way between the garage and the kitchen. An atmosphere of blighted camaraderie prevailed in the tidy, Sears-chic living room. Larry, Richie’s older brother, was saddled with a welfare cheat and five kids in the pro