The Mad Ones

I don’t even think they know where they’re goin’. What are they tryin’ to prove, anyway?—The Wild Ones (1953)

You know how every neighborhood has an eccentric? When I slipped my Harley up Richie’s drive on a wonderfully hot Saturday afternoon, he was sitting on his bed surrounded by clothes and boxes.

It was one of those wacky Saturdays where the sight of Richie sleeping in would cause his father Ollie to turn purple and thrust a finger in Richie’s face: “Goddammit Richard, you'll be out of my house by six o’clock tonight, I GAR-UN-TEE!” and dump the contents of Richie’s bedroom into the drive.

“Where’s the Olds?” I asked.

Richie sighed, “They’re at the Hub.”

We got it back into his room—the heat didn’t help—and cracked open a couple of Ollie’s cold ones. We’d been in crises since Kardis frosted us with the Angels:

“Totally unreliable.”

“I like his sister.”

“Fourteen.”

Richie opened his little black book. “The prom queens. They put out.”

“Remember what happened last time?”

“What about Katie Kadue? She’s an 8.”

“Out of what? A hundred?”

“The mother-daughter?”

“You ain't had the mother.”

Richie looked up. “I don’t fuck old people.”

The phone rang. “Hello. What? Sittin’ here. With Charlie.”

A brightness came to Richie's face. He signalled quiet, “Where?” and covered the mouthpiece. “Larry says two girls outside the 2424 Club!”

We were caged things set free; everything a blur until we caught the glint off the hogs parked at the club. Nature, if you know where to look, can be extraordinary, even dramatic. To the untrained eye, forbidden daughters; to us, pretty dames that bloomed early. We rolled up and idled the motors. Richie, with his red hair and easy smile, started over the Harley beat:

“Heyyy ladies, anything we can do?”

Short-shorts looked him over with chocolate brown eyes. Beads of sweat sparkled on her lashes, blouse loose in the heavy heat. She’d be fantastic in lace. The high summer sky approved. 

“You like brown?” Richie parlayed.

“Kind of, sort of.”

“Those eyes have a name?”

A cigarette wobbled in her hand. “Are you a cop?”

“Do I look like it?”

“Madi,” she volunteered in a curious, distant way.

“Madi?” Richie responded, as if no Madi’s ever existed.

“I don’t know why, but Madi’s my real name,” sending a puff of smoke toward Richie.

“Who’s your friend?” I said.

The girls glanced at one another for confirmation. “Barbara,” they chimed.

Barbara threw me, like girls did in my school days. 

Richie faltered. “I’m Ri-Richie. Charlie’s the other bike.”

“Where you from, anyway?” probed Madi.

“What for?”

“Where?” Barbara exclaimed.

“Richfield.”

“Richie of Richfield?” grinned Madi.

“That’s kid talk.”

She drew close, registering him with a pout on her red lipsticked mouth. “I’m not a little girl!”

Richie rapped the pipes. “Ever been on a bike?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Well…like…uhm…where are you going?”

“Just for a ride.”

She kept her eyes on him. “What if we don’t go?” 

Richie’s gaze narrowed. “New rule. If you ask another question, you have to ride.”

Madi tossed her cigarette into the street. “Okay.” She made a cross and kissed her dainty crucifix, wagged her tail and nestled behind Richie, holding him tight, like he was her own special property.

“What are you doing, Madi?” demanded Barbara.

“You don’t want to go?” 

“That’s my business.”

“Did your mama say anything? What did she say?”

“You make me puke!”

There was something new in Barbara’s eyes. She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear and swung on the bitch pad. “I wish she'd drop dead.”

“Hold tight!” I said, as we peeled out alongside Richie and Madi.

A block later, Richie veered off Riverside.

“Where we going?” she shouted, wind taking charge of her hair.

My mouth felt full of dry cotton.

“Go there!” she pointed, and I cranked it across Lake Street.

No one was home at her house. She stood there, lit a cigarette and blew out the match. All I could see was smoke curling upward into a pair of the most innocent blue eyes you can imagine. “I’m sweaty, aren’t I?” she said in a low, subdued voice with a slight curve of her lips.

I smiled back. “No, you look good. I mean great. You look great,” I replied through the smoke.

Soon I was in the fragrance of her bed, giddy in the heat of her salt kisses—wet, clean, and tight, tits warm and full, nipples hard, erect. It wasn’t just the sex; it was being in the same bed with her the next day, wondering what she would do next.

“Oh! Oh, yes.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Slow down.”

“C'mon. Keep going.”

“Oh, God!”

“What?”

It was a loud banging at the front door. And yelling.

Her eyes widened. “Oh, shit!”

All I could think of was, “This wouldn’t happen here, would it?”

We froze for a moment and then crashed out of bed on all fours, looking for clothes. Her mother, father, younger brother and some choice stuff—two older sisters—burst into the living room ahead of us in their Sunday best. We shambled in, hearts knocking, reeking sweat, semen, bad breath, bad perfume and menstrual odor. A fuse blew in her mother’s head, and the shiny-eyed woman socked it to us—cussing and screaming, laughing in spots. Barbara set her teeth and bit her lip, made a fist and shot back. I rubbed the sweat off my face and slithered out before the wicked queen skinned me alive.

Some broad, eh? My future mother-in-law.