storeeze

CONTENT WARNING:  READER DISCRETION ADVISED “Whilst Man, however well-behaved, At best is but a monkey shaved.” —W. S. Gilbert (1884) What I remember is a  bitter January morning wrangling a junkyard transmission into a ‘53 Packard,  jacked up on blocks. Richie and I should have been trudging through the snow to classes at the U instead of o ur backs jammed against a freezing curb,  lining up an Ultramatic, biggest I’d ever seen.  Two cars rolled up.  “Charlie?” ( Alan would come upon you anywhere, anytime, and frequently intoxicated.) “Yeah, what?” “It’s your lucky day.” “Oh, yeah? Then what could you be doing here?” The transmission teetered. “We got two women.” Alan peered under the car. “Hear that? Back-to-back racks.” “Hold it, right there, Richie. It’s Alan.” “Not Alan. Fuck no!” “Check it out,” said Alan. I edged out for a look. "I don't see your brother." "He went in for a hernia operation." Alan fished a loose cigarette from his jacket and lit it

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 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 receiver crashed in my ear. 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 th