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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.” “Yeah, fourteen.” Richie opened his little black book. “The prom queens. They put out.” “Remember what happened last time?”

The sun drives the seasons and the days between Legion ball and football practice. These were the best of times—running with Richie and his brother Larry, living on unemployment and sponging off the old man—more interested in getting laid than getting paid. Traffic tickets, pecker tracks in the back seat, a police escort home after midnight. Mom wringing her hands like Lady Macbeth, crying out loud, “Where did I go wrong?” On one of those dog day Friday afternoons, I turned my Harley onto Diagonal Boulevard. A mile from home, the bubble machine lit up on a cop car parked at a side street. I grabbed a handful of throttle—my risk insurance had expired—no license! The Harley roar and the siren alerted mom as I swung past the house, wind in my face, the fuzz on my ass. I looped on 74th Street and flew past Marlys Pederson's, my fantasy until I saw Phoebe Crouch on the first day of seventh grade. At Portland, a busy thoroughfare, I said a prayer, goosed it and blew across without lookin

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

1. When Corine comes out of the hall, she sits down beside me and says "It's me," counterpoint to what I said to her earlier when she asked me if I were Larry.   2. In the Graduate (1967) Benjamin rejects his chance to sleep with Mrs. Robinson. I had aspirations to sleep with Corine, which were clearly impossible.  3. The Lazarus theme is present.  4. Corine helped separate me from my mother.  5. She demonstrated the power of female sexuality over the male. 6. She is sympathetic when we take into account her pain and motivation. 7. Corine's performance was best in the same way Ann Bancroft was in the Graduate .