The Education of a Young Gentleman
CONTENT WARNING: READER DISCRETION ADVISED “And I still rise.” —paraphrased from Plath, Sylvia. “Lady Lazarus.” 1962. It was 1960. I was nineteen, living at home with my parents. “Charles!” “Uh?” “Richie has a flat.” “Where is he?” “He's on the phone.” “Okay, I'll get up.” 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. “What's the matter?” “Git your ass over here.” My mother stiffened and clasped her robe. I threw on a clean 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. 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 projects. An athlete's body, a damn good Elvi...