The Education of a Young Gentleman
CONTENT WARNING: BAD THINGS “And I eat men like air.” —from Plath, Sylvia. “Lady Lazarus.” 1962. In 1960 I was living at home with my parents. “Charles!” “Uh?” “Richie has a flat.” “Where is he?” “On the phone, honey.” I rolled out of bed and stumbled after her into the kitchen. She thrust the receiver into my hand and lit a Chesterfield. “He’s such a bad influence.” I grunted into the phone. “What?” “Git your ass over here.” My mother stiffened and clasped her robe. “I guess it's pretty serious,” I said. “Shhhh. You're not leaving my house like that. I'll get a clean shirt.” I put on jeans and the shirt, and found my keys. “You have something on your face.” She moistened a finger with saliva and wiped my cheek. “That's better. Don’t forget to check in.” “Bye, mom.” “No kiss?” I went out the back way 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 slid in behin...