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 Ollie?” 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 Alan frosted us with the Angels:

I like his sister.

Yeah, fourteen.

She doesn't look like it.

What do you see in these Angels girls? They're still in high school and you're not gettin' anywhere with 'em, right? I bet you ain't even finger-fucked any of them yet.

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.”

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 under a high summer sky. We rolled up and idled the motors. 

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. 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.  

“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, the hand holding the cigarette suddenly steady.

“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. “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, pacing in the hot street.

“What for?”

“Where?” Barbara exclaimed.

“Richfield.”

“Richie of Richfield?” grinned Madi.

“That’s kid talk.”

She drew close, registering him with a pout. “I’m not a little girl!”

Richie rapped the pipes. “I got room for one more female.”

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

“For a ride.”

She looked at him with childish sincerity. “What if we don’t go?” 

Richie was walking a tight rope; his gaze narrowed. “New rule. If you ask another question, you have to ride.”

Madi tossed her cigarette into the street. She made a cross and kissed her dainty crucifix hanging loose on her delicate neck, wagged her tail and nestled behind Richie.

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

“You don’t want to go?” holding Richie tight, like he was her own special property.

“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?” Barbara 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, paying little attention to the houses and cars we were passing.

No one was home at her house. We stood in her living room, indifferent to anything but ourselves. She 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?” 

I smiled back awkwardly. “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 and erect. It wasn’t just the sex; it was being in the same bed with her the next day, wondering what she would do:

“Oh! Oh, yes.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“It's hot in here.”

“Keep going.”

“Oh, God!”

“What?”

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.