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 dump the contents of Richie’s bedroom into the drive. “Goddammit Richard, you'll be out of my house by six o’clock tonight, I GAR-UN-TEE!”

“Where’s Ollie?” I asked.

Richie sighed, “They’re at the Hub.”

We got it all 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.”

“What do you see in these Angels girls? They're still in high school and you ain't even finger-fucked 'em yet.”

Richie opened his little black book. “The prom queens put out.”

“Remember last time?”

“What about Katie Kadue? She’s an 8.”

“Out of what? A hundred?”

“The Marsellas?”

“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. “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 for you today?”

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 it?”

“I'm Madi,” she volunteered in a curious, distant way, the hand holding the cigarette 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 the girls in school days. 

Richie faltered. “I’m Ri-Richie. Charlie’s the other bike.”

“Where you from, anyway?” probed Madi.

“What for?”

“Where?” Barbara exclaimed.

“Richfield.”

“Richie of Richfield?” grinned Madi.

“That’s kid talk.”

She drew close, wagging her tail. “I’m not a little girl!”

Richie rapped the pipes. “I got room.”

“Well…like…uhm…where are you going?”

“For a ride.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “What if we don’t go?” 

Richie's gaze narrowed. “New rule. If you ask another question, you have to ride.”

Madi looked at Richie with childish sincerity and tossed her cigarette into the street. She made a cross, kissed her dainty crucifix, and nestled in behind him.

“What are you doing, Madi?” demanded Barbara, pacing the hot street.

“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. 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 the living room, indifferent to anything but ourselves. She lit a cigarette and blew out the match. Smoke curled upward into a pair of the most innocent blue eyes you can imagine. I smiled back awkwardly. “You look good. Uhm, really. 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 stood up. 

It wasn't just the sex; it was being in the same bed with her the next day, wondering what she would do:

“Oooooh! That. Oh, yes.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Let me.”

“Faster.”

“Oh, God!”

“What?”

A loud banging at the front door. And yelling.

Her eyes widened. “Oh, shit!”

All I could think of was, “Who are those people?”

We froze for a moment in the bloodied sheets and then crashed out of bed on all fours, looking for our 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.