storeeze

TRIGGER WARNING: BAD THINGS “Whilst Man, however well-behaved, At best is but a monkey shaved.” —W. S. Gilbert (1884) What I remember is a  bitter January morning wrangling a junkyard transmission into a ‘53 Packard,  jacked up on blocks. Richie and I should have been trudging through the snow to classes at the U. Instead, o ur backs were jammed against a freezing curb,  lining up an Ultramatic, biggest I’d ever seen.  Two cars rolled up.  Alan would typically show up unannounced and frequently intoxicated.  “Charlie?”   “Christ, Allen. What are you doing here?” “We got two women and Bunny's pad.” Alan peered under the car. “Back-to-back racks.” “Hold it there, Richie. It’s Alan.” “Not Alan. Fuck no!” grunting disgustedly. Alan fished a loose cigarette from his jacket and lit it. “ The one  in the Studebaker  has the hots for you.” I edged out for a look.     “The one with twenty-four zeroes ?” “Yeah. ”  “No chance.”...

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. I grunted. “What's the matter?” “Git your ass over here.”  My mother stiffened and clasped her chemise. “Shhhh. We'll wake up your father.” “Great. I’ll get yelled at.” “Let me fix something.” “I'm not hungry.” “Well, you're not leaving the house like that. I'll get a clean shirt.” I put on jeans and the shirt, and found my keys. “Bye, mom.” “No kiss?” she said, bending her cigarette out in the ashtray. I 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 behind the dark shapes pa...