storeeze

CONTENT WARNING:  READER DISCRETION ADVISED “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 of o ur backs jammed against a freezing curb,  lining up an Ultramatic, biggest I’d ever seen.  Two cars rolled up — Alan would come upon you anywhere, anytime, and frequently intoxicated.  “Charlie?”   “Yeah, what?” “Beautiful day, huh?” “What are you doing here?” The transmission teetered. “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. “W hat do they look like? ”  I asked.  “Check 'em out,” said Alan.  I edged out for a look. I couldn't place 'em.     Alan fished a loose ...

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...