Chase
The sun drives the seasons and the days between Legion ball and football practice. These were the best of times—running with Richie and his older brother Larry, living on unemployment, sponging off the old man—more interested in getting laid than getting paid. Traffic tickets, pecker tracks in the back seat, a police escort home after midnight, mom wringing her hands like Lady Macbeth, crying out loud, “Where did I go wrong?” On one of those dog day Friday afternoons, I turned my Harley onto Diagonal Boulevard, a mile from home. A bubble machine lit up on a side street. I grabbed a handful of throttle—my risk insurance had expired—no license! The Harley roar and a siren alerted mom as I swung past the house, wind in my face, the fuzz on my ass. I looped on 74th Street and flew past Marlys Pederson's, a fantasy I had until I saw Phoebe Crouch. At Portland, a busy thoroughfare, I said a prayer, and blew across without looking. I opened my eyes and was surprised to find myself alive. ...