storeeze

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The sun drives the seasons and the days between Legion ball and football practice. I never had it so good: running with Richie and his brother Larry, collecting 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, mom wringing her hands like Lady Macbeth, “Where did I go wrong?” On one of those dog day afternoons, I turned my Harley onto Diagonal Boulevard, a mile from home. A bubble machine lit up on a side street. Cops will chase anything. I grabbed a handful of throttle—my risk insurance had expired—no license! The roar and a siren alerted mom as I swung past the house, wind in my face, the fuzz on my ass. Both hands were on the bar. I let  loose for real, 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, pushed the speed up and blew across without looking. I opened my eyes ...