storeeze

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. “He’s such a bad influence.” I grunted into the phone. “What?” “Git your ass over here.” My mother stiffened and clasped her robe. “I guess it's pretty serious,” I said. “Shhhh. You're not leaving my house like that. I'll get a clean shirt.” I put on jeans and the shirt, and found my keys. “You have something on your face.” She moistened a finger with saliva and wiped my cheek. “That's better. Don’t forget to check in.” “Bye, mom.” “No kiss? There's nothing wrong with your mother.”  “Aww, mom. ” I went out the back way and hopped into the '52 Pontiac—a hunk of junk that cracked up Ollie, Richie’s father. An anxious excitement...

Tanks for the memory Of crap games on the floor, Nights in Singapore You might have been a headache, But you never were a bore —from Rainger, R. and Robin, L. (1938). Thanks for the Memory [lyrics] You never know what you're gonna run into when you’re breakin' bush. One fine morning, March the second, I recall, the jungle was jungle. Then, Presto Mundo—a three-acre clearing with a road running through it. There was no bush on the sides and no leaves on the trees. Agent Orange had been here—“Only you can prevent a forest.” The area had been bladed and sprayed extensively. Busybody U.S. engineers had created a wasteland, except for a pile of logs and brush on the far side of the road, next to a termite mound. Lt. Martinez shouted, “We're makin' a combat assault on the road!” Huh? Against a road? The lead elements of Charlie Company stepped into the clearing. We glanced at each other. No traffic lights. We formed a hundred-yard-long line along the road and began crossing. ...

Los Angeles: Friday, April 4, 1958. 8:06 pm. Detective Ken Stricker left his ailing mother at the Valley Hospital, put on a coat and slid into his black '56 Packard. He caught a 273 and 314 on the scanner, switched it off and dialed in Guy Lombardo. Veering off Laurel Canyon onto Sunset Boulevard, he stopped in front of the Mocambo, a place known to be on the wild side, and tossed his keys to the valet. “Don’t park it too far.” Mimi waited for him at the bar—tight, low-cut dress, green eye shadow, dangle earrings, heels kicked off. A cowboy in a ten-gallon by her side had Cherries in the Snow on his collar. Ken placed his stingy-brimmed fedora on the bar. Mimi gave him a look, hitched up her hose and crumpled a napkin note. He cracked his thumbs and zeroed in. She glanced sidelong at the scar over his heavy-lidded eyes, took a drag and blew smoke at the ceiling. She greeted him with a kiss. He tasted tobacco, stale mint and something else. He grabbed her arm. “Don’t be coy, Mimi. I...