storeeze

After two hours of fear and fangs at the Mayan exhibit, I met a stream of white twenty’s with torn, bloody shirts moaning and groaning, staggering down the Delmar strip. Could a zombie apocalypse actually be happening? I reached out, “Go back to Pittsburgh!”   “We belong dead! Ha ha ha ha ha!”   ‘Stacy’,  a  bald black guy in his 40s, startled me. He wanted to sing like a troubadour. I crossed the street to a two-piece combo playing on the sidewalk. He followed, close on my heels. I ventured, “What’s the plan?”   “What kind of music do you dig?”   “Jazz, blues, classical.”   “You look like Mozart, brother.”   “More like Einstein.”   “I can see that. There's better music on the corner. I know the band.” He leaned in. “What you want is a black girl.”   “You’re married, I can tell,” he added.   “No, actually I’m not.”   The look in his eyes was disbelief. “Wait’ll we get inside. You’re gonna love the music.”   The zombies wer...

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 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 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 and was surprised t...

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. “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?”  “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 propelled me through the ghostly streets; I...

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...