I must have been around ten years old when the school library became my favorite place on earth. It wasn’t much, in fact, it was quite small. But that didn’t matter because I was small too.
Laced with Kleptomania
Although she didn’t know the exact date it started, she knew that in the beginning, she stole little things. A stick of Chapstick at the grocery store, a new nail polish, or an un-scanned item at self-checkout were all; what she considered to be petty acts of thievery that gave her an undeniable sensation and a psychological rush like no other. These acts, as time passed, developed into an exotic and progressive entanglement with the untamed sin of robbery. Her boyfriend would steal too. At times, they would steal together.
Stealing Almonds
When I was nine, I became best friends with Chubby Morgan to humor my mother, who was on the verge of taking me to a psychiatrist because I spent most of my time alone or with imaginary playmates.
A Funeral
Florida was everything that my parents had promised, and I was miserable. The hotel featured a sprawling labyrinth of hot tubs, waterslides and juice bars. The arcade had games I normally would have never been allowed to play, and women in red, blue and purple swimsuits of varying styles were everywhere. At first, the distractions were enough, but I soon became twitchy and weird like an animal with fleas. Everything sent me into a state of chaotic desire, the warmth of the swimming pool, the sound of the squeak of my back on the rickety waterslide, the coolness my hand felt on the side of a concrete.
His Name Started with F
He sat on the far end of the bleachers in the schoolyard, legs pulled up with both arms wrapped around his knobby knees. He had frizzy black hair that was big enough to poof around his head and fine enough to let light leak through like a halo...
Not Always Duck Soup
The year 1974 began with me watching a Marx Brothers movie on WGN in the partially finished basement of our next-door neighbors, the Birdlemans. Hopped up on Pepsi and cocktail wieners, I relished the late-night affair, despite the basement’s dog hair and exposed, asbestos-wrapped plumbing. Mr. and Mrs. Birdleman were upstairs entertaining friends in the manner still reminiscent of the prior decade—stiff drinks, cigarettes, and Polyester knit dresses.