excuses himself to sleep. Peter excuses himself to sleep. Jonathan moves in on the other side of Kat and all night we sit like that. I never even get to kiss her.
She drives away. Lark loads up his hotrod to take my friends home. I can’t even look at Jonathan. Toma s hit s my shoulder and gives me a wink.
“You two in the back, Jonathan you ride bitch.” Riding bitch, front seat passenger. He is in for a ride. Lark takes off in a rooster tail of gravel and dust. 12 miles of twists and turns down the mountain and Lark never lets up off the gas once. Going down Pagemill the passenger is on the cliff side the whole way. The passenger has a perfect view of where he will go if the driver screws the pooch, or over cooks the brakes. Lark has been driving this road for years. He is flying. He is four wheel drifting down the hill. Jonathan is sheet white. Fighting to control his bowels.
“Slow the hell down.” A guy asks you to slow down, he might as well give you his balls.
“Can’t hear you.” The tires are skidding madly.
“Please slow down.” Jonathan’s voice is a high pitched squeal.
“Fuck no, you treacherous son of a bitch.” They tell me Jonathan went a lighter shade of pale when Lark really got on the gas. Fuck him. Fuck with one, you fuck with the clan.
DATE 2 - Thursday of the next week I’m in class watching Kat do a scene with Randy, tall, handsome, football player. It’s a romantic scene and she is heating up that stage. She’s going out with him. I blew it.
“You’re an idiot.” At least she’s smiling.
“You’re not going out with Randy?”
“Yes I am going with him. I asked you to my house Saturday because I want to be the baloney in a Black and White sandwich… kidding.”
“OK, so you still want me to come over?”
“Yes... will you?”
“Yes.”
“Good... hey JJ.”
“Yeah?”
“Before you get all the way out that door, you might want to come back and get my address.” She dangles a piece of paper from her fingers. Long delicate fingers. Girl fingers.
I pound my head into my locker three times before Tomas stops me.
“What’d you do this time?”
“She asked me out, in, to her house.”
“Then?” He points at the locker.
“I’m happy.”
“You know that makes no sense, right?”
“I do.”
“Cool, wanna get stoned?”
“Does the pope shit in the woods?”
“I think he might. Let's roll.”
Saturday I am a mess. I change my clothes fifteen times. I finally settle on a Rolling Stones mouth T-shirt and a pair of sprayed on Sticky Finger jeans, and my red patent leather platforms. Hair is blow dried back, falling into a shag to make a rock star proud. I’m over six foot before the platform shoes. I wear a size 29 x 36 jeans. I am one skinny tall White boy. I wrap a long red silk scarf around my neck and pull on my Superfly jacket. Rock and roll meets the ghetto. Lark and I have our own personal style, Glitter-Fly.
I am 14. My brother has to drive me. “Go on, I’ll be back in an hour or so, bring Jaz and some Rum.”
From the curb to the front door, about a hundred miles, or ten feet I can't tell which.
“You look good JJ.” She leans in, kissing my cheek, she smells musky and sweet with a hint of cinnamon. “Is Lark coming in?”
“He has to pick up ummm.”
“Jaz?”
“Yeah Jaz.”
“You are staring.” She is right. A sheer black shirt and black bra. Short black tap pants. I was looking. Yes I was. Until she spoke, and then I was looking anywhere else.
“I'm sorry... I...damn it.”
“I like it, you looking, that’s why I put it on.” She takes my hand and leads me in.
They have a sunken living room with white shag carpet deep enough to need a lifeguard. We kick off our shoes and dive in. She has martinis chilling in the wet bar. She hits a switch, the lights dim and music comes on.
KSOL, Marvin
She drives away. Lark loads up his hotrod to take my friends home. I can’t even look at Jonathan. Toma s hit s my shoulder and gives me a wink.
“You two in the back, Jonathan you ride bitch.” Riding bitch, front seat passenger. He is in for a ride. Lark takes off in a rooster tail of gravel and dust. 12 miles of twists and turns down the mountain and Lark never lets up off the gas once. Going down Pagemill the passenger is on the cliff side the whole way. The passenger has a perfect view of where he will go if the driver screws the pooch, or over cooks the brakes. Lark has been driving this road for years. He is flying. He is four wheel drifting down the hill. Jonathan is sheet white. Fighting to control his bowels.
“Slow the hell down.” A guy asks you to slow down, he might as well give you his balls.
“Can’t hear you.” The tires are skidding madly.
“Please slow down.” Jonathan’s voice is a high pitched squeal.
“Fuck no, you treacherous son of a bitch.” They tell me Jonathan went a lighter shade of pale when Lark really got on the gas. Fuck him. Fuck with one, you fuck with the clan.
DATE 2 - Thursday of the next week I’m in class watching Kat do a scene with Randy, tall, handsome, football player. It’s a romantic scene and she is heating up that stage. She’s going out with him. I blew it.
“You’re an idiot.” At least she’s smiling.
“You’re not going out with Randy?”
“Yes I am going with him. I asked you to my house Saturday because I want to be the baloney in a Black and White sandwich… kidding.”
“OK, so you still want me to come over?”
“Yes... will you?”
“Yes.”
“Good... hey JJ.”
“Yeah?”
“Before you get all the way out that door, you might want to come back and get my address.” She dangles a piece of paper from her fingers. Long delicate fingers. Girl fingers.
I pound my head into my locker three times before Tomas stops me.
“What’d you do this time?”
“She asked me out, in, to her house.”
“Then?” He points at the locker.
“I’m happy.”
“You know that makes no sense, right?”
“I do.”
“Cool, wanna get stoned?”
“Does the pope shit in the woods?”
“I think he might. Let's roll.”
Saturday I am a mess. I change my clothes fifteen times. I finally settle on a Rolling Stones mouth T-shirt and a pair of sprayed on Sticky Finger jeans, and my red patent leather platforms. Hair is blow dried back, falling into a shag to make a rock star proud. I’m over six foot before the platform shoes. I wear a size 29 x 36 jeans. I am one skinny tall White boy. I wrap a long red silk scarf around my neck and pull on my Superfly jacket. Rock and roll meets the ghetto. Lark and I have our own personal style, Glitter-Fly.
I am 14. My brother has to drive me. “Go on, I’ll be back in an hour or so, bring Jaz and some Rum.”
From the curb to the front door, about a hundred miles, or ten feet I can't tell which.
“You look good JJ.” She leans in, kissing my cheek, she smells musky and sweet with a hint of cinnamon. “Is Lark coming in?”
“He has to pick up ummm.”
“Jaz?”
“Yeah Jaz.”
“You are staring.” She is right. A sheer black shirt and black bra. Short black tap pants. I was looking. Yes I was. Until she spoke, and then I was looking anywhere else.
“I'm sorry... I...damn it.”
“I like it, you looking, that’s why I put it on.” She takes my hand and leads me in.
They have a sunken living room with white shag carpet deep enough to need a lifeguard. We kick off our shoes and dive in. She has martinis chilling in the wet bar. She hits a switch, the lights dim and music comes on.
KSOL, Marvin
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