bowling alley. The pizza waitress. I know her voice, she’s asked what we want on our pizza enough times.
“You ain’t gonna be freezing for long, lady.”
There was a moment of silence, then she started laughing and moaning again. I wanted to cover my ears so I wouldn’t have to hear it, but I couldn’t.
“Steve, stop it,” Peg was saying. “Stop! Right now!”
“Are you shitting me?” my old man said. This time they both laughed.
Real carefully, putting one foot in front of the other, I crept up. Bracing myself on the trunk, I looked in the rear window.
Peg and my old man were in the back seat, all tangled up with each other. Her bowling shirt and bra were off, showing her little titties. I watched my old man pawing at them. They were groping at each other, mouth to mouth with their eyes closed, my old man’s pants down around his knees, Peg’s hand pulling at the waistband of his drawers.
Her nipples were standing up real erect. They were long and thin, as long as the first joint of my pinkie. In spite of myself I was getting a hard-on looking at them, how could you not, seeing her nipples standing up like that? Their technique was lousy—I’ve got better technique with the girls in my class I’ve made out with. My mom’s much better-looking than this skinny skag, what the hell was wrong with my old man, what could he see in her?
A sudden chill took over my body. I backed away, not wanting to be seen, and then I was running down Defense Highway past the Peace Cross, running blindly, my feet felt like they were on fire as they pounded the street, there was nothing there, no cars this time of night, nothing moving except me, everything was all asleep, my breath was scalding as I ran with my head down, vaulting the railroad tracks, my eyes blinded with tears from the cold, that’s what the tears were coming from, it was colder’n a witch’s tit out there.
Believe it or not, I had taken a wrong turn. Maybe it was accidentally on purpose, I sure as hell didn’t want to go home. I was on the road that snakes its way through the junkyards, next to where the railroad tracks cut through.
I wished I had a cig. A smoke would’ve been relaxing. It’s always that way, you never have a cigarette when you really need one.
It’s peaceful there amongst all the junk. You can lie up on this huge mountain of rubber and look out over the tracks and the river and think about things without someone getting on your ass. I come here often, sometimes alone, sometimes with my buddies. We roam around the yards, making sure to check that the dogs are caged up, which they usually are during the day, ’cause people come in and out buying and selling junk and you can’t have a bunch of crazy dogs roaming around biting the customers. You still have to look out for the watchman, this crazy nigger that carries a gun and would just as soon shoot you as ask you to get out. I’ve never been shot at personally but I know guys who have, Joe has a cousin, this older guy, who’s got a purple splotch permanent on the back of his right thigh from getting hit with a load of double-aught buckshot in this very yard, ten years ago.
“Shit.”
I heard a dog. It was coming from back in the yard, its feet splattering through the slop.
I looked up. The dog was above me, up on a pile of crates, about twenty, thirty yards away, looking down, its eyes red and wet. He was a big sonofabitch, black as night, part Doberman, part Great Dane it looked like. All the dogs in this yard look like they come from the same bastard litter; big black suckers, the kind of dogs whose balls always seem to be hanging about a foot down, their coats all matted and flea-ridden, drool coming off their teeth which are the size of dominoes. The kind of dogs that’re trained to tear the veins right out of your neck. It didn’t bark like a normal dog would—instead, a low snarl came from deep down inside its chest. It wasn’t warning me, like if I took off it
“You ain’t gonna be freezing for long, lady.”
There was a moment of silence, then she started laughing and moaning again. I wanted to cover my ears so I wouldn’t have to hear it, but I couldn’t.
“Steve, stop it,” Peg was saying. “Stop! Right now!”
“Are you shitting me?” my old man said. This time they both laughed.
Real carefully, putting one foot in front of the other, I crept up. Bracing myself on the trunk, I looked in the rear window.
Peg and my old man were in the back seat, all tangled up with each other. Her bowling shirt and bra were off, showing her little titties. I watched my old man pawing at them. They were groping at each other, mouth to mouth with their eyes closed, my old man’s pants down around his knees, Peg’s hand pulling at the waistband of his drawers.
Her nipples were standing up real erect. They were long and thin, as long as the first joint of my pinkie. In spite of myself I was getting a hard-on looking at them, how could you not, seeing her nipples standing up like that? Their technique was lousy—I’ve got better technique with the girls in my class I’ve made out with. My mom’s much better-looking than this skinny skag, what the hell was wrong with my old man, what could he see in her?
A sudden chill took over my body. I backed away, not wanting to be seen, and then I was running down Defense Highway past the Peace Cross, running blindly, my feet felt like they were on fire as they pounded the street, there was nothing there, no cars this time of night, nothing moving except me, everything was all asleep, my breath was scalding as I ran with my head down, vaulting the railroad tracks, my eyes blinded with tears from the cold, that’s what the tears were coming from, it was colder’n a witch’s tit out there.
Believe it or not, I had taken a wrong turn. Maybe it was accidentally on purpose, I sure as hell didn’t want to go home. I was on the road that snakes its way through the junkyards, next to where the railroad tracks cut through.
I wished I had a cig. A smoke would’ve been relaxing. It’s always that way, you never have a cigarette when you really need one.
It’s peaceful there amongst all the junk. You can lie up on this huge mountain of rubber and look out over the tracks and the river and think about things without someone getting on your ass. I come here often, sometimes alone, sometimes with my buddies. We roam around the yards, making sure to check that the dogs are caged up, which they usually are during the day, ’cause people come in and out buying and selling junk and you can’t have a bunch of crazy dogs roaming around biting the customers. You still have to look out for the watchman, this crazy nigger that carries a gun and would just as soon shoot you as ask you to get out. I’ve never been shot at personally but I know guys who have, Joe has a cousin, this older guy, who’s got a purple splotch permanent on the back of his right thigh from getting hit with a load of double-aught buckshot in this very yard, ten years ago.
“Shit.”
I heard a dog. It was coming from back in the yard, its feet splattering through the slop.
I looked up. The dog was above me, up on a pile of crates, about twenty, thirty yards away, looking down, its eyes red and wet. He was a big sonofabitch, black as night, part Doberman, part Great Dane it looked like. All the dogs in this yard look like they come from the same bastard litter; big black suckers, the kind of dogs whose balls always seem to be hanging about a foot down, their coats all matted and flea-ridden, drool coming off their teeth which are the size of dominoes. The kind of dogs that’re trained to tear the veins right out of your neck. It didn’t bark like a normal dog would—instead, a low snarl came from deep down inside its chest. It wasn’t warning me, like if I took off it
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