Kids

The first time I was consciously aware I was dead, I was twelve years old. My little cousin Allie was eleven and so pretty and sweeter than anything else in my life. Visiting us on a warm sunny summer day. Then she and her family left, to go home. Back to Missouri, taking the sun and warmth and life all out of me. Nothing left at all after that.

I never wanted to feel that way again. But then when you’re all grown up in high school, or when I was a senior in high school, football games are all of what life is. I was a player, you see. It’s what I did. It was the only thing I did. It was all I could do.

Around Wednesday or so it starts to hit you. That emptiness feeling of fear in the pit of your stomach, that won’t go away. You look at the streaming banners in the hallways in school, about how we gonna do this and that. And you think, yeah, that’s on me. It’s on me to do those things or your silly little slogan signs don’t mean jack shit. This is my gig, my show.

Then when you finally get to do it, all that fear subsides, just vanishes away. It’s peaceful, easy, calm out here on the field. The chilly blackness of early winter night. The soft green sod, marked off in white chalk lines. Out here, I’m in charge now, running things, performing, feeling nothing. Just to focus on the play, like I know what they’re going to do. Can even look over at the oh so lovely girls up there in the stands in their red and white uniforms so stark and clear against the night sky. Hear the announcer’s voice way up there in the booth, hoping he gets it right.

Conscious of all these things at once. All so easy to do. I look up at him, up there in the little wooden booth above everyone else. No, you dumb shit, that wasn’t Kleimer in on that tackle. Was me, Doug Rodey, me, I done that. Tug at my jersey number so he knows. Get it right next time bud. This is my crowd, I’m working here.

After it’s all done, the hits and grunts and pain and jolts, hardly aware of any of that, hardly feel any of it. Back at the locker room, shower, dress and slowly casually hurry as fast as you can. Downtown to the bowling alley where we all go after the game. Everyone here, the place is packed, you can hardly move. Push a path through the crowd to a comfortable place, a safe place for watching and waiting.

Everyone I know is right here, tonight; our time, our place. Warm and friendly and loud with big glass doors and windows all steamed over from the frosty air. Been coming here for years, like coming home. But also like brand new, all shiny and new, spotless and clean. Even the bathrooms are shiny and spotless, clean, deodorized, sanitized.

This is a respectable place, a nice place; but it’s still our place. Shiny new pinball machines in the corner, and a foosball table and pool table in the middle of this huge room. Can’t even see them now. So many people, standing around, pushing through, mingling, loudly talking; standing around on the soft soundless carpeting.

A long bar runs the length of the room at the far end. They serve drinks to the adults who bowl here, league bowlers. But only soft drinks to us kids who pack this place full on Friday night. All glowing with excitement and nighttime thrills of being young; looking for someone young and soft and sweet. All eager happy faces glowing as much as the bright lights of this big warm gathering place.

I stammer around this room where you can hardly breathe, can hardly hear above the chatter and clamor of all these kids. Can’t even see through the crowd. The lovely young pep club girls with their young girl legs. And all my friends, ball players dressed in school colors and proud, elated at winning, giddy with joy and youth. And all the rest of the kids who look up to us.

Pretty girls all over like a blur of color and faces and smiles. They talk to me about our game, our great game. They tell me I did good. Sherry Linten, so dark and slender and pretty comes over standing right next to me. Even Debbie Felber, the sexiest girl in school, sits down on the pool table beside me. She’s never talked to me before. They tell me I did good.

I’d tell them how wonderfully soft and warm and wantful they look in their short little skirts and creamy white legs. But how would I know what to say, just stammer out stupid meaningless words. Things you might say to the other players, technical things about this or that play. Could have done better. Should have I quietly say to these girls who could care less about a ball game. How would I know. That’s what I do; can play football, nothing else.

I see you in the corner by the pinball machines, all aglow and smiling laughing happy eager kid. Wearing a tan corduroy winter coat that reaches to the bottom of your short red skirt. Nothing but coat and little girl legs, and your long blond hair. Laughing as Sammy our quarterback, my quarterback is stuffing snow into the hood of your coat. Some of the snow gets in your hair.

You squiggle, squirm and grab at the snow and throw it back at him. Little freshman girl, so all confident and alive, enjoying life and being young. I’m surprised, impressed. They’re all so shy, afraid of us. Not you, just fit right in. I envy that. Would like to be like that. Little freshman girl. I’m impressed. Such a pretty smile, pretty little blond girl.

Look for you later on but you’re not there. Somebody mentions your name and I try to catch what they say, listen in and pretend I’m not. Everyone talking of you, what a neat little freshman kid. Yeah, I think so, but don’t say anything, just listen. And all the excitement and giddiness of the cold black night and the big football game is now not about that at all. All about you, that cute little kid so alive and young and free.

Must really be something to be like that. Everything else meaning nothing now. Not even enough cold beer and riding around in the cars alone with all the friends talking, drinking. Talking of nothing, not even hearing the words, not even any feelings except a tight uneasy stomach full of emptiness. Thinking of you and nothing else.

Unsleeping all night, I wonder about things, and don’t like to. Got this dead all over feeling and nothing else to do but let those little rat-like roach-like thought creatures crawl all over my empty little mind. Everything was alright up to now. No that’s a lie. Nothing was ever alright. But I’d been surviving, skating by, as Kazzy would say. Maybe thinking that’s what I was destined to do, just get by. Be a little ant crawling across the sidewalk of the universe.

What was that line from Eliot’s poem, something about a lobster crawling along the bottom of the ocean. Yeah, that’s me, scuttling along, afraid to disturb…whatever, anybody, I suppose. Doing okay at that too, I guess. Maybe do that the rest of my life. Be like one of those minor characters on a tv show. Show up from time to time, say something clever and then never be seen again until whenever the next time would be. Like that was my role; like I was playing my role.

I could do that. Then this freshman girl who’s so all into life, like an integral part of it; or more, like it all revolves around her. Like she’s actually living life, and I’m…what, like a side-show freak or something. Hmm, makes you wonder. Maybe there’s more to it than I thought, or was accustomed to.

Not that I hadn’t always thought of that. Thinking someday I’d blossom into the world’s greatest…something or other. And here’s this cute little kid already blossomed into more than I was ever going to be ever. How’d that happen.

Geez, I remember when I was a freshman, that was pretty terrible. Got all these new kids from all the little schools around the county; and all the upperclassmen all bigger, older than me. Like starting at the bottom all over again, working my way down. Pretty much afraid of…everything, I guess, all the pretty girls, all the tough guys and bullies. Probably even afraid of the teachers, I don’t know. Like a little timid mouse, a nerdy little geek. I suppose everybody would’ve thought of me that way. I certainly did.

In Latin class, I’m flunking, don’t know what the hell’s going on with that stuff. But nice old priest gives me a “C” anyway, because that’s the way he is. I’m sitting there in the back of the class, quiet as a little mouse, and the lesson’s over for today. Everybody’s talking and laughing, getting ready for the bell to ring. And me of course, I’m studying the Latin book, trying to figure this shit out. There beside me, Carla Berenson’s got these movie star looks, man I aint kidding you. If a producer or director ever saw her, they’d say “girl you got movie star looks.”

Gets up from her desk and straightens up her blouse; tucks it down tight into her skirt, like that. Makes her incredible breasts stick out even more and me sitting there just dumbfounded amazed, like seein a vision from God or something. Can you imagine me ever going out with a girl like that? No, I didn’t think so. I could never imagine that either.

She goes out with juniors and seniors, anyway. I mean if there’s like rungs or an ascending order of society, she’d be so far up there, so high up. Never even be able to see me down here on the bottom. In four years of school we take about all the same classes, I don’t think she ever even said “hi” to me. Why would she, why should she. Be like not stepping on a bug, maybe. If you think of it, you don’t do it, but doesn’t really make any difference either way.

In football practice back then, little geeky freshmen like me get to hold tackling dummies for the varsity players to smash into. Fun stuff. The coolest thing was these little canvas covered inner tubes that you hold in front of you like a target or something. The big mean senior guys would run hard as they could and smash you with such impact to try and see how high up in the air you’d fly before landing on your back on the hard ground. See, first your back hits the ground. Then your head inside helmet hits the ground just a fraction of a second later. Splat and then splat, see. I loved that one, lived for that one. Scary shit.

Coach decides the linemen are getting nothing out of just hitting into each other. Need an object to focus on, a real live tackling dummy. Picks me. Every play I’m handed the ball to run into the line and be tackled. Play after play, line up and do it again. That was great, perfect. Can’t possibly hurt me anymore than I hurt already just being me.

And me not believing in anything, I look up to these seniors like they’re gods, literally, like hero worship. Thinking they be so cool and tough and smart and witty; backtalkin the principal and all that kinda stuff. So whenever they treat me like a piece of shit, I pretty much just agree with their assessment.

Now being a senior thinking I’d be all cool and something or somebody like those guys were, and actually have some fun in life. Get something out of it. Problem is, I’m still me. What a comedown that is, not even anyone to look up to anymore. ‘Cause I got about zero admiration or appreciation for anybody in my own class, except maybe Carla Berenson. She just gets better looking every day, if that’s possible. And maybe Sherry Linten, she’s such a sweet pretty girl.

Other people too, if I’d want to be honest about it, like Lucy Collier. Can’t imagine why anyone wouldn’t think that skinny little blonde girl wasn’t about as squeezable as a kid could be. But she comes from a good family, wealthy, not my kind of attainable person. Would be nice though. And of course I still look up to my friend Tim Mickells. Such a super star athlete, always was, and such a cool guy anyway.

I suppose they’re all pretty decent, nice people. But not like looking up to someone, like I always did; like I always felt comfortable with. When I was a junior, all those senior guys were like big brothers to me. They’d take care of me on the football field. And I’d go riding around with them, drinking beer, being cool, hanging with all my big brothers. Like fitting in, belonging to something.

Now it’s just like “we here” and we nowhere. Geez, school spirit, just can’t get into it. Everybody’s getting somewhere now, becoming something, blooming into whatever they bloom into. But not me. Or maybe nobody’s becoming anything. Just skating by; thinking time and the years gone by done made us into something, whatever it was supposed to. We be the result of that, and must be something good right, or okay at least ‘cause we here.

At least that’s the feeling I get. Let down, expected something better, something magical, something meaningful. A transformation, if you will, becoming something…but just nothing, like being hoodwinked. It never happened, or probably it did and I missed it, was absent that day or something. So depressing, all I do is stare out the second story window at school. Watch the little grade school kids playing. Wish I was one of them, knowing it’s not possible, never will be.

Why do I do this, why even be…just all worthless to even think about. And that little freshman girl, her name’s Katie, by the way. About the opposite of me in every possible way you could be. Later I find out that she’s the president of her freshman class, and a member of the mathematics team that goes out to competitions or whatever, all that kind of stuff.

“How do people just fall into that” Kazzy would say. Oblivious to the fact that you gotta go out and do it, actually work for it and attain it, as it were. I mean it doesn’t just happen, I don’t think. But you know, I actually did run for president of the senior class. And this is funny, that girl Katie, her older brother was the guy I chose to be my vice president. Thinking he such a cute kid, all the girls would vote for us, or for him anyway.

Had this wonderful campaign concept; running against my old friend Sammy who, like I said’s the quarterback of the football team and all this and that long list of stuff. Got banners and posters on the walls saying vote for him and stuff like that. So I tear off a little tiny piece off his banner, and write vote for me on it. Thought it was…like kind of an anti-effort type thing. People would be able to appreciate that, right.

Well that didn’t happen. We got six votes, I think. So I suppose that’s five votes for Kyle, and then my one vote. I mean, a friend of mine even comes up to me and says “Doug, I wanted to vote for you, y’know, but…well this is like a responsible position and all, and …you know it was either you or Sammy, so…” God, nice to know you can count on your friends to see your true inner qualities, so well hidden from my peers. I thought I was gonna win too.

What a bunch of…well, it was a good idea anyway. Could’ve gone over to Kyle’s house; discuss school policies and look at his little sister. That’d be nice. Of course I’m too honest or got too much integrity to use people like that. That’s my explanation. Truth is, I’m too stupid to think up clever ideas like that. At least I got to tease Kyle; tell him he cost us the election. No truth in that, either.

Makes me stop and think. Yeah…sure, he’s just like his little sister, isn’t he; or vice versa. The kind of people who get somewhere, accomplish things; aggressively pursue getting what they want, what they deserve; getting something out of life. Not just “fall into things” like me and Kazzy be thinking’s the only reason why good things happen to other people and not us.

I mean, I like Kazzy’s explanation and all. Fits perfectly with never trying, or not very hard anyway. Never getting anywhere and then thinking those who do are sorta just lucky is all. Waiting on that luck to strike us some day, like finding money on the street.

But no, this is different, I got it all wrong. It aint my bad misfortuneate no luck a’tall. It’s this anti-effort approach that seem so all cool and everything, but is just really basic failure from the get go. Setting yourself up to fail and then somehow someway being surprised when it happens.

A couple of years ago, me and my buds be sitting way down on the far end of the bench on the jv basketball team. Sitting there deliberately ‘cause we good players and all, and thinking “yeah coach, we down here, you caint see us, but we down here. And at just what point in losing this game do y’think yer gonna finally put us in so’s we can play, huh.”

Kyle, he’s sitting there next to the coach, right beside him. Always talking to him about the game. So of course he gets to go in, while we sit there and watch and curse. Used to always make fun of him for that. Even had a routine about it and all, and people got a kick out of it. Then in some intramural-type pick up game, I get to play against him. And you know I gotta prove a point right; make a statement.

We get the opening tip, ball comes to me and I go in for a layup. Cool, except the little rascal blocks my shot. Blocks my goddamned layup, mind you. Son of a bitch, that aint cool. Then even turns the table. Gots ball goin in for layup, I block his shot; but no. He holds ball at arm’s length, flips with fingers over and around my outstretched arm. Shot go in, goddamn. Kid got game. My point wholly totally not made. But at least now I got some respect for him as a player.

And even then still missing the point. The point would be, he wants to play. That’s pretty much what he’s doing going out for basketball in the first place, duh. So he does whatever be needed to get to that goal. Cool, okay, the anti-effort thing aint as efficacious. Why didn’t I think of that.

I mean, like last year in football, if we way ahead or got a lead they aint gonna catch, you put the backup guys in, late in the game. And I be still in there too, being only a junior then. So when new guy linebacker waiting to see what runner gonna do, I push him in the back. Like get in there and hit the boy, son, that’s what we do out here. Aggression. Like I said, a one-trick pony. Can only do this one thing.

But really, is all the same. Applies to everything. Like I’d a put three entire roles a tape on my knee just to play football. Even stop and add more in front of the pep club bleachers, just so’s they’d know. But what would I ever do to meet Kyle’s little sister, huh. You see, there’s a point to all this shit and it aint about luck. Them kids, you can learn stuff from ‘em if you pay attention.

My Mom - sorta

Tell y’bout the first time I met my mom. Was on this tour of England sorta thing that my little state college had set up. They be doing that sorta stuff alla time. Goin all over hell, like make up for being little dinky school and all. Anyway…God, is long story, so much to it. I mean, was only gone for like three months.

But…so we fly outta Chicago, land in Edinburgh Scotland. Edinburra, get it right, y’see, they be correctin ya. Anyway before that a course, standing in line t’get ticket to get on plane, I’se instantly fallen in love wid beauteous girl in line ahead a me. And never mention that t’her a course ‘cause, well I is stupid.

So I be dyin all across frickin ocean on plane, I mean factually actually dyin, while she be laughing joking drinking wid dumb fat guy and others up two seats ahead a me. Laura is her name, not even gonna change it for - what if somebody read story and tell her. Hell, don’t nobody read nothin I ever wrote. So…the Brit boys all call her Lau-rah (lau as in loud) Lau-rah. She think that all so cute and neat, and not repulsive like me. But all that comes later.

Anyway, if y’never been t’Edinburra, go. Is wunnerful place. We get there at the airport, and get in cabs and young Scots drive us so way far manyous miles through little alleyways around traffic hunert mile an hour alla time, like mad, like crazy shit, atchally scary shit t’be honest. Our Scottish guide later explain that poor young cabbies don’t gots cars a their own, so drive cabs like crazy wild teenagers would back in the states.

Is never America or US of A to furriners, is always “the states” and then y’pick that up an be talkin like that yerself, like y’s a local, y’know. Like I aint no midwestern peasant, I’se all cool now. And is so freakin freaky, Edinburra that is. I mean a course it gots like huge old castle on top a hill right in dead center a town, so no matter where you is, can look up, see magnificent old castle.

Queen summers here, by the way, so y’know is kinda okay place t’be, right. But then the park beside our little old old-fashioned hotel is like all greens, I mean greens. Everbuddy, even in airport, carry golf clubs in Edinburra. And even walkin through park, gots to watch out fer flying golf ball ‘cause “grass” in Scotland means “place to hit little white ball.”

So Edinburra is so way cooler’n any place I ever been. I mean, I like New York - see my little college go everwhere - California’s kinda diffrent. I’se from Nebraska, or sorta from there, but Scotland so way cool, and all I be thinkin of is Lau-rah. Course she actually cooler’n Scotland.

Let’s see, is little tiny brunetty girl, skinny littul thing, so awfully got weight perfectly distributed in all places where I’d put it if’n I was God. Always used t’say that ‘bout girls like that in high school “nice weight distribution.” Yeah, she gots that. And not like movie star pretty, but it all works for her so absolutely, and make me just all tummy-ache sick in love. Only’s that she hates the sight a me.

Like we’s in, where…York, I guess, at ritzy hotel for a change. She’s lost travelers checks or can’t find ‘em, whatever, so a course I say “take mine” and she like “get away, low class person.” Nah, I aint so much that, is just I don’t dress so well is all. Like all I gots to wear is like green snakeskin shirt and brown-black striped pants what I bought in Greenwich Village second hand shop; and a course is all totally cool t’me.

And like one day on bus to… where, um, Abbotsford, Wally Scott’s house, the guy what wrote Ivanhoe. Anyway she wear like seemless bluejean - tight I mean, can see all outline of pretty girl’s pretty pretty body - and huggy yellow tee shirt without brassiere what I say “Lau-rah, that’s a nice shirt” and she all red-faced sorry she didn’t wear bra that day. Not me, man, is highlight a trip t’Wally’s house, though that’s pretty neat too.

Oh God, t’have a camera whilst Laura be walking down aisle a bus; ‘stead a sittin in back sippin all day long on Robbie Burns scotch from quart bottle t’ease heartbreak a lovesick kid. Told ya this was a long freakin story. So Robbie Burns scotch is so good y’can atchally drink it straight from bottle - wrapped in brown paper bag, I’se college student, y’know. Don’t need no water and ice or anything, but don’t help.

A course bein all eager chap and got no friends at home, what be girls anyway, and free at last, or feelin like it. Not bein home, in the states, I on sidewalk in sunny flowery Edinburgh run up to pretty pretty (prettiest girl I ever seen) blond girl say “y’wanna meet me.” And she does, for some odd reason. Skinny leggy Swedish girl in jeans and sweater (is cold in summer Scotland) damn she look good. Such a pretty face and all, lookin like one a them scrawny little California blond girls. Like imagine maybe Michelle Phillips (from Mammas & Pappas) when she was maybe twelve, thirteen. But this girl, Ingrid Olson, she’s a college girl. But can you imagine a Swede girl named Ingrid Olson?

So’s we’s all hangin out t’gether for couple a days and even run inta school friends at a museum once and so I introduce “um these used to be friends a mine, but now seem like don’t count at all nobodies” ‘cause I gots better friend. An Ingrid all educated in literature an stuff, so’s we got stuff in common.

She tells me cute story - she on train wid all these German boys and in sleeper car now goin beddy. She up on top bunk, they down below talkin all night long ‘bout specifically what they’d like t’be doin wid her at that moment. So come morning everybuddy gettin off train, she say “s’long, see yall later” but say that in German just so boys know she hear/understand ever word was said ‘bout her. Is interesting story no? She all smart girl, speak four, five languages.

One time I even goes back to hotel room wid Ingrid (my mother’s name is Ingrid, by the way; oh, and this story’s ‘sposed t’be ‘bout her isn’t it, but, will get there ewentally). So back at hotel room, go through little family sitting-room type lobby, raise eyebrows a folks, buy couple glasses a beer. And then in room, I feel so shaky, so uncomfortable…I don’t even as much as kiss this pretty young girl, and even after that neat come-on story ‘bout the German boys. Weird, huh.

Ingrid asks for my address so’s we can correspond like she do wid other nice guy from states she once met, and me thinking “girl, they like several hunerds a million guys would write to you, sho don’t need me along wid ‘em.” That was pretty stupid, huh. Jaysuz Christ, probly woulda wrote to her soon as I got home - “Ingrid miss you madly muchly, come have sex wid me.” But like I say, stupid gets to be habit when you do it alla time.

Geez, never even told you ‘bout Edinburgh. Well, is lovely town. Main street is beautiful wide flowery Prince’s Street, like main street in my home town, Athens Ga, named after that - Prince Avenue. Used to live on Prince Avenue, by the way. (See - other stories I wrote an nobody done read.) Damn, I better cut out some parts or this’ll be like long long short story.

Okay, is big big mountain-like hill overlooks town a Edinburgh, is King Arthur’s spot to shoot arrows from - Arthur’s Seat. So the thing is y’climb (goddamn, forever) up the endless grassy mountain-hill, and finally get to the top and see the city and then walk back down. I mean if you’s wid girlfriend, not school folks, would be maybe okay. Like get part way up, stop, make out on grass. Well, would be more point to it, I think.

Oh, and castle is cool, all that sorta shit.But usually I don’t hang wid school folks, like I go out at night. I think they stay in. I mean, gotta be more interesting sitting in hotel chattin about being in freakin Edinburgh, than actually go out into freaking Edinburgh, right?

So I’se out wid locals, y’know kids y’meet at the bar and be friends wid. Like “hey, I like to drink too, we got stuff in common.” And we’s stumblin down the sidewalk as in them days (afore they changed fer the better) all pubs in UK close at ten, ten o freaking clock, mind you. Bartender say “it’s time” meaning in English “we’s closing.” So locals (and me too, followings their custom) gots half of a pint left, plus full one y’haven’t got to yet, so a course hurry up an order ‘nother one, and then drink all three in the five minute they give ya before y’gotta leave.

So now stumbling down sidewalk, go past big old building what say “Asylum for Alcoholics” what hits home and I laugh, and guy say “don’t laugh, is big problem in our country.” So I learn something. Then beings still early and all pubs closed, now find ourselves at dance hall in basement of building on good old Prince’s Street.

Now get this, is all full a kiddees. Some real real nice lookin kiddees; grabbable, huggable, squeezable, I been drinking all night, kiddees. And what they serve ya t’drink here is…lemonade, in paper cup. So. I mean just how old are these “I’d like t’touch ya muchly” girls? Anyway, I stay as long as I can stand this undecipherable perplexity and finally go home.

So, we finally go to London. Edinburra was really cool, rained almost all the time we was there, but is still cool. Yeah and damp and foggy too. But I liked it, really, about as much as anyplace I ever been, t’tell ya the truth. Scots is down home earthy folk, remind me a me.

And London’s okay too. We stay at U of, dormitory what gots bar right on first floor lobby area, where I drink muchly wid all the U boys who call Laura, Lau-rah. A course she likes them. But warm beer helps, lots an lots of it, that is. An we go to all sorta plays an stuff, so is really cool time.

I mean I never been here afore, right, so I don’t know U of London, up north a King’s Cross is like outta the way place to be. Is home t’me. So what if they’s like million underground changes t’get anywhere; running through London underground is what I do. All day, all night; even see stuff along the way, above ground even. But being poor kid, don’t see all like what you rich folks would. But go to, y’know Piccadilly Circus, Trafalgar Square, St. Jame’s Park, just stuff any poor backpacker kid’d do. Museums and stuff like that.

One night though, I met these two girls, American girls, staying at fancy hotel wid parents (these are high school kids, but I caint be much more’n twenty or so). Anyway the one girl, Priscilla, is like knock you dead wantable. Got long fuzzy blond hair, muchly pouty mouth, so pretty, so sexy. Don’t think I ever met a more “let’s get naked” type girl in my life.

So up in my dorm room, they wanna drink and I gots like whiskey’s bought for gift fer mom and all. So why not crack one open. But no glasses, nowhere. Girls don’t wanna drink from bottle, well Priscilla don’t care, but other girl won’t so figures they might as well take off. But hey, what about me never gonna meet Priscilla again in my life and forever wonder what that best night of young fellow’s life woulda been like. Oh well. Should I just skip to part where I meet mom?

But haven’t even told you about Stonehenge yet.So, I meet this Jewish girl from New Jersey staying at dorm wid other tour group an we go out on town. I mean out. There’s this place in Leicester Square, or there abouts, I dunno. Is dance hall that is like literally city block long and wide, even gots balcony to look down on folks from. And they play music there ‘til it aint nighttime no more.

Well, never went there with that girl, but did go there a lot. Anyway me and this scraggly scrawny little girl go all over I think, and drink a awful lot. Jaysuz, is good thing I know my way home, think we had t’walk ‘bout half a it. And is wunnerful warm dark night. We hangin all over each other having young kids’ kinda fun, y’know. And so get back at, well, y’ring the bell long enough and finally guy wakes up and opens door so we can get in.

So in my dorm room and this girl who from N’Juhzy, goes t’school down at Emory in Atlanta, which a course is big town in my home state. An she gots such heavy suthen accent; havin been t’school down there for whole semester already. So I just has t’tell her is fake phony thing t’do, an all. Which completely makes her feel phony and worthless and so we just lie in the bed there feelin dumb.

I really do some things that make absolutely no sense whatsoever. And try to convince her to fergit that and let’s just have sex. But instead wake up around noon feelin like I been drinkin all night and later find out everbuddy just mad as hell about waitin forever on seven a.m. bus trip to Stonehenge what I completely forgot about. So, well at least they got there, maybe a little late. ‘Spose it woulda been cool thing to see an all, but actually was really great fun night ‘til I said that little thing ‘bout phony suthen accent.

So, couple other things. Is hottest summer in history of London. Big deal. Also is Wimbelton time. My homey Bjorn Borg beats Jimmy Connors in marathon five set match. Saw it on tv. Gots no money to acthally go t’Wimbelton. Also, Fourth a July. All these Americans be celebrating with sparklers and shit like that. Uh…folks, we’s in London, y’know. England? I’se embarrassed, really, but probly no stupider than telling Jewish girl about her accent, right?

Last thing, is all kinda German kids here too, on tour a course. But these be little kids, like grade schoolers. An one girl, she maybe twelve, thirteen, but so pretty and mature looking kid. But alla Brit boys in dorm just mean as hell to the poor little German kids, like mad about that war and all. Hell, these kids got nothing t’do with that. I feel so sorry for ‘em. Was gonna tell the pretty little girl that on the elevator, but don’t know what t’say. Just feel bad for ‘em is all.

Oh, and went to Paris for three day break. Saw Louvre Museum, that kinda stuff. These two fat girls kidnap me, say “you speak French, you gonna go to Paris with us, be tour guide.” Jaysuz, I took one semester a French in school, ou est fucking vouz. But anyway Charles de Galle airport is spacey as hell, man, gots glass tubes running ever which a way. Escalators inside, y’see, don’t know where the fuck y’goin, but is dark by the time we leave.

Get on bus wid freaky French money, guy says “five francs.” I hand him like five five-franc gold coins (got’s jet-lag, I guess, or escalator lag). He’s nice enough t’give four of ‘em back. So…stick fat girls in pensione, and don’t see ‘em again ‘til we leave. Whadda y’want from me, I aint nice person. Not gonna go trompin around Paris wid no fat girls, geez buy a freakin guide book. I don’t think they like me after that. I don’t think I care, though wasn’t really nice thing t’do.

But back in London, gots extra day t’kill afore they let us back in dorm, so being stupid as I am, wid nothing t’do and Brit rail pass, take train to Aberdeen and then back. That has t’be dumbest thing anyone ever did. But a course I meet two simply gorgeous young Scot girls on train who are goin t’holiday at Wimbelton. And the one girl, like sweetest kid I ever met (high school girls, I think). She so perty and friendly fun t’talk to.

I hold her soft warm little kid hand and rub her soft little thigh. She don’t care, is just nice young happy girl kid. Tell me about big thing back home on farm is “ratting.” Put terrier in barn, folks watch t’see how many rats he’ll catch and kill. Would be fun I guess, if she there too. Oh well, ‘bout time t’get t’go see mom.

Finish up last week or so in London, tour group is all packing, ready t’go home. I’se stayin, gots rail pass an all, gonna go see mommy for first time in my life (well, since I was two). So of course gotta get artsy Picasso post cards t’give to Lau-rah, she bein art major an all. And up there alone with her in her room she was almost human to me, might even a said “thank you” I dunno. Woulda been better if she’d a hugged and kissed me, but, like I said, girl didn’t like me very much.

So, they gone, I on North Sea ferry boat (goddamn this is a long story). The hell with it; eventually get to Karlskoga Sweden. Did you know that when you cross from Denmark to Sweden, you go from Elsinor (Hamlet’s Elsinor) to Helsingborg? Like same names, just slightly difernt language. Who cares? Let’s just get there.

Anyway, so, call up mom at train station, say…”um, how will I recognize you?” I mean, I aint never seen this person, right. But she say will wear yellow scarf. So is cool, only three or four peoples there anyway. So is okay, spent a week there and…well, the food was good. Is funny, huh, my mom’s a good cook. Far out. Didn’t know that about her. Or anything else for that matter. I don’t think she hugged me. Don’t remember, but don’t think so. Well, I guess we not real emotional folks; or nothing to be emotional about.

I…uh, liked her husband better than her, he was a nice guy at least. Is odd thing t’say about yer mom. Well, is odd circumstance. So, they appreciated the whiskey gift, even the one bottle that’d been opened already. Whiskey is taxed to death in Sweden, so, is sumpin y’might give t’someone as a present or something. But hell, they’s rich anyway, mom’s husband is dentist, make lot a money even if taxed t’death fer half a it or whatever.

What else…well mom gives me a bunch of kroner so I can go have good time in Stockholm when I leave. It rained, I went to museum, then took train to Hamburg Germany; rained there too, took train to Venezia, will tell ya about it, is better story. Oh, and mom said that if anyone should ask, I should say I was friend of her oldest son, just visiting. Yeah well, don’t mean nothing t’me.