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Thunder Sandwich #23 |
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C. l. Bledsoe |
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When I was 15 Summer was hanging around our necks like a noose when Karen and I decided to run away. We were sitting on her bed, watching her little brother watch us. She'd mouth the words," Save me," and I'd nod. "Dad paid me ten bucks so you don't fuck," he would say every few seconds. "Call him Dan, Dad lives across town," she would say. "If you want to make out, I won't tell," he'd say and we'd kiss like fugitives. Thirty seconds would pass, then he'd interrupt, "Take me to the store to get some candy, or I'll tell Dad you were fucking in here." He'd settle his brown eyes on us like a vulture. Karen would say, "we didn't do nothing." "That's too bad cause Dad paid me ten bucks to make sure you don't fuck." All we needed was a ride somewhere like Texas or Arizona, somewhere they'd be too lazy to follow. All we had to do was wait till her brother got off work and then sneak over to his place. Where we sat on his couch and listened to him talk about his tats. He had a chain from his ears to his nose, his nose to his nipples, and down somewhere else. I stood while she went to use the bathroom, like I'd seen them do in old movies. "You must really love her," her brother said and I sat back down to the quiet of her absence. After a couple hours we realized her brother was a dead end. Her Dad lived next door, though. He sat on the sofa, drank Jack Daniels and told me about how his new wife was so loose, it was like fucking a jar of mayo. "Don't get married, boy," he said. "Biggest mistake you'll ever make," then a drink. When the bottle was empty, he left to find his wife. "There's a room back here," Karen said. "The lights don't work but it's private." Then inside, holding hands and no one could see. "You're so sweet, I'll do anything to keep you," she said. She told me about the scar on her arm where she'd stabbed herself with an ice pick, about her step father's ex-cop hands, about how her mother had never seen him naked because he weighed over five hundred pounds, but she had, and I strained her blond hair through fingers I knew couldn't save her and listened. Last Word After dish wars - scrawled notes left in permanent ink on the note board - a subtle vendetta played out at the expense of my milk (left out too long to rot then placed quietly back in the fridge) - CD's scratched at the beginning of the solo on his favorite song - bills left unpaid in each other's names - my credit card stolen and used to order seventeen pounds of cat food - I sit the last morning before moving out -- naked -- smearing my ass on his favorite chair -- downloading scat porn -- bukakke -- best iality -- I save the worst for his screen saver -- and pause -- savor the moment and compose inflammatory anti governmental propaganda and send it to his mother from his e-mail account. The good old days were never so good as now. |