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Dangerous Rides

The first time was with this big ape I scouted out

to try and keep the other gorillas in line up in the old theater lodge on Friday nights.

            He ran six foot five, around 265. He kind of looked like Herman Munster with pimples

and was of Scottish descent.

I thought he was the answer to something, however he soon

turned out to be a big chicken shit nothing.

Ended up banging the dumpy little Pollack candy stand girl

with watermelon tits. She by the way, stood a shade over

five feet. I spent an inordinate amount of time trying

not to think about the two of them together.

            His big claim to fame happened that night she and him

got into slap fight and starting playing grab ass and chasing

each other around the foyer. So the big fucking doofus runs

past where I’m tearing tickets with his little milk dud

package in hot pursuit. I remember shaking my head, thinking

this goddamn punch and Judy shit has got to go.

            Next thing I hear is this concussion of wood and glass,

punctuated with bellowing howls of agony. So I walk out to

the lobby and survey the damage. Yup. The big dope had

propelled on his considerable meat hooks right smack

through the double pane glass entrance doors. The carnage

was certainly impressive. All over the shot gun size hole

in the glass shards hung strips of flesh and there was enough

blood there to make Clint Eastwood puke.

            Across the street on the hood a Toronto, dip shit

was screaming in pain and holding his lacerated arm. He

was spewing blood like a water fountain, lucky dick head

just missed a major artery.

            My only reaction was rather instinctive “guess whose going to

have to clean this fucking mess up?” Never did get all

the blood off the sidewalk. The upshot was that stupid baboon

ended up suing the theater for about ten grand for a

sticky door jam.

            As usual this is preface to the story.

The big jerk had battered souped-up 61 battle ship gray

Rambler. One night he was driving us to work and decided

to show off his slant six cylinder balls by passing two

cars going up the big blind crescent rail road bridge

right after the old tavern dead man’s curve.

Sure. Almost a tenth of a mile straight up asphalt tombstone

500. I still remember looking at his stupid face arrested

in pure delight as he dumped the silver Hurst shifter

from second gear to over-drive in the left lane hitting

sixty. Just pure blind luck of the draw that nothing was

coming in the other direction. Bud, we would have been

head-on dead meat  in a bucket. Accident reconstruction

team would have had a nervous break down trying to figure that one out.

            Should have been dead at seventeen. In lieu of flowers

please send donations to……..

            The second time with an old family friend. He was

my age, classmate in school most of my life. He had a

state of the art 1973 midnight black Vet. Had some giddy-up.

Beautiful May evening. We smoked a little reefer in Orient

and on the way back home, he decides to air out the

ride on the causeway. Now he could handle his Penis car.

We hit 85 no problem. Smooth as cement milk. Too be honest

in a car like that 90 has no vibration. Everything was

fine until he spotted a bicyclist on the right hand shoulder

of the road. He pulled a bead on the guy’s rear fender

pointing the center of the Vet dead on the dude’s elevated ass.

Within seconds this guy was going to briefly be a hood

ornament and then launched into the Sound. At the very

last second, Pete slightly jerked the wheel a minuet

fraction to the left. Missed him by a razor’s slice. He

turned to grin at me with pride. Directly in front of

us now was a potato truck going maybe forty. Missed

that to. We graduated from high school that June.

            Number three. I was going to college upstate in the

morning. My buddy agreed to drive me there. Night before

we picked up a couple of neighborhood Catholic girls

and headed up to Yacht Club out on the pier.

The girls were underage so I stayed with them in the car,

another Rambler, this one however was a tired 64 Nash.

So he goes in, come out an hour later totally shitfaced

and pissed off too boot. Won’t talk to anybody in the car,

just keeps drinking straight Bacardi from his “to-go-cup.”

            It was pretty bad right from the start. He was pure

precision rubber behind the wheel. He started picking up

speed gradually. Soon the telephone polls swished by inches

from the window like picket fences. I was in the back with

the girls, who were terrified and huddling against me.

I had mixed feelings. The combo of booze and RPMs was bad,

however the proximity of the girls was great.

            The climax came rather quickly. After somehow negotiating

a series of hair pin curves, we careened head on into the

other lane stacked with on coming head lights.

The girls screamed. I cupped both their breast, figuring

hey if I gotta go, then this will have to do.

We all ended up facing backwards in a farm field. Not

a scratch on us or the car. One of the girls, however did slap

my face.

            The last time I wasn’t so lucky. For this one I was

at the wheel. Dead eyed January driving the 63 Chevy

typewriter delivery truck I dubbed the “Eager Beaver.”

It was a meat locker of a night. Myself and my pal

(also the driver in the last segment) was over on

the shot gun side. We were bored as only 22 year old

men can be. So we went to the local Chinese restaurant

had dinner and drinks and over fortune cookies, dropped

a little acid.

Well, what to do now. It had started snowing and the

wind had really picked up. We decided to scope out this

bar about twenty miles away to try and pick up these

girls we knew. Everything was going rather well until

there was this series of white outs. After the three

count on last one I reduced our speed to around forty.

I was just about to remark to my partner that hey this

ain’t so bad when we went into a really nasty white out

tunnel, I kept slowing, it won’t clear. I shot a look

at Monk over in the passenger side, he had bent over

into the crash position, when I looked back at the

road, stopped dead in front of us was the rear end

of a 66 Lincoln. Yeah we smacked this one. Damn square

too. I didn’t go through the windshield. Monk cut

his lip and forehead. Now I was thinking what’s coming

up behind us. We bailed out of the truck. The Eager

Beaver was totaled. I could hear the sirens in the

distance. I told Monk to beat it pronto. The local

cops hated his guts. I’d ride this one out myself.

            About a half hour later, we’re all in the nice

warm police cruiser in the parking lot of the 7-11.

In the back seat were three of the teenagers from the

Lincoln (which by the way barely had a scratch on it)

I was sandwiched snugly between the fourth kid,

(they were all clean cut basketball players) and

the attending officer.

            The cop was methodically filling out the accident

report. No charges pending, just poor visibility and

road conditions. The radio squawked peacefully.

The acid was kicking in. The dashboard lights were

stunning. It was all kind of cozy. Everybody was

calm and nobody was saying much. With all the details

and paper work completed the officer inquired where

everyone wanted to go. Big mistake. I opened my

mouth and suggested, “how about McDonald’s?”

The cop turned to look at me. Our faces inches apart

and he narrowed his eyes.

            I got dropped off in the next town at the local

bar. Now I was high. Depressed. After all the truck was

trashed. Just then Monk strolls in the door with

a butterfly bandage over his eyebrow, grinning at

me. At this point in his life my friend was a strange

guy. He had been in a number of accidents. All kinds.

He sort of collected them. Anyway he starts saying the

night is young, its stopped snowing, the moon is out,

we’ve got plenty of time to make those women at that

bar. I looked at him and asked how we were suppose to

get anywhere? He shrugs, orders a beer and I’m actually

listening to him trying to convince the bartender to

loan him her car. I’m looking at him with my mouth open

and he turns to regard my expression of incredibility and

says….”what ??…don’t worry…………..I’ll drive.”

                                                                                             Attitude House  5/99

Breaking in the New Bartender at Halloween.

                                                                                                (for K)

Yeah I’ll have one of those.

Yeah, I always have one of those.

No. You don’t have to ask,

“If I want another”

I always want another.

Yeah I know I drink

the first three pretty fast.

Yeah I teach for a living.

Yeah I like to sit here in the early evening.

In these soft lights and scribble in this notebook.

What am I writing?

Nothing much.

Just learned over the years that a lot of stuff said in the bar is

better off left unsaid and chances are nobody wants to hear it anyway.

So let’s just say I’m skipping the “middle man” and leave it at that.

Yeah. Times are getting tough again.

What you expect?

This counties “theme park” normalcy to last indefinitely?

Sorry. History doesn’t teach that.

Yeah. Look. OK just skip it.

What are you going to be for Halloween?

Yeah. No fooling. That sounds great.

Who me?

O same thing as last year I suppose.

Guy in the bar with a bottle of beer, little black hat, notebook, etc.

with that haunted look.

I think this year it’s finally back in style.

Enough terror to around this year.

Holiday really matches the spirit of the times.

A mask?

Yeah. A gas mask.

Hockey?

It’s OK I guess

Watch the game?

I don’t care.

Hey look the Devils just scored.

Again.

How about that “no goal” deal?

Hell I don’t know

I wouldn’t know just what

the goal is anymore.

Maybe they moved it.

Penalty killing?

Sure. Most of my life.

Hey look gotta go.

That would be your tip on the bar.

So look.

Next time I’m in

all you got remember

is that I’m a regular

and I’ll be having the usual.

If it helps

Think Halloween.

It’s the big night.

And you’re working the neighborhood

I could be your trick

You could be my treat.

One can only ring my doorbell

and hope for the best.

                                                                                             Attitude House    10/01