Remember that night, when you said “Kick! Punch! Run!” Jeremy? That
cold, blustery November night, when the rain blew into your eyes no
matter which direction you faced, your clothes clung to you forlornly
like the Flying Dutchman’s sails, and pools of fine bubbles effervesced
out of your Chucks with each footstep? I wish I’d have been there when
it happened, just as I bet you’d love to have watched me and my BMX
slip off the deck of the yacht Chris and I stole and I was almost drug
to the bottom of the lake by the weight of the malt liquor in my
stomach. What possesses a person to act like such a fool during the
most unforgiving part of the day? I don’t know, any more than you do.
Do psychologists or philosophers? Or, how about those delinquent kids
we just saw gleefully scurrying off to the Lone Fir Cemetery, carrying
racks of beer stolen from their neighbors’ open garages? I suspect the
owls know, but they must guard that secret as carefully as Lucifer does
the secret to everlasting youth and unbounded joy, safely ensconced
within a vault guarded by a third of the legions of hell. Did you ever
wonder, too, how a pair of headlights sweeping over a hill through the
blackness of a starless night, falling on your retinas like phosphorous
grenades, not only renders you sightless in a Bizarro universe analog
of blindness but also causes you to lose your footing?
prev chapter
Read Request
Subscribe
Review
My Library
