•Maxi's POV - Flashback•
When I arrived home, still trippin', mind you, my father was heading out for the night as he did on most nights. Without exchanging many words, he gave me a swift kiss on the cheek, and he was out the door. I peered through the sun-faded curtains and watched as he made his way down the road.
When I knew there was no chance of him turning back, I made my way into the den and over to his liquor cabinet. I knew it was locked, he never failed to keep it that way, and I had preemptively fished it's small brass key from his jacket pocket, which was hanging on the kitchen wall among the others while he wasn't looking.
I unlocked the cabinet and swung open both doors, revealing the most beautiful array of intoxicating liquids I had yet to lay eyes upon. Small round bottles and tall squared ones, beautiful ornate decanters and expensive bottles of foreign wines. I barely recognized any of them but among the ones I could identify were spiced rums and Russian Vodkas, the typical stuff the gang and I could afford to drink.
Although we found ourselves on the rather poorer end of the spectrum, my Father had a vicious habit of buying expensive alcohol. It was like it wasn't bad enough that he was an alcoholic, but he had to be an alcoholic with fine taste.
The thought of my Dad wasting our money away made the bile boil in the pit of my stomach. In spite of this thought, and in spite of him, I grabbed one of the expensive bottles of French wine, Leoville Barton, a rich red Bordeaux and quickly pried the cork out. I placed the bottle to my lips, titled my head back and drank wholeheartedly, a few crimson drops trickling down my chin.
After assuring that everything but the bottle I had stolen was in place, I locked up the cabinet and returned the key to it's rightful spot. My Father isn't an idiot. He will eventually realize that a $150 bottle of wine has gone. I just wasn't bothered to care.
Bottle in hand, I call up Sid and Rotten and invited them over to regale in the pleasure of this gorgeous wine.
It wasn't long before I heard,
"MAXIGAN!"
From the den's picture window I can see Sid standing in the piss pouring rain, shivering yet grinning wildly. I quickly unlocked the door and handed him a clean towel. The young Brit continued to shiver as he patted himself dry and finally towelling his hair dry. He looked so cute, to be honest, with his hair even more spiked up than usual, sticking out every which way. Soaked to the bone like a small, pitiful animal.
"Oi! Lemme in!" Once again someone was at the door. I gave Sid a look and he shrugged. I opened the door and it was Rotten.
YOU ARE READING
Punks Not Dead
أدب الهواة1971. Maxigan Richardson was only 13 when she met John Simon Ritchie in Hackney. Realizing they lived a mere two blocks away from each other, they became friends in no time. John and his friend, John Lydon, both eventually yearn to be by her side. L...
