We had our places we would go, where the cops wouldn’t bother us dumb kids. Sometimes, we’d go to Fayette’s house to drink screwdrivers and play cards, sitting at the card table which doubled as a kitchen table. We’d pretend we weren’t drinking and her grandmother would pretend she didn’t know. I always lost at cards, half-drunk, and busy looking at Fayette’s chest. She knew I was looking and would wiggle around a bit, making eyes at me until I lost all my smokes to her, one wiggle at time.
I don’t recall what the story was with Fayette’s mother or father, though, I’m sure there was one, or two. Her grandmother had two other sons, both in their forties with long, greasy hair and bandanas, like misplaced hippies, too damned drunk to get off at the right bus stop in time. Except these hippies carried big knives. And there was no peace.
One lived there, the other would stumble in from time to time to pick a fight. They’d yell, then thrash and roll on the living room floor, breaking things and disturbing the doilies, as Fayette and her grandmother screamed in disgust, until one or the other of the brothers would pull out a knife which looked like a machete. All would become quiet for a moment, then more yelling would ensue as one or both stormed out, rattling the house, door slamming behind them.
Sometimes, we could hear them fighting out in the street, and on the sidewalk, grunting, swearing, and scuffling with the occasional slap of fist on flesh. Real fights don’t actually last very long, but this one did. They had been going at it for over forty years.
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juvenescence: tales of boyhood
Fiction généraleThis is a collection of short stories and prose regarding the evanescence of childhood and the common confusion of the teenage years. I have many parts to add to this, childhood, though fleeting, had its share of tales and lessons.
