|Omelet on a mission|
"Hurry up," I said, "'cuz I have to practice penmanship, and I have a test in social science tomorrow. Don't forget my books!"
|Lou Reed, king of not uptight|
Fists clenched, scowling, scared and furious -- I hunched like I did in Bombardment before the coach blows the whistle in P.E. and people let loose with those red rubber balls that whine through the air and sting your whole body. I had to tell the truth. I didn't care what happened. I didn't even care if I got to eat. I was over it all. Dammit.
"Why you little bitch."
We didn't live in that house long. Since my mother had a habit of picking up hit animals from the side of the road (we wrapped them in a dirty white sheet we kept in the truck tucked in with the many beer bottles rattling behind the bench seat) so we could either take them to the ASPCA or home to nurse (although sometimes it was my mother herself who hit and ran over animals, meaning pets, including my cat Daedalus, but that is another story) -- somehow we ended up with a goose and a possum in the basement of this house -- at the same time. What a noise. What a stink. It was the seventies, baby. Loose and free and psychedelic, geese in the basement, Sly and the Family Stone and Deep Purple on the record player, chianti in a basket, Bonne Bell bubblegum lip gloss, the birth of "check it out," streaking. I remember one time my friend Wanda and I tore off our clothes in the upstairs bedroom, drenched ourselves in Love's Baby Soft cologne mist and streaked through the house, right through the party my mother was throwing with Wanda's mother and some other friends, and how everyone laughed, and how beautiful all the rumpus was, and how delicious it felt to run naked through that house which felt like ours for the first time that night.