MY DAD'S pale GREEN OLD'S

Dorothy’s Whatnots

(Dec 27/05)
She had lariat hair plaited into neat cornrows and tied back with bolos and Dorothy tassels she’d bid at an auction devoted to the Wizard of Oz antiquities and whatnots. Her eyes were bluestone blue, almost opal, yet too blue for turquoise, sea green, cerulean or Prussian blue. She yammered and wailed when we fucked, and chewed on her bottom lip like it was a switch of licorice or the reddest red jujube. She had shaky-leg and a faint tremor in her hips, that pushed off kilter and a smidgen to the left. And caused her no end of trouble in hooking her garter or scrolling down a silk stocking without catching a nail or the thread of a finger on a rent or cranny.

You got a car? Don’t drive. But you know how, don’t you? A little I suppose, a smidgen maybe. You ever driven a car, I mean without a permit? Once, maybe twice, when I was a teenager, you know, jean jacket and matching pants. Your dad’s car, I bet? A pale green Old's, with a half-roof made of that fake leatherette, the stuff that’s always curling and pealing off in strips. Me too, I mean my dad, he had one of those, a blue one, I think, maybe pale blue, I’m not sure which. I suppose you drove it, before you were old enough, had a permit to? The blue one, not the grayish one, that was my mom’s car, she used it for errands and luncheons and shit like that. You ever drive it to Fairview, steal it and drive round the parking lot? I suppose I did, but then again, maybe not, maybe I didn’t but think I did. And you, Fairview, the Pascal’s parking lot or behind Steinberg’s? No, but I shot at rats behind the Dominion with my friend’s BB gun, pellet, maybe. It was a long time ago. Yeah, my dad’s had at least five new secondhand cars since then, maybe six.

And you mom? She’s dead, or at least that’s what my dad says, what he tells people that ask about her. Oh, too bad. No, she’s not really dead that’s just a way for my dad to think it wasn’t his fault. For what, what fault? She started fucking the guy who owns the Cantors. That shit? Yeah, in the car my dad bought her for errands and going out for lunch with her girlfriends. Fucking mean thing to do, I mean, fucking the Cantor’s guy behind your dad’s back. We shop at Steinberg’s now, the one behind the Miracle Mart and the Esso station. Oh, that one, yeah, I used to fuck some fat girl with braces who lived in the townhouses behind the Mike’s Submarine. Fucking tasty steak and green pepper sub, if I remember, and cheap as shit. Wendy’s fucked that.

Don’t forget that root beer place, what was it? Hire’s? No, the one with the fucking bear, remember, the papa burger and the mama fucking burger. Too bad about you mom? Fuck her, she’s probably off somewhere in Dollard or fucking Roxborough with that cunt baker shit for brains. Never did like fucking bagels, too fucking chewy. Poppy seeds, yeah those little fuckers would get caught in between your teeth, sometimes in your friggin gums. Smoke meat, though, that I like. That chunky cut stuff, from Swartz’s, wasn’t it? Yeah, that one, and sometimes at Ben’s, the one near the old Forum. I thought that was a Cantor’s. Nah, it was a Ben’s, I’m sure of it. Oh yeah, the one with those fucking Mic Mac plates, the plastic ones. I think they were Mill Mack, or something close to that. Always had those fucking knife scratches on ‘em, must have been a hundred fucking years old. Maybe more.

So, you want to steal your old man’s car and go for a joyride or something? Yeah, that’d be cool. Why the fuck not? Maybe we could fuck our brains out in the backseat in the Fairview parking lot. Maybe the Miracle Mart, that’s if it’s still there of course. Sounds cool. Fucking a it does. Let’s go. Maybe we could stop off for a steak and green pepper, after we fuck our brains silly, of course. Yeah, you mom sure is a cunt. Fucking a she is. That’s for fucking sure.