I said. “But it wouldn’t have been nearly so
much fun.”
CHAPTER
SIX
After lunch I kept my appointment at
the East Valley Station and made a formal statement about the morning’s
attempted robbery. I must say things have really speeded up in places like
police stations since the introduction of computer technology; making the
deposition, having it typed up, and signing all three copies only took me the
whole afternoon. Then I fought my way through the rush hour traffic to Tony’s,
picked up Mom, reentered the demolition derby, and drove us back to my place.
She was in a good mood; Feeb came up to say hello and have a gossip and invite
us both downstairs for supper. I pleaded a (nonexistent) former engagement.
Feeb mentioned she was cooking her famous clam rissole, never one of my
favorites.
As Evonne was busy doing something
with one of her girl friends that evening—she’d told me but I’d forgotten what;
I think it had something to do with clay—that left me on my own. After watching
the boob tube for a while, I donned a clean Hawaiian shirt, made a
man-from-Mars face at myself in the mirror, brushed my hair gingerly so as not
to dislodge, let alone uproot, any more of my thinning tresses, and betook
myself out for a stroll and a bite and mayhap a brandy and ginger or two and
certainly a rumination or two. God knows
I had plenty to ruminate about.
After a plate of corned beef ’n’
cabbage and a wedge of cheesecake at an indifferent local deli, I made my way
to one of my favorite spots for ruminating—the rear table at Dave’s Comer Bar,
the one facing the poo! table and next to the pinball machine. I noticed a new
sign on the wall behind the bar: “In God we trust. But if you’re not the head
of MGM, it’s cash on the line.” While I was reaching for my wallet to Pay for
the first drink, I found Prickle Head’s report. I reproduce it here, as it will
tell you far more about her than any Poor words of mine could.
Tues. Sept. 22. 5.45 P.M.
CONFIDENTIAL REPORT No 14.
From Agent S. S. to V. D. (Ha-ha)
My poetic musings interrupted by el
Cheapo on le phone;
Surprised he didn’t call collect.
Later, chez lui, après mucho grumble
& moan.
He revealed to me my latest delect-
Able assignment—roller skating for
measly bucks
From A to B—I said it sucks.
But what’s a girl to do?
This babe needs new shoes too.
Does she ever, I thought. And how
about new everything else?
When Willing Boy gave me the eye
To heat him up I flashed some thigh —
From whence comes this wierd sexual
power over men?
V. D. leant me his $5.00 Timex, and
then
Off we all went on our A to B chore
That could have been done by a
simpleton, more
Or less. Mostly less. Then—hang on to
your wig,
We trekked from A to B again—can you
dig?
Is this any life for a spirit like
mine,
Is this the fodder on which my
thirsty soul must dine?
Didst Katherine Mansfield skate
through the grime...
There was more, but enough’s enough,
especially after corned beef ’n’ cabbage. “From whence comes this wierd sexual
power over men.” She had about as much sexual power over men as Ma Kettle. What
a twerp. And in rhyme, suddenly. What happened to the flowing free verse of
yester-j year? I must have a serious talk with her someday, like in the next century,
about the passé-ness and déjè vu-ness of rhyming couplets that weren’t even
couplets.
But pondering on Sara’s lamentable
limitations as a poetess was not what I was ensconced in Dave’s Comer Bar for.
I was there to ponder over such trifles as how to spring Billy from an unknown
Mexican can, what to do with him (and the rest of us) afterward, what to do
with Mom while I was away, and what to say to the Silvettis, Sara’s parents.
Somewhere between the third and the
fourth brandy and ginger ale, I began to get a useful idea or two. Carla,
Dave’s latest bar girl, a stacked redhead if ever I’ve seen one (and I have
seen one,
much fun.”
CHAPTER
SIX
After lunch I kept my appointment at
the East Valley Station and made a formal statement about the morning’s
attempted robbery. I must say things have really speeded up in places like
police stations since the introduction of computer technology; making the
deposition, having it typed up, and signing all three copies only took me the
whole afternoon. Then I fought my way through the rush hour traffic to Tony’s,
picked up Mom, reentered the demolition derby, and drove us back to my place.
She was in a good mood; Feeb came up to say hello and have a gossip and invite
us both downstairs for supper. I pleaded a (nonexistent) former engagement.
Feeb mentioned she was cooking her famous clam rissole, never one of my
favorites.
As Evonne was busy doing something
with one of her girl friends that evening—she’d told me but I’d forgotten what;
I think it had something to do with clay—that left me on my own. After watching
the boob tube for a while, I donned a clean Hawaiian shirt, made a
man-from-Mars face at myself in the mirror, brushed my hair gingerly so as not
to dislodge, let alone uproot, any more of my thinning tresses, and betook
myself out for a stroll and a bite and mayhap a brandy and ginger or two and
certainly a rumination or two. God knows
I had plenty to ruminate about.
After a plate of corned beef ’n’
cabbage and a wedge of cheesecake at an indifferent local deli, I made my way
to one of my favorite spots for ruminating—the rear table at Dave’s Comer Bar,
the one facing the poo! table and next to the pinball machine. I noticed a new
sign on the wall behind the bar: “In God we trust. But if you’re not the head
of MGM, it’s cash on the line.” While I was reaching for my wallet to Pay for
the first drink, I found Prickle Head’s report. I reproduce it here, as it will
tell you far more about her than any Poor words of mine could.
Tues. Sept. 22. 5.45 P.M.
CONFIDENTIAL REPORT No 14.
From Agent S. S. to V. D. (Ha-ha)
My poetic musings interrupted by el
Cheapo on le phone;
Surprised he didn’t call collect.
Later, chez lui, après mucho grumble
& moan.
He revealed to me my latest delect-
Able assignment—roller skating for
measly bucks
From A to B—I said it sucks.
But what’s a girl to do?
This babe needs new shoes too.
Does she ever, I thought. And how
about new everything else?
When Willing Boy gave me the eye
To heat him up I flashed some thigh —
From whence comes this wierd sexual
power over men?
V. D. leant me his $5.00 Timex, and
then
Off we all went on our A to B chore
That could have been done by a
simpleton, more
Or less. Mostly less. Then—hang on to
your wig,
We trekked from A to B again—can you
dig?
Is this any life for a spirit like
mine,
Is this the fodder on which my
thirsty soul must dine?
Didst Katherine Mansfield skate
through the grime...
There was more, but enough’s enough,
especially after corned beef ’n’ cabbage. “From whence comes this wierd sexual
power over men.” She had about as much sexual power over men as Ma Kettle. What
a twerp. And in rhyme, suddenly. What happened to the flowing free verse of
yester-j year? I must have a serious talk with her someday, like in the next century,
about the passé-ness and déjè vu-ness of rhyming couplets that weren’t even
couplets.
But pondering on Sara’s lamentable
limitations as a poetess was not what I was ensconced in Dave’s Comer Bar for.
I was there to ponder over such trifles as how to spring Billy from an unknown
Mexican can, what to do with him (and the rest of us) afterward, what to do
with Mom while I was away, and what to say to the Silvettis, Sara’s parents.
Somewhere between the third and the
fourth brandy and ginger ale, I began to get a useful idea or two. Carla,
Dave’s latest bar girl, a stacked redhead if ever I’ve seen one (and I have
seen one,
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