I'd say I'm sorry to his family and the tribal police, but I don't think it's right that his life counts more than Margo Styles's. When you become a policeman, you understand that the job has some risks and you choose to accept that — like the guy in Desperation. Margo Styles didn't have that kind of choice.
I'd say I'm sorry, but what good does that do anybody?
20
To Lamont, I'd like to say I loved you then and I love you still. I don't know why you did what you did, but I forgive you. Jesus forgives you. You will always be the man I love.
I have more but it's private. I'll tell him when I see him.
I'd ask him why. That would be his book.
21
How do you tell exactly when you fall in love?
There wasn't any dating like real dating. We were too old for that. We didn't have to play games.
At first we mostly drove around. Cruised the A&W, the Del Rancho, the Lot-A-Burger. We'd buy a cherry limeade and cruise Kickapoo till we got hungry. Listen to tapes.
Lamont's dash was all correct, all the way down to the factory 8-track. We'd go to the Salvation Army or the flea market out at the Sky-Vue and pick up whole boxes of them for nothing, all the classic stuff— Iggy and the Stooges, Blue Cheer, Black Sabbath. When the weather was nice, Lamont would pop the top and turn it up so loud the bass kicked you in the shins. He liked Cream and Jimi Hendrix when we made out. "Little Wing" was our song, the Derek and the Dominos version. Sometimes Lamont would sing along with it, like it was about us. I saw Sting do a cover of it the other day on MTV; it was pretty wimpy.
We'd do stupid things like go bowling or hang out on the seesaw by the Krispy King. We even went fishing once. But mostly we'd cruise.
That 442 was a car. Lamont bought it at the Auto Auction south of town for a thousand dollars and did a full body-off restoration. He loved to talk about what he'd done to that car. He replaced the 400 with a bored-out 455 and swapped the factory tranny for a Muncie rock crusher with a Hurst shifter. He wrote away to Oldsmobile for the original color scheme, he dug through wrecking yards for new seats, he rechromed the bumpers. When he'd see another Cutlass, he'd ask me what year it was, what on it wasn't correct. He liked it that I knew. He was like my dad at that.
The first time Lamont let me drive it I got a ticket. I bet you've got a copy of it. If you don't, you can look it up; it was the Saturday before Thanksgiving, 1984. It was late. We were driving back from Amarillo on I-40. We'd gone to the West Texas Rod and Classic Roundup to look for an exhaust manifold, and his eyes were tired. We'd both done a few black beauties, but he was starting to see things —trails floating like neon over the road. I told him to pull into the next rest area. I could tell he didn't want to, because he knew we'd have a fight.
He hadn't let me drive it yet. It was his baby. Every Sunday he'd wash it by hand, dunking a sponge, then wax it till he could see himself smile in the reflection. Anyone would resent it after a while, but I didn't. He was a kid like that; it was the one thing he owned that made him happy. So I was ready to say it was all right, that we could park in a far spot and try to close our eyes for a little bit.
He pulled in by the dog-walking area but didn't turn the car off.
"Why don't you take over," he said.
He didn't tell me not to do anything, he just got out. We crossed in front of the hood, kissed and got back in.
I was used to a stick from Garlyn's Tercel but I needed to do everything perfect. Lamont put his mirrored shades on and slumped down in the seat. I turned the stereo off so I could hear, jammed the clutch in and searched for reverse. I thought I'd stall, so I fed it some gas and we jerked back.
"Easy there," Lamont said, like Dennis Weaver in "McCloud." It was one of his things.
I rolled through the semis and turned down the long on-ramp. There was almost no first gear, just a few seconds' worth. We
I'd say I'm sorry, but what good does that do anybody?
20
To Lamont, I'd like to say I loved you then and I love you still. I don't know why you did what you did, but I forgive you. Jesus forgives you. You will always be the man I love.
I have more but it's private. I'll tell him when I see him.
I'd ask him why. That would be his book.
21
How do you tell exactly when you fall in love?
There wasn't any dating like real dating. We were too old for that. We didn't have to play games.
At first we mostly drove around. Cruised the A&W, the Del Rancho, the Lot-A-Burger. We'd buy a cherry limeade and cruise Kickapoo till we got hungry. Listen to tapes.
Lamont's dash was all correct, all the way down to the factory 8-track. We'd go to the Salvation Army or the flea market out at the Sky-Vue and pick up whole boxes of them for nothing, all the classic stuff— Iggy and the Stooges, Blue Cheer, Black Sabbath. When the weather was nice, Lamont would pop the top and turn it up so loud the bass kicked you in the shins. He liked Cream and Jimi Hendrix when we made out. "Little Wing" was our song, the Derek and the Dominos version. Sometimes Lamont would sing along with it, like it was about us. I saw Sting do a cover of it the other day on MTV; it was pretty wimpy.
We'd do stupid things like go bowling or hang out on the seesaw by the Krispy King. We even went fishing once. But mostly we'd cruise.
That 442 was a car. Lamont bought it at the Auto Auction south of town for a thousand dollars and did a full body-off restoration. He loved to talk about what he'd done to that car. He replaced the 400 with a bored-out 455 and swapped the factory tranny for a Muncie rock crusher with a Hurst shifter. He wrote away to Oldsmobile for the original color scheme, he dug through wrecking yards for new seats, he rechromed the bumpers. When he'd see another Cutlass, he'd ask me what year it was, what on it wasn't correct. He liked it that I knew. He was like my dad at that.
The first time Lamont let me drive it I got a ticket. I bet you've got a copy of it. If you don't, you can look it up; it was the Saturday before Thanksgiving, 1984. It was late. We were driving back from Amarillo on I-40. We'd gone to the West Texas Rod and Classic Roundup to look for an exhaust manifold, and his eyes were tired. We'd both done a few black beauties, but he was starting to see things —trails floating like neon over the road. I told him to pull into the next rest area. I could tell he didn't want to, because he knew we'd have a fight.
He hadn't let me drive it yet. It was his baby. Every Sunday he'd wash it by hand, dunking a sponge, then wax it till he could see himself smile in the reflection. Anyone would resent it after a while, but I didn't. He was a kid like that; it was the one thing he owned that made him happy. So I was ready to say it was all right, that we could park in a far spot and try to close our eyes for a little bit.
He pulled in by the dog-walking area but didn't turn the car off.
"Why don't you take over," he said.
He didn't tell me not to do anything, he just got out. We crossed in front of the hood, kissed and got back in.
I was used to a stick from Garlyn's Tercel but I needed to do everything perfect. Lamont put his mirrored shades on and slumped down in the seat. I turned the stereo off so I could hear, jammed the clutch in and searched for reverse. I thought I'd stall, so I fed it some gas and we jerked back.
"Easy there," Lamont said, like Dennis Weaver in "McCloud." It was one of his things.
I rolled through the semis and turned down the long on-ramp. There was almost no first gear, just a few seconds' worth. We
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