Cut into my lunch money to pick up a cherry coke at the drugstore before the first bell and Sally Oaks perched on that stool, Old Weiner behind the counter trying not to look down her pink spaghetti-strap dress and inside her the galactic ovary-whirl of square-jawed men riding up on foggy-breath horses to take her outta this place with all the pimply, leg-humping crackers and me wanting her in the front seat of the candy-apple-red forty-nine Ford with spinners and glass packs and a necker nob so when I cruise through Johnnie’s, Sally sitting close, my right arm around her shoulders, hand just grazing her breast, the car-hops filly stepping high with burgers and fries balanced on their pink palms, the jock-thugs are all homicidal with envy. Never got the Ford or Sally. Black T-shirt and unfiltered Luckies rolled up the sleeve, flat top with pomaded long sides swept back into a ducktail. Hard-on 24/7. I’d be a lover not a fighter but I’d have to fight. That got me to the jungle but that’s another scene.

Bio: Doug Anderson