Next morning ‘Twoshits’ still had me chuckling.. Roger rode with his dad.. something about their Tuesday church.. I was walking to the school bus stop on Murray Ridge.. I say ‘school’ rather than ‘our’ because every school.. private.. public.. where you go when public ‘can’t handle one’.. ‘Snyder’.. and ‘Midway’ is what compulsory crunch da public assigned those called J Ds in San Diego..
They used a schedule which worked fine for the rail system in Tokyo.. but did nothing to enhance the intellectual cartoon images of those who would.. unpracticed pretense brought results that where standard when done so.. and still are.. unthought out confusion.. from the ‘planners’.. a word not applicable but used nonetheless..
Just that evening after a day of six one hour period classes.. two ten minute recesses.. a half hour for lunch.. with bell time at either end..
I went home.. did the lawn.. some collections for my paper route.. found Roger’s father.. on this day ‘Deacon Bud’ had committed his only son to the evening works of the Lord..
I never caught what it was.. and Roger could never seem to remember..
I finished my homework.. and then some work on my term paper about the inner ear.. then transported myself with an easy ‘back in a while’.. for the folks.. through the door.. to the sidewalk.. cool air.. smells of fireplaces.. and a search for something we all look for.. someone to love..
Veneta and Vienna Van Santen were said to be from New Orleans.. their ‘parents’ were somehow always absent.. traveling.. working.. not there.. there were however a lot of guys three or four years older than my 12 and 13.. they made it cool.. cooling up what was a house of pleasure and debauchery folks.. I did not know what to call it.. I sure knew what to do.. Got to say.. it was new.. in songs.. culture of James Dean kind of things..
scents of Cajun histories.. magics and passion.. patchouli over love stain.. damp musk on silk.. warm dark.. solid.. feeling of something well polished.. set in teak.. exquisitely cut jewels of undeniable beauty and class..
Going home my thoughts were on Pam and Ronica.. Ronica would ‘wear my jacket’.. about a week or two.. then we both discovered I was not aggressive enough for her virgin ass.. (neither of us knew how to say it verbally.. some never do) but as digging house of Van Santen digs.. I knew what to do..
I said hello to Kabooster and let myself in the Kitchen Door.. got ready for bed.. set the clock.. turned on ‘KCBQ’ DJ’d by Art Laboe and listened to expressions of souls in song.. my mind wandered.. over hundreds of beautiful hills.. covered with autumn.. thick with scents and sounds of windy changing seasons..
Snow.. fog.. forest.. Ice.. a road.. I am not cold.. a woman.. she sees.. she sees me.. my mind screamed wait.. wait..