November 15, 2012 § Leave a comment
Poppin’ Wheelies In The Middle Of The Night
I turned sixteen and lived with my grandparents in a trailer. My mother sent me on a bus out West where they lived after I hit my father back and won our last fight. In the Chicago bus station some crumb bum stole my suitcase, and in St. Paul a muscle-bound creep with a balding hairline told me I looked tired, that he had a place to sleep. I wasn’t stupid sixteen.
I settled in at the back of the trailer, ate popcorn, read Siddhartha, talked when I dreamed. The next morning I registered at the huge high school that resembled a prison. I had never seen a prison. Classes easier than at home, I made friends with Randy, the son of a colonel, and hung out at their house. I liked his older brother Earl more than him, but not as much as his mother. The four of us went to the drive-in one night and the woman and I discussed philosophy and football, meerkats and muffins— you name it. The two brothers left irritated at us. Nothing came of the mother and me.
Instead, in the middle of the night Earl and I began to ride bicycles in the small city. We coasted down hills and popped wheelies, peeked into store windows, pilfered cigarettes and portable radios from unlocked trucks. When thirst overcame us we raided upright drink machines, opened oranges and root beers with pliers and sipped sweet liquid with borrowed straws. We laughed our asses off until dawn, when I rode back to the trailer and slipped into bed before my grandparents woke up.
David Spicer is the author of one collection of poems, Everybody Has a Story (St. Luke’s Press) and four chapbooks. His poems have appeared in The American Poetry Review, Ploughshares, Alcatraz, Thunder Sandwich, Mad Rush, Hinchas de Poesia, Crack the Spine, New Verse News, Fur-Lined Ghettos, and elsewhere.
Image: Bokeh, By Leigh-Anne Fraser