June 29th, 1954,
and he was nineteen.

Too young to know loss,
and too old to let himself
stare with wonder at the skyline light show
whenever he could get out of town.

He was hoping his wife would agree
to a Mexican divorce, before one of them
did something drastic and left blood all over the screen door.

He could roll a cigarettes while driving,
and that was enough to make dangerous
to any girl under the age of twenty.

Somebody would ask him what he was up to,
and he would tell them he was starting med school in the fall,
and he would laugh, and then he would change the subject.

Lot of cemeteries, churches and jailhouses
from the town to the city. Old men in weird clothes
on dirt roads who didn’t need a ride.

June 29th, 1954,
and she was fifteen.

Drank champagne like it was water,
because her dad was always bottles home
to try and get her mother to finally get out of bed.

Walked over the seats at the movie theater,
and didn’t give a damn what anybody saw.

Almost never laughed.
Ran away from home every couple of months.

She wanted the time and place to be just a big joke.

December 4th, 1940,
and the big car pulls up to the Hollywood premiere.

She didn’t like the way the shoes
hanging from the power line outside her house
kicked at random, kicked at nothing,
kicked to hang on for a few more seconds.

And she hated confetti.
And she hated what she thought the stars would tell her
if she knew anything about that kind of thing.

They met on a double-date. They went to the town
that survived the endless rainy season by being a carnival
from one end to the other forever.

Ambulances were risking lives all over the place that night.
She remembers that. She recalls thinking he had a nice smile,
but she didn’t care for the way he spoke to his friend
more than he spoke to her.

She tells people even now,
too many years later,
that she didn’t want to go into the Tunnel of Love.

The one that used to be either a factory
that made stuffed polar bears,
or just a big disappointment with a fresh red ribbon
buried somewhere in the back.

She didn’t want him to hold her hand.
She didn’t want to hear those fat kids behind her
giggling and screeching like newborn criminals.

What the hell did the lights have to go out for,
right when they passed the Cupid with a missing nose?

And where the hell did he disappear to
when the lights came back on?

His friend didn’t know what she was talking about.
Her friend had never seen her before in her life.

It was so sudden,
so terrible,
that she went home to pack her things.

The Mexican family almost called the cops,
but they settled for giving her twenty bucks,
and hoping she got help soon.

Those shoes were still hanging from the power line,
and she assumed too many years later,
when her memory filled in the blank spots with cruel chuckles,
that they were probably kicking up a storm.

Long after she left town and went to the Hollywood Café
in Oklahoma City. To find out how things really were.

11/19/2012

Posted on 11/20/2012
Copyright © 2024 Gabriel Ricard