Tuesday, May 7, 2013


Today's muse:

I grew up in a small town. Though it now has a liquor store (maybe more than one), it was a dry town then. And we did have a contact who'd hook us up if we needed a two-four for a party. I'm pretty sure he was harmless. Then again, I did move away quite some time ago...

* * *


It’s a dry town; the closest liquor store is a twenty-minute drive. Not at all conducive to spontaneous field parties. But if you know Mr. Fischer, and you slip him a carton of Belvedere, he’ll set you up with a two-four of Canadian. Even trade.

“Just don’t tell your dad,” he says every time, as he steals a glance over his shoulder, as though he expects to see someone’s father standing right behind him. “If he finds out, he’ll kill me.”

The way Mr. Fischer talks, you’d think our tiny hamlet is populated with serial killers. Everyone is out to kill him.

“We won’t say a word, Mr. Fischer.” It’s the same promise from every one of us. After all, who are we going to tell? Old Man Fischer is our local LCBO.

He hooked me up with a bottle of white wine last month when I turned seventeen. It got me to second base with Angela Watson; probably would have made home plate if her dad hadn’t caught us.

I took her out to Miller’s Pond that night; took the paved road that runs east off the two-lane highway. It veers north and eventually becomes a dirt road. Just before you get to the pond, well before the road ends, there’s a narrow lane that disappears behind a thick stand of trees. I drove my Impala back there, barely had it in park before Angela crawled across the bench seat and straddled my lap.

Soft curves filled my hands, hard lips devoured mine. She rocked against me as the music screamed out of the speakers and our heat fogged the windows.

If I’d been thinking, if every drop of blood in my brain wasn’t then residing in my cock, I might have heard the car, might have noticed the headlights.

My door opened and Mr. Watson’s beefy hand grabbed Angela’s arm and yanked her out. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the rage in his eyes, how he threatened me, threatened Angela, hell, he even threatened Old Man Fischer when he found out he was the one who’d supplied us with the booze.

Hey, come to think of it, I haven’t seen Mr. Fischer in a few days.


glnroz said...

very good,,point of view changing is good practice..not sure I could do that..

Monica Manning said...

Thanks, glnroz! I like writing from the guy's POV. Freud would probably have a field day with that...something about penal envy, I'm sure.