Who am I? What are we? Where do the edges bleed into each other?
I find myself bewildered, pondering the truth of our identities restlessly every time the issue comes up. “That’s just the way I am.” An all-too-common scapegoat.
To say that we each have a unique identity is, so it would seem, an inadvertent subscription to the very unpractical concept of the human soul - that supposedly “unmappable” section of the human brain wherein lies the unexplainable things about us. I have always grappled with the concept of the unique identity. It seems to me that what we see as such is nothing more than a conglomerate of various preferences and patterns of behavior. Each of these things, when taken individually, has a perfectly explicable history or cause. So, where am “I”? Any time I try to locate it, it disappears - dissolves. It’s like trying to pluck a tiny speck of dirt out of a glass of milk with my fingers. Or like digging through sand to find that particular grain that makes them all a beach.
As I’ve grown into what might be considered the standard-issue college student, I’ve come to feel that it is impossible to qualify exactly what my role is here or what I’m studying. I call myself an English major. I no longer have a solid concept of what that entails. I’ve fallen into some strange new limbo, where studying “English” really means studying “Everything.” And the more I learn about Everything, it seems, the less I know about it and the less I understand myself. It feels fraudulent to even use the term. “Myself” is not someone who exists, who deserves isolating, who is able to stand on her own. I don’t know who I am when I’m alone, anymore.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Dear Jordan,
I don’t recall much from my short time in the brownstone house at 1666 Harrison Avenue, but I remember vividly the day we reunited. My mother had mentioned something about an old friend from Eastside Preschool coming to play, and I knew you had been my best friend, but that had been three years past and all the way across Salt Lake City. The only memory I had of you was the time Max Wolcott had insisted his birthday was August 42nd and we were the only two smart enough to know the difference.
We were six years old that day, but already I carried with me a lifetime of hurt. It had been half of my life since I’d seen you. Your daddy was gone, too, you said. I hadn’t known that. I tossed one of my Reese’s Peanut Butter cups in your lap and in turn got a dimpled smile that would stay with me forever.
Things I feel like I should apologize for (but know that it’s not really necessary):
1. Switching our chocolate milk cartons every day at lunch and drinking all of your before you had time to notice.
2. Going to my dad’s house for the weekend instead of accepting your sleepover invitation.
3. Telling my mom on the way to your funeral that I hoped I could have some of your books.
Sometimes, I wonder what six-year-old you would think if she met nineteen-year-old me. Then I stop, because the thoughts are never good. I hate that I have your preserved as innocent, I hate that I got older than you, grew out of you. I wanted to grow up with you. I comfort myself with the thought that we may have not even stayed friends. Sometimes, I like to pretend that that’s what happened: that we just grew apart and that you’re off somewhere unknown, becoming an adult just like I am.
We were six years old that day, but already I carried with me a lifetime of hurt. It had been half of my life since I’d seen you. Your daddy was gone, too, you said. I hadn’t known that. I tossed one of my Reese’s Peanut Butter cups in your lap and in turn got a dimpled smile that would stay with me forever.
Things I feel like I should apologize for (but know that it’s not really necessary):
1. Switching our chocolate milk cartons every day at lunch and drinking all of your before you had time to notice.
2. Going to my dad’s house for the weekend instead of accepting your sleepover invitation.
3. Telling my mom on the way to your funeral that I hoped I could have some of your books.
Sometimes, I wonder what six-year-old you would think if she met nineteen-year-old me. Then I stop, because the thoughts are never good. I hate that I have your preserved as innocent, I hate that I got older than you, grew out of you. I wanted to grow up with you. I comfort myself with the thought that we may have not even stayed friends. Sometimes, I like to pretend that that’s what happened: that we just grew apart and that you’re off somewhere unknown, becoming an adult just like I am.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Café L'Amour
It was my father who first taught me the importance of mozzarella cheese. “Chow is continuous,” he’d say, fishing out the small, egg-shaped pieces from the water they swam in. It was a saying he’d picked up from his years in the military, and one of the only remnants of it I could see in him in our day-to-day. He would hand them to me, letting them slide from his palm into mine, and motion to the bamboo cutting board stationed on the granite countertop by the sink. Being the youngest in the house (aside from my 3-year-old brother, who wasn’t fit to operate kitchen utensils), it was my job to perform the thankless task of slicing the cheese for each meal. Mozzarella was difficult. It had a habit of slipping out from beneath the knife, and sometimes my slices would end up grossly misshapen - odd, oblong discs too fat on one side and barely substantive on the other. Still though, I much preferred it to the unbearable job of grating cheddar, mostly because of that moment at the end of the block when I’d have to start being extra careful or I’d slice pieces of my knuckles into the great orange heap.
At that time we lived in a house my father had designed himself, with bamboo flooring and a main level that was only one sprawling room and high ceilings that my father called “Valhalla.” The house was built on a slope, so the deck on the main level actually sat a story above the golf course our backyard ran into. During the twilights of summer, with the mist of the golf course sprinklers drifting up, my stepmother and my uncle would sit outside and play backgammon with a bottle of merlot while my father and I cooked, singing along heartily to Frank Sinatra and Tony Bennett. My father has always been into that sort of thing. He called it Café L’Amour, and on evenings when I’d rumble down the stairs and head for the front door he’d call, “Hold on, darling - Café L’Amour is open tonight.” I didn’t have to stay, but I did. I was 14 and supposed to be hating my life, and in the typical ways I did, but there was never a time I felt happier and more fulfilled than when I could hear the sizzle of meat on the stove behind me as I worked my hands sore slicing apart ball after ball of mozzarella.
We had to move away from that house for a while, and when we came back we couldn’t afford it anymore. Café L’Amour is not closed, though. It comes back to me quite often, actually, even at the most fleeting note of big band - but mostly in my undying passion for mozzarella.
At that time we lived in a house my father had designed himself, with bamboo flooring and a main level that was only one sprawling room and high ceilings that my father called “Valhalla.” The house was built on a slope, so the deck on the main level actually sat a story above the golf course our backyard ran into. During the twilights of summer, with the mist of the golf course sprinklers drifting up, my stepmother and my uncle would sit outside and play backgammon with a bottle of merlot while my father and I cooked, singing along heartily to Frank Sinatra and Tony Bennett. My father has always been into that sort of thing. He called it Café L’Amour, and on evenings when I’d rumble down the stairs and head for the front door he’d call, “Hold on, darling - Café L’Amour is open tonight.” I didn’t have to stay, but I did. I was 14 and supposed to be hating my life, and in the typical ways I did, but there was never a time I felt happier and more fulfilled than when I could hear the sizzle of meat on the stove behind me as I worked my hands sore slicing apart ball after ball of mozzarella.
We had to move away from that house for a while, and when we came back we couldn’t afford it anymore. Café L’Amour is not closed, though. It comes back to me quite often, actually, even at the most fleeting note of big band - but mostly in my undying passion for mozzarella.
Friday, October 15, 2010
The Silent Year (The Lost Year)
I can’t remember anymore exactly what it felt like to be silent. I remember the frustration, of course, the restlessness and the tears, but the feeling of opening my mouth and trying to push out noise that never came is lost to me now. I remember the look on Liz Lawrence’s face as she shuffled up to me on my first day back at school after the accident, but only because her face has changed so little in these last three years. I remember consoling myself with Bright Eyes lyrics, a bad habit of mine since I became a teenager. “It’s the ones with the sorest throats who have done the most singing.” I tried to think like that, tried to convince myself that surely this accident was a gift, to show me just how much my voice had mattered. Or something. Perhaps my voice had been taken away by the devil. I remember going to church and being told that. I remember feeling invisible, like an infant, inconsequential, as all of my important thoughts dissolved as soon as I attempted to present them in the din of the crowd around me, never to be heard by anyone except my myself in the back of my throat. Living in a new city was difficult enough without being mute. So was everything. Starting my junior year of high school, falling in love with a girl for the first time, struggling with my faith. Despite all the vivd pictures I have from that time, though, the most important memory has been lost to me. I can’t remember anymore exactly what it felt like to be silent. All I have left is the slight strain I feel when I raise my voice, that tug deep within my throat, and the odd shortness of breath when I try to say too much at one time. It makes me fear I’m taking my voice for granted again. Did it mean anything? Have I learned my lesson? What will it take for me to finally appreciate what I have before I lose it?
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
October
“In my heart, October is yours.”
The next thing Jessica says to me is, “But don’t tell anyone that.”
I respond to this with an illustrated letter that is three pages long and an assortment of small gifts that she says she received but on which she never made any further comment.
I know why this is, just as I know why I have to keep my October a secret and why I wasn’t allowed to go see her in San Francisco last August. (Secretly, I had hoped to claim that month as my own as well.) The Why is called Savannah, and the Why’s face makes expressions that are far more painfully beautiful than my awkward lips and small eyes could ever manage. All the other months belong to her, especially that August now. I think she knew I was going to try and take it. Sometimes, I look at pictures of them together, but I really shouldn’t, because I always end up sitting and staring at my hands folded in my lap, feeling small and forgetting what to do with my body.
It’s getting better, though.
In my heart, October was hers, until this one. I’ve given her October away, though I haven’t yet told her that. I don’t feel guilty about it though, because the new owner looks just like her. It’s kind of unsettling at times, actually.
On October 3rd, this new owner and I drank merlot born from the sun and the winds under Christmas lights in the warm fall air. She inspected the label with a wrinkled nose, set it down and proclaimed, “The best wine always come from South America, I swear.”
I slid my tongue over my teeth and tasted the red stain there, and I thought of how the flavor of the wine lingered on her lips when I kissed her. Like I was drinking it from her. I looked at her, so familiar, that same dark hair and those same playful eyes. But different. She spoke with an accent and instead of lowering her gaze to the floor when she spoke to me, she’d bite her lip and smile.
“I think you’re right,” I said. “So far, South American wine is the best.”
The next thing Jessica says to me is, “But don’t tell anyone that.”
I respond to this with an illustrated letter that is three pages long and an assortment of small gifts that she says she received but on which she never made any further comment.
I know why this is, just as I know why I have to keep my October a secret and why I wasn’t allowed to go see her in San Francisco last August. (Secretly, I had hoped to claim that month as my own as well.) The Why is called Savannah, and the Why’s face makes expressions that are far more painfully beautiful than my awkward lips and small eyes could ever manage. All the other months belong to her, especially that August now. I think she knew I was going to try and take it. Sometimes, I look at pictures of them together, but I really shouldn’t, because I always end up sitting and staring at my hands folded in my lap, feeling small and forgetting what to do with my body.
It’s getting better, though.
In my heart, October was hers, until this one. I’ve given her October away, though I haven’t yet told her that. I don’t feel guilty about it though, because the new owner looks just like her. It’s kind of unsettling at times, actually.
On October 3rd, this new owner and I drank merlot born from the sun and the winds under Christmas lights in the warm fall air. She inspected the label with a wrinkled nose, set it down and proclaimed, “The best wine always come from South America, I swear.”
I slid my tongue over my teeth and tasted the red stain there, and I thought of how the flavor of the wine lingered on her lips when I kissed her. Like I was drinking it from her. I looked at her, so familiar, that same dark hair and those same playful eyes. But different. She spoke with an accent and instead of lowering her gaze to the floor when she spoke to me, she’d bite her lip and smile.
“I think you’re right,” I said. “So far, South American wine is the best.”
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
CocoRosie at Republic, 27 September 2010
“Picture this: Your lips on my lips.”
I saw before me two gleaming specters, two circus angels in white lace and red lips, the legendary gypsy sisters known affectionately by their mother and by us as Coco and Rosie.
Anchoring me, keeping me from evaporating with the music was the thin arm of a dark-haired, sweet-faced girl I met but two days before, when she laid her cold palm on my face and told me she was looking for a princess. Two lights dangling from her belt showed our feet stepping lightly towards each other, tentative, but animated.
Rosie’s wail hearkened an apocalypse, broadcasting bizarre prophecies from beneath her waterfall of wavy hair. She danced like a wild child, an acrobat, exposing her palms to us like a priest giving a blessing.
Coco played with childrens toys, waving around an orange keyboard with rainbow keys that emitted fuzzy tones like those of an old radio. She tossed the sounds of windchimes over the throbbing mass before her like a spell. I felt the stems of my girl’s fingers wandering over my arrowhead hips as the tinny sounds of a tiny xylophone popping merrily in our ears.
“I’ll wait for you until the streets become sand.”
My girl and I played handgames in sync with the porcelain figures above us, the hem of Coco’s dress swirling around her ankles, my palms sometimes missing my girl’s and coming into abrupt and welcome contact with the soft gingham of her forearms.
Behind the twirling girls onstage and their zoo of instruments, a screen showed us images so ghastly and gorgeous that we were overwhelmed with the task of just seeing them. A carnival swingset circled in technicolor over living trees; my girl shined her light on my hands so I could roll a cigarette for us. We smoked it fingertips to mouth to mouth, under the blinking human eye of a white horse I was sure was an owl at first.
“And all the while, I clung heavy to your back, my desire harnessed deeply in your spine.”
Exhaustingly strange, unbearable beautiful. The gypsy sisters’ red mouths, swinging wide over their pale faces, came to meet at the same microphone to blend melodies just as our mouths met against each other’s to do the same.
I don’t know how it ended. I don’t know how our terrible angels left us there as we begged for more. I don’t know how I came out of that place that had seemed inescapably eternal. I don’t know how many kisses flew between my lips and my girl’s as we realized our inevitable parting; I don’t know how I came from holding her against me, buried in the heat of hundreds of people, to feeling nothing but the cool outside air on my skin. It was like I’d fallen asleep and woken up back on the streets, trying desperately to retain each small fragment of the breathtaking dream I’d just had.
Somewhere inside me, though, that night is not over. I am still under those blinking blue lights. I am still staring into the vibrating hazel eye of the white horse. My palms and neck still glitter with that golden resin; our mouths are still exchanging the sticky taste of tobacco, our hips still rocking together with the otherworldly notes of the harp.
I saw before me two gleaming specters, two circus angels in white lace and red lips, the legendary gypsy sisters known affectionately by their mother and by us as Coco and Rosie.
Anchoring me, keeping me from evaporating with the music was the thin arm of a dark-haired, sweet-faced girl I met but two days before, when she laid her cold palm on my face and told me she was looking for a princess. Two lights dangling from her belt showed our feet stepping lightly towards each other, tentative, but animated.
Rosie’s wail hearkened an apocalypse, broadcasting bizarre prophecies from beneath her waterfall of wavy hair. She danced like a wild child, an acrobat, exposing her palms to us like a priest giving a blessing.
Coco played with childrens toys, waving around an orange keyboard with rainbow keys that emitted fuzzy tones like those of an old radio. She tossed the sounds of windchimes over the throbbing mass before her like a spell. I felt the stems of my girl’s fingers wandering over my arrowhead hips as the tinny sounds of a tiny xylophone popping merrily in our ears.
“I’ll wait for you until the streets become sand.”
My girl and I played handgames in sync with the porcelain figures above us, the hem of Coco’s dress swirling around her ankles, my palms sometimes missing my girl’s and coming into abrupt and welcome contact with the soft gingham of her forearms.
Behind the twirling girls onstage and their zoo of instruments, a screen showed us images so ghastly and gorgeous that we were overwhelmed with the task of just seeing them. A carnival swingset circled in technicolor over living trees; my girl shined her light on my hands so I could roll a cigarette for us. We smoked it fingertips to mouth to mouth, under the blinking human eye of a white horse I was sure was an owl at first.
“And all the while, I clung heavy to your back, my desire harnessed deeply in your spine.”
Exhaustingly strange, unbearable beautiful. The gypsy sisters’ red mouths, swinging wide over their pale faces, came to meet at the same microphone to blend melodies just as our mouths met against each other’s to do the same.
I don’t know how it ended. I don’t know how our terrible angels left us there as we begged for more. I don’t know how I came out of that place that had seemed inescapably eternal. I don’t know how many kisses flew between my lips and my girl’s as we realized our inevitable parting; I don’t know how I came from holding her against me, buried in the heat of hundreds of people, to feeling nothing but the cool outside air on my skin. It was like I’d fallen asleep and woken up back on the streets, trying desperately to retain each small fragment of the breathtaking dream I’d just had.
Somewhere inside me, though, that night is not over. I am still under those blinking blue lights. I am still staring into the vibrating hazel eye of the white horse. My palms and neck still glitter with that golden resin; our mouths are still exchanging the sticky taste of tobacco, our hips still rocking together with the otherworldly notes of the harp.
Friday, September 24, 2010
The Breeze and the Bike
My father and I have always been close. He, as I am now, studied English in college and we have always shared a great love of literature and of writing. It is my father's well-used copy of e. e. cummings' collected poems that sits on my shelf today, and my favorite brand of pen was first demonstrated to me by him. Though he is almost forty, he bears the appearance of someone in their late twenties. His hair is as black and thick as it has ever been; his eyes as deep blue and smiling. His youthful demeanor is perhaps one of the last remaining pieces of the long-haired, skateboarding child of the sun and sand that he was compelled to abandon upon his induction into the Marine Corps. My father is a firm believer in hard work, discipline, and respect of authority (another lingering military tendency), but he also has a deep appreciation for the finer things: wooden pipes and wool sweaters, romantic poetry, and fine wine. (The best time in his life, he says, were the seven months during which he afforded himself a subscription to The Easton Press' collection of classic books, with which a gilded, leather-bound copy of one of those eternal favorites was mailed directly to our house each month.)
My father's charisma and way with words have lent him a very amiable story-telling ability, and he filled my childhood with stories of his own, particularly the misadventures of himself and his younger brother, whom he affectionately refers to as "The Breeze." He would often take a break from the meal he was preparing and settle at the counter across from where I was watching, swirling a glass of red wine in his hand, smiling fondly as he began,
"Scooter, I remember a time with your uncle Breeze -- we had just moved into this house on the island, this weird green house on Indigo Street - a cull-de-sac, actually. I think I was five at the time, which would have made your uncle Breeze four... anyway, the very first day we moved in, this little girl from the end of the cull-de-sac comes rolling up to our front door with an invitation to her birthday party that weekend. Her mom made her bring it. Her name was Holly, and she wore her hair in the springiest of blond pigtails. The Breeze and I hated girls, but Grammy made us go, and she made them a pumpkin pie, too. It wasn't even close to Thanksgiving, more like the deadliest, hottest part of summer, but you know how Grammy is. Who ever knows what goes on her head? The birthday party was all right. I ate more cake... more cake than I ever had at that age. There was purple frosting all down the front of my collared shirt, I remember. Grammy was furious. But anyway. Everything was totally ace until Holly got her present -- a glittery pink bike with ice blue streamers hanging from the handlebars. It was the nicest bike any of us had ever seen.
"Now your uncle Breeze -- he loved bikes. Loved 'em. And he was totally fascinated by Holly's new bike. And for the rest of the party, he was waddling after her, begging her to let him ride it. And of course, it was a brand new bike and she was excited about it, so she wouldn't let him. He begged and he begged, but she straight up refused. He was so broken up about it. He went home and pouted all day. But I could see the wheels turning in his head. I could tell he was about to do something about it, but hey -- I was staying out of it, you know.
"Anyway, around that same time my old man had gotten The Breeze a play tool set, because he was really into taking things apart and fixing things. It was a pretty legitimate tool belt -- all the right parts were there, and they actually worked, they were just miniature. The Breeze and our old man used to spend hours working on things together in the garage. You could have filmed them and made a touching family movie with it. And right next to the garage, on the side of our new house, there was also this sandbox, stuck right in there between the house and this tall fence that was the neighbor's yard. The Breeze and I used to play out there quite a lot.
"So finally the party's over, and the Breeze is huffing and puffing all the way back to our house, kicking rocks, stomping, the whole deal. He was so pissed about that bike. Our mom pretty much just gave him a light scolding, told him to get over it, and that was about it. I'm sure she didn't really think much of how he pissed he was, because man...the Breeze used to get pretty amped up when we were kids about a lot of stuff.
"The very next day, though, the day after the party, your uncle Breeze rolled on down to Holly's garage, which was totally wide open -- it was the seventies, you know -- and took her bike right out of it. And he took that bike and he took his tool belt and he took the entire bike apart, buried the pieces in the sandbox, and threw the nuts and bolts over the fence into the neighbor's yard.
"Of course, it wasn't long before Holly's mom came to the door, wanting to know if we'd seen the bike. And Pappy came up to me and The Breeze and asked us if we knew anything. I had no idea what Breeze had done, of course, so I denied everything, but so did he. Then Pappy told us to come with him, and we walked around the side of the house, and right there -- right in front of us -- sticking right up out of the sandbox was a glittery pink handlebar with blue streamers hanging down. And Pappy gets this look on his face of just -- I don't even know -- just the purest rage. And he reaches down and yanks it up. But of course, the bike was taken apart so only the handlebars came up. And the Breeze just kept denying and denying that he had done anything, but I mean, I knew it wasn't me! And Pappy just goes, 'Boys, you tell me who did this or you'll both get a spanking you'll never forget.' So immediately I start yelling and pointing at The Breeze, who kept on denying it, but I think eventually he could tell he was about to get whooped by our old man and by me, so he 'fessed up. And Pappy had to buy brand new nuts and bolts for that bike and put it back together for Molly.
"That was the last time your Uncle Breeze ever got to use his toolset."
My father's charisma and way with words have lent him a very amiable story-telling ability, and he filled my childhood with stories of his own, particularly the misadventures of himself and his younger brother, whom he affectionately refers to as "The Breeze." He would often take a break from the meal he was preparing and settle at the counter across from where I was watching, swirling a glass of red wine in his hand, smiling fondly as he began,
"Scooter, I remember a time with your uncle Breeze -- we had just moved into this house on the island, this weird green house on Indigo Street - a cull-de-sac, actually. I think I was five at the time, which would have made your uncle Breeze four... anyway, the very first day we moved in, this little girl from the end of the cull-de-sac comes rolling up to our front door with an invitation to her birthday party that weekend. Her mom made her bring it. Her name was Holly, and she wore her hair in the springiest of blond pigtails. The Breeze and I hated girls, but Grammy made us go, and she made them a pumpkin pie, too. It wasn't even close to Thanksgiving, more like the deadliest, hottest part of summer, but you know how Grammy is. Who ever knows what goes on her head? The birthday party was all right. I ate more cake... more cake than I ever had at that age. There was purple frosting all down the front of my collared shirt, I remember. Grammy was furious. But anyway. Everything was totally ace until Holly got her present -- a glittery pink bike with ice blue streamers hanging from the handlebars. It was the nicest bike any of us had ever seen.
"Now your uncle Breeze -- he loved bikes. Loved 'em. And he was totally fascinated by Holly's new bike. And for the rest of the party, he was waddling after her, begging her to let him ride it. And of course, it was a brand new bike and she was excited about it, so she wouldn't let him. He begged and he begged, but she straight up refused. He was so broken up about it. He went home and pouted all day. But I could see the wheels turning in his head. I could tell he was about to do something about it, but hey -- I was staying out of it, you know.
"Anyway, around that same time my old man had gotten The Breeze a play tool set, because he was really into taking things apart and fixing things. It was a pretty legitimate tool belt -- all the right parts were there, and they actually worked, they were just miniature. The Breeze and our old man used to spend hours working on things together in the garage. You could have filmed them and made a touching family movie with it. And right next to the garage, on the side of our new house, there was also this sandbox, stuck right in there between the house and this tall fence that was the neighbor's yard. The Breeze and I used to play out there quite a lot.
"So finally the party's over, and the Breeze is huffing and puffing all the way back to our house, kicking rocks, stomping, the whole deal. He was so pissed about that bike. Our mom pretty much just gave him a light scolding, told him to get over it, and that was about it. I'm sure she didn't really think much of how he pissed he was, because man...the Breeze used to get pretty amped up when we were kids about a lot of stuff.
"The very next day, though, the day after the party, your uncle Breeze rolled on down to Holly's garage, which was totally wide open -- it was the seventies, you know -- and took her bike right out of it. And he took that bike and he took his tool belt and he took the entire bike apart, buried the pieces in the sandbox, and threw the nuts and bolts over the fence into the neighbor's yard.
"Of course, it wasn't long before Holly's mom came to the door, wanting to know if we'd seen the bike. And Pappy came up to me and The Breeze and asked us if we knew anything. I had no idea what Breeze had done, of course, so I denied everything, but so did he. Then Pappy told us to come with him, and we walked around the side of the house, and right there -- right in front of us -- sticking right up out of the sandbox was a glittery pink handlebar with blue streamers hanging down. And Pappy gets this look on his face of just -- I don't even know -- just the purest rage. And he reaches down and yanks it up. But of course, the bike was taken apart so only the handlebars came up. And the Breeze just kept denying and denying that he had done anything, but I mean, I knew it wasn't me! And Pappy just goes, 'Boys, you tell me who did this or you'll both get a spanking you'll never forget.' So immediately I start yelling and pointing at The Breeze, who kept on denying it, but I think eventually he could tell he was about to get whooped by our old man and by me, so he 'fessed up. And Pappy had to buy brand new nuts and bolts for that bike and put it back together for Molly.
"That was the last time your Uncle Breeze ever got to use his toolset."
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