Wellesley

 We grew up in a dilapidated Victorian mansion that used to be a kind of Inn.
To pay for the zip code, Olman used to take in boarders. Itinerate boxers and cabaret dancers with high-pitched voices. Demolition Derby drivers named Charley Thorne
who hit on prepubescent 10-year-old girls. Some barber named Frankie
who was a sex fiend and put Vodka in my milk. He didn’t last too long.
Boria used to jingle his coins and whistle to announce his entrance into the private family zone. A guy we called Chesty was obsessed with any thing Mexican and danced with his sombrero while we cooked dinner. Judy would practice ballet on the never finished pipe work
in the kitchen. I hid under the table listening to heated arguments about Saco/Venzetti
and drawing pictures. Bill arm-wrestled Chesty and won. George slipped in and out
with his friends stealing beer.
Ruth wasn’t around much. As soon as Olman walked through the door carrying
the square brown paper bag named “beer night”, she turned off the dinner she was
cooking and went upstairs for the night.
I didn’t have many friends and Otis hadn't moved in yet. After I lost Girlover I started hangin’ with the girls with teased hair who snapped their gum and rolled their eyes.
Phyllis used to hump her boyfriend on our antique couch.
Ruth walks in and offers us chocolates. American Bandstand is invasive.
Errol Garner melts the air. My first boyfriend was a chubby kid named Johnie Schofield.
Lots a freckles. I crushed on him cuz he was popular. The funny boy.
I slammed down my red satin shoes when he didn’t show up for the school dance.
I ripped his picture in half with great drama in front of chem. lab. Richie Fey
was so tiny he could fit his hand up the vending machine and get all our cigarettes.
Max Daniels stole money from the Boston Globe cigar box.

Olman, when drinkin’ hard, woke up three sheets. One day George had his posse over workin' on the go-cart. They cranked it up, rode it snarling down the long gravel driveway. Olman took over, circling around. Reveling. Showin' off. Drunk. Then, the fat wheels rip up our front porch stairs, burst through the double doors into the living room, smashed into sofas and chairs and dust catchers, spittin' smoke. Crashed back out, bumpin’ down the stairs, flew over the front lawn and stonewall and landed on the turnpike, barely missing a semi.
Forever embedding in my mind that I would never be normal.