Good, Bad, Ugly
One of our friends snapped this photo. Probably Andy, or whatever girlfriend he had along that day. We’re standing in a parking lot. Don’t know why. He’s got an arm around me. I’m wearing his corduroy blazer. He liked for me to wear that. Said the color went with my hair.
Gosh, we look so happy. Young, and dumb—but happy.
We were happy. Not because of anything in particular we were doing! In those days the guys just circled tirelessly in their cool cars, blasting music with their 8-tracks. Iron Butterfly, Steppenwolf—stuff you never hear anymore, even on the golden oldies station. To save my soul, I can’t recall what we talked about.
I think what made him and me happy was just that we’d gotten so close that year, like family.
Maybe better than family. In my experience family wasn’t always so great. Especially Bernie, who used to rub up against my boobs and say creepy things when Momma wasn’t around. Back when I was a kid, Momma used to be beautiful. Here’s an old picture of her. Will you look at that! That’s when we were close. But by this time, Momma just looked tired and frazzled. She seemed to want me out of the house.
Still, I knew what family ought to mean. It ought to be your source of comfort and support. In a family that’s working right, those are the people you can show your real self to. And everybody loves one another, you know, just for being who they are.
Even if you’re just somebody who rides around town listening to music.
The oldie I associate with