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Upon reaching MacDougal Street, Jill felt the urge to patronise a used bookstore. On this, I forbade absolutely, but only for me. She scolded but I prevailed.

Musings, that is; the likes of which had been forming for nearly a year. As with most revelations, simplicity was its essence: Books are a thing of the past, I thought.

This must seem silly to read, yet open your ears and you hear the truth. Kids study albums and songs with more enthusiasm and more creativity than any novel.

Life is illusion, lust, greed; no desire for work, only play. These are exactly the kinds of messages contained in popular music.

None but the jealous art fag can deny this. Yet I had one victory. Music strengthens emotions but weakens intellect.

To feed passion at the expense of intellect is detrimental. I mean popular shite. And the sweeter the lyric, the more apt you are to believe the sentiment real.

Do this enough times and the extreme is not so far away anymore. Like me, the intelligentsia thumbed their noses at the goodies.

Unlike me, they thought the squares stupid. Well, goodies may be square, but in my high school, at least, crap like Concert Band, Mock Trial, and Model UN did involve a bit of thinking.

Self-anointed intellectuals, on the other hand, feel before they think, and gather to gab about reading and writing rather than brave solitude and actually picking up a book or pen.

My blood raced, thanks to Italian caffeine, even as skin cooled. I looked above the crowds and buildings. I thought the National Socialist twins had all the charm of nightsticks.

Only an American, I hate to say, would design such crap. And dreams, like preachers, like dollars, are in no shortage: a perfect circle.

So they had no patience to be anything but their covetous selves. And people who hate Americans hate themselves, for everyone would fancy having money to waste.

Samuel Henry Hay is an American at heart. I pledge my fealty not through words but actions. Small wonder I returned.

Small wonder I stay. I thought he was going to take my chair. Bye-bye, manifesto. He thought that funny. He lit a Newport; offered me one.

I was tempted. He was one of the rare people who made smoking look desirable. He exhaled with pleasure. Don leave home without it. I told him. And charmed.

But I got to know some people. And then I had places to stay. Seriously, you know what the cure for racism is? Inside every Imperial Wizard is a dude like you and I.

Sleep with a few black girls. Seriously, you love Africa so much, learn a fuckin African language. Got lots to choose from. Jes see it for themselves.

See where they came from. Like it or not, jus do it, get it out of your system, come on home, and get on with your life. How old are you?

Lines drawn but not yet permanent. Not to mention the wattle blossoming under his chin. Will I look as ridiculous? A second question.

Perhaps he sought conversation after all. In fact, I never felt more like a mountain. And the spirit of espresso returned. I fall in love every day.

So tell me. You fulfill it. Life goes on. You delay it, you fill the time with posh regard and ritual, you get a crazy little thing called love.

And the more love you invent, the more reason you lose. And the more reason you lose, the more you desire something that exists only in your head.

The troubadours started it. Mediaeval pop stars, running around from town to town, singing about love. Nobody understood at first.

They knew about marriage. That was business. That was politics. And they knew about sex. Sex was sex. But the troubadours sang about love.

Surrendering to another. Like vassals to lords. Sheep to Christ. They sang and sang. And the disease rages on.

Hey, you wan me to introduce you to some girls? Everybody loves a love song. The Stranger laughed uproariously. People in this stupid country are raised on love lyrics.

Britain too. You grow up listening to nothing but love lyrics. Most adjust, I suppose, and move on. But I suspect some keep on believing, feeling cheated, ending up 17 forever.

Another Newport, meanwhile, was pushed, bent, squeezed to death. I know I laughed. I know because the Stranger was scared.

Or acted scared, in order to stand up and get away. And I continued laughing, ten minutes more, I suppose. By the time Jill returned without, I must say, any books , I was exhausted.

At Sixth Avenue, Jill took me to watch blokes playing basketball at what she called the Fourth Street court. I felt absurd standing there along with gawking tourists, their strained hands carrying large shopping bags, but there I did hear, for the first time since August, Brits—a middle-aged Liverpudlian couple, and that strange, Southern-sounding Northern accent.

And visiting everywhere, apparently. Jill planned to see every corner of the island by the time we returned in August. It would be fun, she said.

And I believed her. The rest of the week quickly passed. On Wednesday, we took a bus to Uptown; on Thursday, to Harlem. There, we had a confrontation with a Black Hebrew Israelite, or Commandment Keeper, or whatever this particular jingo styled himself.

He stood in the street, wearing a funny costume, shouting insults and scripture at passersby. Seeing me and Jill really got his bearded mouth going.

Jill, as were her twisted wont, wanted to stay and listen, but I insisted otherwise. Fortunately, we were rescued by a Harlem native.

She got into it with the street corner preacher. Jill understood her dialect. The woman was a Witness. Away from the militant, they spoke to each other in code and embraced like sisters.

Thea treated us to lunch at a soul food dive. She was a nice lady. She and Jill jawed without pause. Witnesses who run into other Witnesses, I noticed, either said as little to each other as possible or the reverse.

The only thing missing, amps tuned up to Souls full, Thea escorted us down a stair street for a tour of her neighbourhood in Washington Heights.

Jill and I then proceeded to the Bronx, every bit as scary as Thea warned us. Then it was Brooklyn: streets under viaducts; Russians with gold teeth; kids playing baseball in white trousers.

It was unseasonably cool that evening, or so we were told by our waiter, who earlier had told us his name was Bradley and yes, he was our waiter.

Scary, really. But Jill was too busy with her own giddiness, and who could blame her. In fact…. Dinner over, we took a long stroll, heading south, just because it was south; and taking diplomatic swigs from a glass flask of cheap whisky.

She drew deep breaths after each epic sip, and her cheeks turned red. Jill giggled. Then our journey ended. And so did the merriment.

There was the East River, in front of us. To the right, the Staten Island Ferry. And across the channel, Witness HQ or Bethel.

We stopped to look at it, for the first time, both of us. Though lights were everywhere, the city now seemed dark. Not true, Jill.

She leant against the railing preventing us from falling into the awful water. One look at the choppy surface and I knew my fear of drowning would last a lifetime.

Like Dad did, you know? My parents were really happy—Mom, especially. But then I got accepted into UT.

To Bethel, I mean. Not really. Actually, Sam, you know what? I was relieved. But she stayed where she was, brows scowling.

Give her ten minutes, I thought. You know how this works. But he had doubts all the same. They just believe things unconditionally.

I envy people like that, Sam. People like me and my Dad, we have to question everything. We have to be convinced. She looked up at me; tried to smile.

She looked away. That was my approach—absolutely crazy. But as usual, I only succeeded in firing her up.

She scowled again, hard enough to crack a rock. Back and forth. Between Mom and Dad. His tolerance. Her lack of it. And the older I get…. But Jill looked away again.

She looked into the water. She loved doing that. She loved falling. I took a deep breath, for both of us. Who is? Jill swallowed the last of the whisky.

For a second, I thought she was Portia. New York City seemed like Glasgow. June, January. Dust floated in the air, seen only in the street light.

I shook my head. Jill took a step closer. At least her face was confident again. Daughter, like father, turned the tables. Right, lot of good I did old Rick.

He went nutter the other way. You wished him well. You got nothing out of it. In more ways than one.

Opportunity knocked and Sam Hay tiptoed out the backdoor. Julius Caesar must be rolling in his grave. Everyone aggress.

I used him. Used and abused. Believe me. Just less flawed than others. You know why? Because you were right about something. A long time ago. Do you remember, in the swamp?

About me? Placed my hand on the side of her hot face. She closed her eyes and I kissed her. When we parted, I felt chaos. So we kissed again. And when we parted again, we looked into each other eyes.

Over the railing into the water. People walked past us, ignoring us. Jill ran her fingers over my head.

And in my head, a life prematurely aged suddenly surged with youth. We made it to the hostel. Was this a good idea?

For once, I thought to ask. As always, I was wrong. Or so Jill told me. Are you gonna tell me your gay again? Our room was empty.

I locked the door. But it meant letting go of Jill. But there was a knock on the door. Ignore it, I thought. The git knocked again, harder. I tried to kiss Jill.

But she was scared. So I turned off the alarm, and went straight back to sleep. Are you kidding me? We gotta move. The matriarch drilled Jill for the hundredth time on all she must do to ensure a safe trip.

She had disapproved of this adventure from the start. Her naturally suspicious nature was dripping back in.

Jill was too young. I was too male. But Bruce over-ruled her. What sense would it make to be punitive now? Bruce changed the oil and two tyres.

It was their ambitious plan for us to drive to New York by way of the Southern states; then, after the English wedding, return to Texas via the Mid-West—this purely for my edification.

Why not? I only wished I knew how to drive. We lost five minutes. Jill almost cried. At last, we could go. I forced a shaking of hands.

Arianna agreed. So did Bruce, to my surprise. Arms encircled and embraced with mortifying affection. We wished each other good fortune.

In the car, I waved good-bye to the closest thing I ever had to a family. Yet they stayed together. And I liked them. The time? Just past six-thirty.

The sun was well past the horizon now and traffic was already busy on the Boulevard. I consented to pump gas. Standing in the humid air, next to petrol pumps resembling Seventies sci-fi robots, in view of a gigantic supermarket and ice cream shop with novelty marble slab, I realised how much I hated it here, and vowed never to return.

Tank filled, we got on our way. We merged onto the Gulf Freeway. Despite the late start, Jill and I were filled with elation, for we realised, in a way we never would again, that we were free.

And the hour and a half it took to get out of Houston only seemed like two. As for the long drive to the Rotten Apple: I can only ask how many times can one person be right about another?

Jill Eisenhower had, to put it nicely, cunted me again; for as we drove across the open countryside of Southern America, I found myself enjoying every hour of it.

Vastness intoxicated me. The fascination that had begun atop that hill in front of the electrical plant had only increased with each subsequent adventure.

Now I had a seat at my biggest geographical banquet yet. The point was the sense of possibility I felt. Like a Romantic fool, I wanted experience.

I never again read with the veracity I had as a youth. But now, it was time to head in that direction. Jill was in her element too, indulging fully in her born role—tour guide.

In Mississippi, she took me to a juke joint. We were the only white people there—the youngest too—but no-one cared.

We sat at his bar, sipping and watching old men strum electric guitars and sing their blues. On the beach we ran into some shirtless men and women caterwauling in bikinis.

How bout that. You know, mah gran-daddy fought in the war back then. He said the English was underpaid, undersexed and under Eisenhower. After food and drink, we joined the yahoos in a local sport: big fish-throwing.

We needed practise. After Alabama was Atlanta. We toured the Coca-Cola plant; visited the MLK memorial; ate my biggest breakfast ever at a motorway service station, where I gorged myself on fried food and grits.

I found if you put half a stick of butter in grits, it tastes purdy good. Certainly better than Marmite, which some English insist is heaven on toast.

Not until I saw red-skinned Indians in Arizona last year did I understand that these Carolina Cherokee must have been watered down in blood.

They had more a maroon tan to go with their black hair; and all were obese. I heard stories from them, all what the White Man had done to them and still doing to them.

She took pictures of my being tackled quite hard. After the twelfth time, I said I wanted to leave, now.

Next, we drove west to Tennessee, the Volunteer State; to a cabin in the Great Smoky Mountains that Bruce had reserved over the telephone.

There was no running water and no electricity. Jill thought such was cool for just one night. I kept my mouth shout.

In the morning, before dawn, we walked through fog; great smoky fog over the mountains. Finally, at my suggestion, we sat on some rocks and watched the sun rise in silence.

The fog broke up and the world came alive. Animals, birds, insects rustled. A world without people, I thought; a world that could only be peaceful to people, like Jill, who looked very peaceful indeed.

I asked about breakfast. She guided me to berries. She was a natural at this sort of thing. She absorbed whatever surrounded her.

When we got back on the road, we passed a chapel. Jill stopped the Bug, backed up and looked at it, fascinated. I saw a small, wooden, unremarkable structure with a bizarre Biblical name.

Though Sunday morning, few cars were parked for services. It would mean an ungodly amount of driving today, but so be it. We wanted at least five days in which to enjoy bright lights, big city before flying to London the coming Saturday.

A quiet breeze raised hairs on the sides of her face. Black danced in golden sunshine. Jill sat, fuming. And here we go again.

Fortunately, we were in the shade of a giant oak tree. Finally, Jill shifted back into firstly gear and we left.

I hoped my sigh of relief was inconspicuous. Jill was no subtle. That alone scared me. I squinted in the blaze. I desired pot. I turned on the radio.

You don wanna get old and have regrets, do you? Either of us. Yes, I returned to Karpis. When invited, I told Richie I would come only because he begged me, which he did.

Afterwards, though, I thought of every excuse I could not to come. Finally, Jill informed me it would be the height of rudeness to say I would come only to not come.

Jill was wise. We dressed up. We were the only ones who did. We went not to a wedding reception but a bar-b-que. We squeezed between fifty or so heavy set guests at wooden picnic tables covered with red and white checkerboard tablecloths.

We ate from paper plates with plastic forks and knives. We drank from paper cups filled with ice and a pink wine of sorts, itself dispensed from a box.

Karpisians eat like flies, one hand leaving the mouth just as the other arrives, keeping cakehole ever filled. Doddlers ran between tables, shrieking like cats in heat.

As the only guest not wearing T-shirt or coveralls, I, of course, was the only one to spill bright yellow potato salad on myself.

Conversation was lacking too. Bloke to my left talked about his finally giving in to pressure and getting cable instaled in his house.

To his surprise, he fancied it. The Hills family talked of football and guns. They also expressed concern that the fifth Police Academy movie recently released might be one too many.

Richie made an excuse, and he and I got away to spend a few minutes together. We walked to the perimeter of the front garden. The small ditch there was covered with the same green grass as proliferated over the garden itself: a seamless effect, like a dip in a two-dimensional computerised plane.

Across the ditch was a residential street, and across it, a house with its own outdoor party. Fiesta , I should say.

Some two dozen mexicanos were cooking, laughing, whistling, honking horns. Richie offered a cigarette. He was smoking regularly now.

I was tempted to accept. I felt nothing but anxiety since we passed city limits. Better to drink. It was embarrassing.

You should see Ike. You and he are the only ones who got dressed. I took off my suit the moment I was hitched. But you should see Ike. He actually shaved and combed his hair.

I was shocked! The only times I saw him happy was when he laughed. I asked him for ID. He just went Yeah, yeah ….

Mariachi music screamed from a state of the art barrio blaster. The Mexicans were becoming more festive. Mesquite smoke from grills illegally invaded our nostrils.

Mr Hills managed, barely, to stand up. Nothing could be allowed to ruin her special day. She was finally starting to show. I was sick. Fat food plus hot day equals hell.

But it was Karpis. Richie and I continued drinking booze and sweating. But before he could, Hammish had joined us.

That was one wild bachelor party. I rarely ever pass out like that. This is a party. You guys passed out already? So how you been, Sam-Man?

Heh heh heh. God, I crack myself up sometimes. I slay me. Dude, fuck you. I got enough problems in my life without you getting involved.

I mean, look at Richie. Check out Ike. You say hi to him yet? Well … actually, yeah it is. All his problems are homemade. And these were hot chicks.

He could get laid just as much as me. You know an ugly person when you see them, right? Well, same difference.

You can spot a good-lookin person too. Give Richie credit. He can be mean sometimes, but he never lets things build up inside him like me.

He jest cuts loose whenever he feels it, just like my neighbors. They argue all the time. Pretty healthy, I think. I mean, in my family—no way, man.

We suffer in silence. Pretty white, I guess. Or a self-esteem one. I keep a lot of stuff inside. Sometimes, I really hate myself for doin that.

It really hurts me too sometimes. I gotta lotta responsibilities, you know. So my parents naturally put all their high hope expectations on me.

Except when things get tough, you know. No, I mean it. Work, especially. God, I hate that place. Why did I ever start to work there?

The tips were shit last night—a freaking Saturday! The residents, some of them were real cool. But the dicks, dude, they were dicks!

Even that I could handle, but dude, that place is so fucked up. I used to like her a lot. She was always nice to me. But towards the end, she just got on my nerves.

She was stupid. I got tired of her husband-complaining. Here I am. Bend over and shut up! Yup, you heard right. But when I watch her dance for others, doin the same thing to other guys, I … I sometimes wonder when she does it for me—is it really real?

Am I crazy for thinkin that? She denied it at first but I really pressured her to tell the truth. Shit, I tell her, stop for your ownsake! She better not do it again.

No way. A stripper—I mean a dancer and a cokehead? Forget it! Dude, what have I got myself into? I really hope she stops.

I gotta stop this. I need my guitar. That always soothes the savage stomach. Joe Walsh is pretty good too.

I think if I practiced enough, I could be as good as them. Be a musician. Well, whatever. I downed mine. Behind us, a Hills family brat popped balloons with a smoking butt.

I looked ahead. Plonk vision made grass a pale sea. And walking atop the water, a short brown figure, with arms outstretched, palms open, smiling.

Astonishment followed. Except for longer hair, Inocente Ramos looked no different than he did that horrible day, even down to the clothes. Inocente stumbled.

He was drunk. But here I am. Better than ever. Is my destiny. I cannot help it. Somebody die? He is stupid. Beer is free.

Her brother tol me to stay away from her. But fuck him! Thanks to you, I have to start all over. Half-Breed watched Pure Breed in disgust.

Nobody else was listening. You know what I mean? Or crippled by grateful regret. But I could take no joy in how low Donna had sunk. I was sick of it all.

Sick of this world. It was time to go. She sported a cross look that she forced into a smile by the time she reached us. We looked across the street.

Richie smiled. So did I. Inocente was on the ground, terrified, and shouting enough sub-Latin obscenities to catch the attention of everyone within a square kilometre.

Gimme the phone! He just cursed and crawled. As soon as he had space to stand up, he did; and ran away. Big Brown Bloke laughed. The party resumed.

I felt cheated of a spectacle. Richie, though, kept a studious eye. We did. Inocente reappeared, shovel in hand.

Inocente mercilessly banged away at the head of the bloke until siete or ocho blokes surrounded him, converged on him, took away the shovel, then proceeded to beat the crap out of Inocente.

When he saw what was happening, he was less shocked than the rest of us. Look at em! Tammy started crying. Richie clumsily comforted her.

He always knew how to use them. She calmed down. There were sirens. Mexicans ran. The couple ignored it all. I was somewhat touched.

The newlyweds parted lips. I need some cigarettes. Will you get me some too? How bout you? Richie laughed. Across the street, pigs were chasing wetbacks.

I smirked. Not many people can do that. I was exposed to a crooked grin with crooked teeth. Richie turned his unique stare on me.

I heard nightsticks strike flesh. He fished his pocket for car keys and left; and when I saw his Dart drive away, I grabbed Jill and we left too; left Karpis forever.

So, apparently, did Richie. I walked down to the Shop-n-Rob, in need of pens, of all things. That other clerk, the blue collar nan, was.

She played soft rock from a small radio behind the counter and always hid the entire stand of brown-papered porn behind another display.

I saw a familiar back at the counter; with familiar hair. The trousers were formal, if wrinkled. Royale Premium Club is always there for a lifetime trip to the country of Islands.

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Yoona ft. Rooftop House Studio—Heart Throbbing…. Log in Sign up. I want all of you, for ever, you and me, every day. I Hate when your heart is pumping so hard against your chest and you don't know what's going on.

You feel so scared and sad at the exsact same time and your all what the heck is going on? What I Did Today. Weather was pretty awesome too.

What I miss most Found a cute new theme :3 AND! Got to keep my cursor :D. Themes heart throbbing could it be love? And I know ya girl's infatuated, Haters probably curse the day that I was ejaculated.

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