the temptations
it was warren who told me that OJ simpson was driving a white bronco, being followed by all of america.
"who's OJ simspon?" i asked him. i was in love with warren. he was my boyfriend's best friend. my boyfriend who was already in college, who was on a week long summer trip to build houses in central america.
"some football player" warren was eternally interesting. he was the closest thing to a hippie i had ever been able to touch. he was one fourth japanese and had long hair, he squeezed his cigarettes so hard that the butts were as flat as coins.
"whatd he do?" we had kissed the day before, in my living room, as janet and sig were laying on my bed, before sig came out and explained lots of things. we sat, awkwardly, half turned towards each other, in the stuffiest room of my house, with nothing to distract us but my father's collection of kalidescopes placed in a specific arrangement on the coffee table in front of the asian inspired couch we were sitting on.
"killed someone, they think" i might have asked him what are you thinking, or something equally as obvious, and he probably said something like "that i want to do something im not supposed to do" and i said with as much coy-ness as my sixteen year old self could muster "what is that?" and he took a deep breath through closed lips and kissed me. as with the rest of these kind of situations throughout my life, as soon as it was over i had forgotten the specifics. like who said what when or what he tasted like.
"oh" we were at city stages, the most consequential weekend of the summer. all of downtown birmingham was roped off and the streets were turned into a giant festival of funnel cakes and dippin dots and the miller lite stage would always play the big attractions, like the beach boys. i would have rather missed prom, if my school had had one, than city stages. we were sitting at the base of the penis, a phallic sculpture in the middle of lynn park and the only reasonable meeting point.
"i guess everyone knows he did it" we werent waiting on anyone, just tired of walking, navigating the crowds, sick of feeling other people's beer spilled on our flipflopped feet.
"how?" janet didnt think it was wrong- what sig and i were doing behind marks back. she said she knew he was the love of my life and think of how i would regret it if i didnt. but mark was so transparently good, so honestly pure, so trusting, so delicate. everytime we would start to kiss in his green mazda i would start thinking of reasons i had to go. in my mind then, that was better than telling him the truth- that just looking at a piece of warren was infinitely more exciting than having mark unhook my bra.
"how what?" later that night, the saturday night of city stages when the temptations were playing on the coca-cola stage, we would drive back to his house in mountain brook and i would tell mom that i was at janets and we would stand in his room and listen to the rod mckuen record he had, the record of rod mckuen reading what would become my favorite poem, and we would stand so close that the dunes of our body would line up, and we wouldnt move our hands and we would keep our eyes closed until all of "stanyon street" had been read aloud, and i would let him reach around and untie my kerchief top with one hand.
"how do they know that he did it? that hes guilty?" when mark came back i told him. and he said that if warren and i are together he will never speak to warren again, and his heart would be broken for the rest of his life. warren told me that one night in sabaros at brookwood mall, as they were mopping the floor. i put my head on the freshly wiped plastic table top and cried so hard that no noise came out. i dont think warren knew what to do. at that moment or at any.
"they dont know for sure but i guess its just a feeling people have" i drove over to warrens house in mountain brook sometimes, even after mark forbode it, and we watched the rocky horror picture show and made out on his scratchy carpet. and then i started feeling dirty about doing that, about how he never came over to my house, about how much i had stolen from mark. about how it could never be undone. they stopped being friends after a few months, and mark soon met his wife, a woman who is 13 years older than him, who drives a real VW bug and who works with mentally impaired people.
I watched OJ simpson get aquitted in mr. porters biology class. i knew what would happen-- we all did. we all knew he did it and we all knew he would get off.
it was just a feeling we had.
"who's OJ simspon?" i asked him. i was in love with warren. he was my boyfriend's best friend. my boyfriend who was already in college, who was on a week long summer trip to build houses in central america.
"some football player" warren was eternally interesting. he was the closest thing to a hippie i had ever been able to touch. he was one fourth japanese and had long hair, he squeezed his cigarettes so hard that the butts were as flat as coins.
"whatd he do?" we had kissed the day before, in my living room, as janet and sig were laying on my bed, before sig came out and explained lots of things. we sat, awkwardly, half turned towards each other, in the stuffiest room of my house, with nothing to distract us but my father's collection of kalidescopes placed in a specific arrangement on the coffee table in front of the asian inspired couch we were sitting on.
"killed someone, they think" i might have asked him what are you thinking, or something equally as obvious, and he probably said something like "that i want to do something im not supposed to do" and i said with as much coy-ness as my sixteen year old self could muster "what is that?" and he took a deep breath through closed lips and kissed me. as with the rest of these kind of situations throughout my life, as soon as it was over i had forgotten the specifics. like who said what when or what he tasted like.
"oh" we were at city stages, the most consequential weekend of the summer. all of downtown birmingham was roped off and the streets were turned into a giant festival of funnel cakes and dippin dots and the miller lite stage would always play the big attractions, like the beach boys. i would have rather missed prom, if my school had had one, than city stages. we were sitting at the base of the penis, a phallic sculpture in the middle of lynn park and the only reasonable meeting point.
"i guess everyone knows he did it" we werent waiting on anyone, just tired of walking, navigating the crowds, sick of feeling other people's beer spilled on our flipflopped feet.
"how?" janet didnt think it was wrong- what sig and i were doing behind marks back. she said she knew he was the love of my life and think of how i would regret it if i didnt. but mark was so transparently good, so honestly pure, so trusting, so delicate. everytime we would start to kiss in his green mazda i would start thinking of reasons i had to go. in my mind then, that was better than telling him the truth- that just looking at a piece of warren was infinitely more exciting than having mark unhook my bra.
"how what?" later that night, the saturday night of city stages when the temptations were playing on the coca-cola stage, we would drive back to his house in mountain brook and i would tell mom that i was at janets and we would stand in his room and listen to the rod mckuen record he had, the record of rod mckuen reading what would become my favorite poem, and we would stand so close that the dunes of our body would line up, and we wouldnt move our hands and we would keep our eyes closed until all of "stanyon street" had been read aloud, and i would let him reach around and untie my kerchief top with one hand.
"how do they know that he did it? that hes guilty?" when mark came back i told him. and he said that if warren and i are together he will never speak to warren again, and his heart would be broken for the rest of his life. warren told me that one night in sabaros at brookwood mall, as they were mopping the floor. i put my head on the freshly wiped plastic table top and cried so hard that no noise came out. i dont think warren knew what to do. at that moment or at any.
"they dont know for sure but i guess its just a feeling people have" i drove over to warrens house in mountain brook sometimes, even after mark forbode it, and we watched the rocky horror picture show and made out on his scratchy carpet. and then i started feeling dirty about doing that, about how he never came over to my house, about how much i had stolen from mark. about how it could never be undone. they stopped being friends after a few months, and mark soon met his wife, a woman who is 13 years older than him, who drives a real VW bug and who works with mentally impaired people.
I watched OJ simpson get aquitted in mr. porters biology class. i knew what would happen-- we all did. we all knew he did it and we all knew he would get off.
it was just a feeling we had.
posted by Jessica Baxter | 7:07 PM
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