Page 40 - The Woven Tale Press Vol. III #12

scrambled his Rubik’s cube and then tried to his head vigorously. Those in the garden were beat his record. As he potted balls he asked me loud and the guards were telling them to clear to give him some dates so that he could make off. I continued on my way home. I was in no sure he knew what song had been number one. mood for a party. Further on, I saw Mrs. Redi-
“The 22nd of November 1960,” I gave him.
han at her window, her curtain drawn back. She let it fall back into place as I passed by. Then I walked into my own house.
“It’s Now Or Never, Elvis Presley,” he answered without a pause for thought.
He was in the kitchen, sitting at the table, si- lent, alone. I didn’t know what to say to him. Didn’t know if I should sit with him. Put an arm around his shoulder. I thought I wanted to, but something else stopped me, some hidden force that made me feel any movement towards him
“The 7th of September 1970,” I gave him.
“Tears Of A Clown, Smoky Robinson and The Miracles,” he said.
“The 10th of August 1977.” would require a stepping outside of myself, and
“I Feel Love, Donna Summer.” “June First 1983.”
a passage through unsafe territory. I left him to his thoughts and went upstairs.
“That’s too recent. Give me a hard one. Wait, isn’t that the date your mother – “
In my room I stared out through the window, at the calm warm night. I tried to make out pat- terns in the stars. At some point, I heard the roar of Kevin Ford’s Honda escaping into the night. And I lay down in my bed, thought of Ma- ria Cassidy’s smile and waited for sleep.
He didn’t finish the sentence. Instead, he moved straight on to one of his jokes, one he had already told, one I had laughed loudly at. I laughed loudly again this time – so loudly that Heff’s mother woke up and shooed me out of there.
The temperatures climbed higher and higher. More and more mothers started wearing bath- ing suits. Some of those already in bathing suits graduated into bikinis. While those in bikinis
When I was walking home from Heff’s, I saw a squad car outside Kevin Ford’s house. Lots of people were milling about in the front garden, drinking and smoking. A couple were groping each other in the back seat of Kevin’s Honda. On his doorstep two guards were talking to Kevin who was waving his arms and shaking
to begin with padded proudly up and down our road, their brown bodies glinting in the golden
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Irish Writer Alan McMonagle’s second collection of short stories Psychotic Episodes is published by Arlen House.