Sunday, October 30, 2016



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This piece is from my private journals and was penned nine years ago - shortly after I moved into my Folsom house and before I knew my neighbors well. When I shared it with Marcie and Kurt some years later, they laughed until they cried. It is reproduced here with their expressed permission. Be advised it contains profanity.


The teenagers next door are enigmatic and fascinating creatures to watch. Both Mom and Dad are runners and appear to have a commitment to healthy eating and fitness as evidenced by a collective BMI below 105 for the entire family of five ...or maybe its just good genes.

Weeks before Christmas, I sat backwards on the top rung of my sixteen-foot extension ladder, coffee-breaking during the annual stringing of festive lights, when Mom and Dad returned home.
Lorin!” Marcie hollered, “Congratulate Kurt, he just ran the CIM!” She was his biggest cheerleader; their bond seemed easy and mutually acknowledging.
“Wow Kurt; that’s awesome! How do you feel?” I called down from my perch. I was genuinely interested having completed several marathons myself. We chatted briefly, me staring down from roof’s edge, he shading his eyes to peer up.

The covalent bond of DNA bequeathing a long, lean frame dominated their union and left little doubt that all three were their father’s children. The eldest, a girl, was long, lithe, lovely like her mother and tipping twenty. She sourced a constant stream of handsome, young suitors and drove with the reckless abandon of youth. 
The boys might be handsome beneath their veil, an unkempt, dirty-blonde, crop of curls. They appeared equal in height and age though one must be older lest they were… twins? Santa had previously delivered boxing gloves with which they pummeled one another in the front yard -amid the cheers and jeers of their friends. Avid skateboarders, they jumped curbs, lifts and rails in our cul-de-sac well into the night. 
That is… until one son inherited a car. It had been his sister’s until she bought one, now it was his. He spent hours parked outside my kitchen window — loving his car. And when I mowed, I gave him the opportunity to move, sparing a dusting of yard debris on its polished paint.

One day, I emerged from my house to find Number-1 son washing his car and spewing profanities across its roof at Venerable-father.
"Get out of my f___ face!" he roared, "I don’t want to talk to you right now!” I froze. Venerable-father’s voice was low; his words inaudible.
"I told you to get out of my f___ face!” Venerable-father retreated into the house and I followed suit.

I was shocked, appalled and contemplated my varied reactions and responses. What would I do if my 17-year-old said that, SHOUTED that at me?
“He shoulda beat the living shit outta him!” one of my co-workers offered vehemently.
“I don’t think so,” I countered, “That only teaches him to resort to violence when he is frustrated and angry. No, I’m sure that is not the answer.”
“He was wise to avoid a Jerry Springer moment,” Lucia said. She had raised three exquisite children, one of whom, between pre-med semesters, wiled away his working hours in the Emergency Department with us. Lucia had earned the right to weigh-in on this subject. “Nope, get him where it hurts; restrict his car.”
I noticed his car lovingly parked, stationary …for weeks.

One afternoon, having regained privileges, he drove in with his twin and two friends. I watched through my kitchen window as they loitered affectionately around his Honda, stroking it, petting it, caressing it — loving it. It was then, in the last lingering rays of daylight that they turned up her radio and let her rip:
Why? I wanna fuck a dog in the ass.
I wanna fuck a dog in the ass. Why?
They pranced and danced, encircling the Honda in a single-file, Kokopelli line - laughing, singing, pausing to rear up and shout in unison, “Why?”
I wanna fuck a dog in the ass.
I wanna fuck a dog in the ass. Why?
I wanna, I wanna…

A small smile seeped across my face. “Teenagers,” I shook my head and whispered in the immortal words of Mr. Spock, “Fascinating.”