Aunt Kathy's Recipes

A couple of nights ago my parents had company over and made cornish game hen and green beans in a bacon vinagrette. I was complaining to my Aunt Kathy (AK is the coolest) that the smell of bacon overpowered the house and I had a hard time getting it out of my clothes in hair. Sensing my "distress" she sent me a bunch of vegetarian(ish) asian recipes that I will post here, otherwise I might lose them:

Fragrant lentil rice (Malaysian style)

1/3 cup lentils

1cup long grain rice (I like jasmine)

2TBS (tablespoons) cooking oil

2tsp (teaspoons) minced ginger

1walnut size shallot, chopped

1 green onion (scallion) sliced

2 1/4 cups water

1/2 carrot cut into 1/4 inch cubes

8 green beans cut into 1/4 inch pieces

2TBS soy sauce

soak lentils for 30min and drain

rinse and drain rice

heat oil in a 2 quart pan over medium heat

add ginger shallot and green onion–– cook stirring for two min

add lentils and rice mix well

add water and bring to a boil

cook uncovered until craterlike holes appear in rice (8 to 10 min)

reduce heat to low. Add carrot and green beans

cover and continue cooking until liquid is absorbed and rice is tender

about 15 min

add soy sauce and mix well

*

Chanko Nabe (food of sumo wrestlers)

you can omit the shrimp and chicken and meat)

1 leek white part only

1 large carrot

1 med piece jicama

6 fresh shiitake mushrooms

1 baby bok choy

1/4 lb spinach

1/2 of 14oz package of firm tofu

cooking sauce (ingredients from an asian store or whole foods)

maybe Dagastino's or Shaw's in a special section?

2 cups japanese soup stock (dashi)–– made this way

(2 pieces dried kelp each about 4 by 6 inches)

4 cups cold water

3/4 cup loosely packed flaked dried bonito

wipe kelp with damp cloth

place in 2-3 quart pan with water

bring slowly to boil over medium heat, 6 to 8 min

remove kelp and discard

add bonito, remove from heat and let stand until shavings settle to bottom

strain broth and discard flakes

makes four cups (you can freeze what you don't use)

place tofu and all vegetables except spinach in a deep frying pan

keep each ingredient separate

pour cooking sauce over (2 cups–– half of the dashi mixture)

bring to a boil

reduce heat and simwer uncovered until vegetables are tender–– 4- 5 min

turn vegetables as needed but keep in its own place

tuck spinach into edge of pan and continue cooking for 2 min

to serve

ladle tofu and vegetables and broth into deep soup bowls

pass lemon wedges to squeeze over servings

accompany with rice

*

Penang Salad

3/4 lb sweet potato or yams

1/2 lb bean sprouts

1 mango cut in 1/2 inch cubes

1/2 fresh pineapple peeled and cut into 1/2 inch cubes

1/2 English cucumber cut into 1/2 inch cubes

1/4 small jicama cut into 1/2 inch cubes

dressing

1/2 tsp dried shrimp paste

2 fresh red jalapeno chilies seeded

1/4 cup tamarind water––

(in southeast asian market buy tamarind pods or tamarind paste

combine 1/2 cup hot water

with 2 1/2 TBS tamarind pulp or prepared paste

soak 10-15 min

then squeeze the pulp to extract juices

and strain to remove seeds)

2TBS packed brown sugar

2TBS peanut butter or peanut flavored sauce

2TBS lime juice

2TBS soy sauce

lettuce leaves

black and white sesame seeds

boil sweet potatoes until tender (20-30min)

drain and cool

peel and cut into 1/2 inch cubes

place in large bowl and add bean sprouts

mango, pineapple, cucumber, jicama–– cover and chill until serve

wrap shrimp paste in foil

place in a frying pan over medium heat

and toast for 1 min on each side

place paste in blender with chilies, tamarind water, brown sugar, peanut butter, lime juice, and soy sauce

process until smooth

pour dressing over salad and toss

arrange on lettuce lined serving plate

and garnish with sesame seeds

*

winter miso soup

4 dried black mushrooms

1 large carrot

1/2 pound sweet potato

1/2 of 14 oz firm tofu

1/4 cup bamboo shoots

4 cups dashi soup stock

2TBS sweet cooking rice wine (mirin)

4 slices ginger the size of a quarter

1/3 cup fermented soybean paste (white miso)

2 scallions cut into 1/2 inch pieces

soak mushrooms in warm water 20 min

drain and discard stems

cut caps into 1/4 inch squares

cut carrot and sweet potato into 1/2 inch cubes

drain tofu and cut into 1/2 inch cubes

place mshrooms, carrot, sweet potato, bamboo shoots, dashi, mirin and ginger in a 2 quart pan–– bring to a boil, reduce heat , cover and simmer until vegetables are tender, 6-8 min–– remove ginger

stir in miso–– blend until smooth. Add tofu and scallions–– simmer 2-3 min

*

Japanese stir fried noodles

sauce

2TBS vegetarian oyster flavored sauce

2TBS Worcestershire sauce

1TBS seasoned rice vinegar

1tsp sugar

2tsp Japanese rice wine (sake)

6 dried black mushrooms

1/2 of a 12 oz package of fresh Chinese egg noodles (or soba noodles cooked by directions)

2TBS cooking oil

1/2 onion sliced

3 slices ginger, size of a quarter, shredded (or grated)

1 carrot thinly sliced

1 cup shredded cabbage

2TBS chicken broth (or vegetable broth)

1/4 pound snow peas trimmed and cut in half diagonally

2 scallions cut diagonally into 1 1/2 inch lengths

combine sauce ingredients in small bowl and set aside

soak mushrooms in warm water about 20 min

drain, discard stems and slice caps

bring large pot of water to a boil

add noodles and cook according to package

drain, rinse with cold water, drain again

set aside

place wok over high heat

add oil swirling to coat sides

add onion and ginger

stir fry for 1 min

add mushrooms, carrot, cabbage and broth

stir fry until veg are tender–crisp, about 1 min

add snow peas and scallion cook for 1 min

reduce heat, add reserved sauce, add noodles and toss to coat, about 2 min

You're a Mean One, Missus Grinch

To be honest, I've never been a huge fan of Christmas. I know that makes me sound all grumpy and grinchy, but it's true. That's not to say I don't like Christmas, but I don't really love it either. I spent a lot of time thinking about it and came up with the following reason for why I am so "eh" about Christmas:

1. Religious confusion. My religious background is super-duper complicated. To fully explain it would take up an entire blog entry, so I'll just say this; Unitarian, Orthodox Jewish, Roman Catholic, Christian Scientist, Islam and Buddhist are just a few of the many religions my immediate/extended family practices/has practiced. I realize that Christmas has become largely separate from religion, but it's really hard for me to ignore the hypocrisy of celebrating a Christian holiday when I really don't have any relationship with Christianity whatsoever.

2. I'm a vegetarian. When you spend up to two weeks watching people prepare various corpses of dead animals in special sauces you kind of start to dread big holiday dinners. The reason I became a vegetarian is because I don't want to be around animal flesh. My family considers themselves "tolerant" of my vegetarianisim, which means they spend roughly all their time making stupid jokes about it. Like, a million stupid jokes at my expense. The same ones. Over and over again. For three years straight. It. Gets. Old.

3. Time at home. Christmas vacation at UNH is 5 weeks long. I grew up in the boonies of Southern Maine. My hometown gets boring after, like, 3 days. Not to mention, I've sort of carved a fairly pleasant existence for myself at college. I have my own apartment, great friends, favorite bars and cafes and restaurants. I have great classes plus I go to editors meeiting on Mondays, film screenings on Tuesdays, I write fiction on Wednesdays, go to Bluegrass nights on Thursdays and usually have my weekends fully booked up with friends. I've got a simple day-to-day routine that I'm quite fond of. I'm not saying it's glamorous and sometimes it's incredibly overwhelming, but it's mine. When I go back to my hometown for 5 weeks it makes me feel dull and listless, puttering around and letting my Mom (who is awesome) take care of me. It's sort of a throwback to my life in high school, which, honestly was not that great.

4. Presents. I don't have a ton of money, but people around me do. When old friends and family members give me incredibly expensive gifts and all I can do is give them homemade paper roses on a dried branch in a glass bottle it makes me feel kind of inferior. Just a constant reminder that I will never be able to afford the things that these people seem to think I deserve. And I feel bad because they obviously put a lot of thought into their gifts for me, which are always lovely, and I feel like I give them the college-student equivalent of grade school crayon drawings. "Thanks for the brand new hardcover copy of my favorite book! You're SO thoughtful! I got you a mug! Actually, I made it! You can't put it in the dishwasher. Also it has a huge crack in the middle of it. Maybe you can put rocks in it, or something!" Yeah, I suck.

5. Unemployment. No business in Maine wants to hire a college kid for 5 weeks. Believe me, I've tried. At school I hardly ever touch my savings because I never have time to spend them. But when I'm home I have nothing BUT free time and I have nothing to do BUT spend money. So I'm not making any money and I'm spending a ton of it. My already pathetic bank account is depleting before my very eyes and there's not a damn thing I can do about it. Except, you know, not spend money.

But hey, I like other holidays. Hell, I LOVE other holidays. I'm partial to 4th of July and New Years and other one-day holidays that are fun simply because they are mindless and short-term. I also really like fireworks. I just don't see why Christmas is such a big deal, especially now that we start getting ready for it BEFORE Thanksgiving (also not one of my favorite Holidays). But I love my family, and cookies, and snow. So I'm going to make it through this holiday. I will. And I'll keep reminding myself that it only comes once a year, and that's just fine with me.

Thank You

So I start off the morning writing a paper. Go to diner to get breakfast and do research. Then I end up writing a poem about writing a paper in a diner. Paper still isn't written. *Sighhh* Story of my life.

Thank You

The couple next to me
argues loudly

over this that and the other thing
the woman barks
Coffee!
and extends her lumpy arm into the aisle.

The woman in booth three
has had three cups already
she leaves a dollar bill, two quarters, two dimes, one nickel
(that’s it!)
before she vanishes.

I am in the back corner
perusing a tall stack of books

folding pages with my egg stained fingers;

research, for a paper, due tomorrow

The waitress is a skinny thing
with a ponytail and a red apron,
she refills coffee mugs

and carrying armfulls of ceramics plates,

she smiles

“Well, gosh, aren’t you a beauty?” she says to me.

I haven’t slept in two days.

Thanks, I mumble.

On my way out
I leave a 50% tip
'cause she and I

we're in this thing together.

Thank you.

Let the Mermaids Flirt With Me

Patrick’s lanky frame made up a series of intersecting lines and angles; pointed elbows resting patiently on pointed knees, skinny forearms meeting together at the wrist where his sharp chin rested comfortably in the heels of his hands. He had found himself a comfortable seat on top of an empty lobster trap and was staring transfixed at the seemingly endless ocean horizon. Clad in the oversized wool sweater and hand-me-down jeans his grandmother had lovingly laid out for him the night before, he almost looked as if had just been transported from the pages of an LLBean catalog printed in the 1950s. His sneakers, which were black and highlighter-yellow, and with which he had recently taken up the habit of wearing without socks and without laces, set him firmly within the ranks of a child born in the modern era.

“What are you looking for?” His older brother, Joe, shouted over the engine from his spot at the steering wheel.

        “Mermaids” Patrick stated, matter-of-factly.

        “Mermaids?!” Joe snorted, “Find any yet?” Patrick heard the thinly-veiled sarcasm and didn’t appreciate it. He glared. Joe’s smile faded as he focused his attention back to steering.

        “Papa and I used to look for mermaids when he took me out here,” Patrick said stiffly, “He knew all about mermaids. He told me that they use sand dollars as money, and they can breathe underwater even though they don’t have gills and that they follow boats around in case somebody falls off.”

        Patrick looked to his older for affirmation but found he could not gauge any reactions by reading the back of his neck.

        “Hey, Joe?” Patrick asked after a long pause, “I was thinking that, maybe? When Papa got buried at sea? Remember? Maybe the mermaids found him? And made it so he could breathe underwater.”

        Joe’s hands tightly clasped and unclasped the cold metal of the steering wheel.

        “Joe? D’ya think that, maybe? That’s why Nana started collecting all those sand dollars in the morning, Joe? So Papa could have them?”

        Joe sighed deeply. Slowly, he reached down and turned the ignition key, turning off the boat’s rattling engine. He made his way over to the spot where Patrick was sitting and collapsed next to him.

        “Hey, buddy. You know I love you, right?”

        “I know.”

        “And you know that I would never intentionally do anything to upset you, right?”

        Patrick nodded.

        “So when I tell you this, I want you to know that I’m doing it because...well because I think it’s the right thing to do.” Joe sighed again. “Look, I” He stopped, shook his head and tried again, “I don’t...shit. I don’t want to be the one...” Joe rubbed his callused fingers across his sunburned forehead. “Look, kid. If it was up to me, you’d spend your whole life believing in mermaids and, well, anything else you want to believe it. But the truth is...I just don’t think it’s healthy for a kid your age to go
on hoping...” Again he paused, shook his head.

        “Nana started collecting sand dollars so she could paint them and sell them to make a little extra money. Papa was buried at sea because he used to be in the Navy and that's what they do sometimes. There's no such thing as mermaids. Papa is gone, and he's not coming back." Joe said all this very fast, perhaps in hopes that maybe the words wouldn't sting as much. "Look, I know Papa meant a lot to you. He meant a lot to all of us. And you being so young, I can't even imagine how hard all this is for you. But I can't, I mean, for you to go on believing that he's down there, at the bottom of the ocean with a bunch mermaids having the time of his life? It's just not healthy, and it makes me nervous that one day you'll go in looking for him."

        Joe finally turned to look at his brother. Patrick gaze was steady, unblinkingly set on nothing in particular. He didn?t flinch, or cry, he just sat there like a crestfallen statue. It broke Joe's heart.

        "I'm sorry, kid. I know this is rough." He briefly rested his callused hand on Patrick's skinny, protruding shoulder. Patrick didn't shake him off.

        Joe stood up and brought the boat engine back to life. They continued on their way back to the dock. When they got there, Patrick helped Joe tie up the boat like he always had, but did it without the usual fidgety spring in his step. He moved slowly and deliberately.

        "Hey, Joe?" Patrick asked after all his regular duties were finished, "I'm gonna go for a walk on the beach, OK?"

        "Sure thing, buddy," Joe smiled. It was the least he could do.

        Patrick stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. His scratchy sweater was pushed up to his elbows. His head was bowed. The tan leather tongues of his hiking boots, which he wore without socks and without laces, flopped around aimlessly as he walked.

        About halfway down the beach he stopped to turn and look at the ocean. The sky was azure and cloudless; the water was still and impossibly blue.

        Patrick looked down. Not two inches from the toe of his boot there was a sand dollar, perfectly round and whole. His grandmother must not have seen it this morning. He picked it up and held it between his fingers. It was bone dry and a little warm. Gently he pressed it between his hands, feeling the markings around the tops with the tips of his fingers. For a moment, he just held it. Then he cocked his arm back and threw it as hard as he could into the water.

        He turned and walked back towards the house before he could see where it had landed.

Why I Blog

So I'm a writer.
Well, OK, no I'm not, but I write a lot and I am studying to be a writer so I guess that makes me an aspiring writer who has never actually made any attempts to publish anything.

But I do write a lot.

However, my bursts of inspiration come at sporadic intervals. Sometimes it's at my apartment in Dover and other times it's in the middle of class or on the bus or in the library or on the way to class or in the middle of the night or what have you.

When those bursts of inspiration DO come, I usually try to jot down whatever I can whenever I can on whatever I can find. As a result, my current portfolio is all over the place. Thus, when I get ideas for improvement or things I would like to edit on my current pieces, I sometimes find that I cannot get at what I want because I have it saved somewhere or tucked away or I can't get access to it. For instance, if I am in the library and suddenly think of an idea I have to tweak one of my poems I find that I can't get at it because the poem is saved onto my laptop in my apartment.

So, I thought, blogging. That's good. So wherever I have internet I can get access to the stuff I've written because I have posted it on a blog. I can copy, paste, edit, re-copy, paste again, and save. Voila! Instant organization!

So I will be posting things here as I finish them/am working on them. And, in the meantime, you all can read my stuff and tell me what you think of it!

Poetry Portfolio

Half Jewish

On friday evenings at sundown
my torso attends sabbath
at the local synagogue despite the fact
that my right elbow just uses
yom kippur as an excuse
to take a day off work and my
collarbone chose not to have
a barmitzvah because hebrew lessons
interfered with baseball practice but the
bone that juts out slightly from my
left wrist still feels guilty about
that time the chinese restaurant
accidentally served a bowl of pork
fried rice and I didn’t stop eating it even
after realizing what it was, meanwhile
my legs wake up early sunday
mornings and put on a modest skirt
to attend services at st. mike’s where
they have all the latin rites
completely memorized but
choose not to take communion
because the scar on my right knee cannot
forgive all that business with
the new pope and is seriously
considering converting
to buddhism
even though my left hip insists
that it is much more complicated
than those chai-drinking
yoga-mat-toting-soccer-moms
seem to realize when they
compare their ‘namastes’ after their
shopping carts collide in front of the
organic frozen foods section of
the local supermarket before
they meander past the butchery
where various deities are
carefully selecting their favorite
portions of my body wrapped tightly
in saran so they can fry me in a pan and
serve me on a plate with a side of starch
for supper.
***

Grandmother

Who is she
this prominent subject
in our tales and anecdotes
of familial familiarity
that left us all bruised and
bloodied in the wake of
her absence?
Where is she
hiding among all
these recipes hand written
on browning butter-
scented notecards with
disembodied thumbprints
stenciled in wheat-flour
within the margins?
Why is she
carving notes of
goodbye to herself
into the deep muddy
swamp banks of her
befuddled memory
with broken sticks and
warm pebbles fished out from the
bottoms of her shoes?
What is she
in relation to
who I am and
what I am
and what I will be
and did she have a part
in the formation of any
of these parts of me?
***

Plastics.
You said in your last letter
that all you want out of life
is to sit around
and read books.
Hang in there—
soon it will all be over
and you’ll have the rest of your life to read books
and there will be no rush.

I wish I could go back to when I hadn't read so many books
so I could read them for the first time.
I read most of my books—
the best books—
when I was traveling through Darjeeling in my twenties—
there was a view of Everest through the clouds—
terrifying—
why anyone would try to climb it—
I stayed at a British hotel
a renovated temple—
there were long strands of orange blossoms
white faced monkeys were swinging from the branches
and some long-haired girls
from California—
around eighteen years old
wearing white wool shawls
lobbing a shuttlecock back and forth—
I would see them later
at dinner
with their chaperone
and Tantric yogi—
a guy in his late sixties wearing a giant diamond on one hand—
all in white wool shawls
and dipping spoons
in their water glasses.
I learned that, among other things
the girls were learning how to have
erotic experiences with the yogi without climaxing.
I looked at them in a different light after that.

Meanwhile
I was sketching elephant skeletons
and reading a paperback
of George Eliot's Middlemarch––
700 pages––
and I was tearing off pages
and leaving them behind as I went
because I was carrying two months of stuff on my back in a mailbag––
a shirt and skirt and jeans and a dress and an extra pair of shoes and 2,000 dollars in cash stuffed under my clothes.

That was a long time ago.
since then I have read novels slowly,
as if living inside them,
to break up my quotidian life.

Love,
Auntie Kathy

Shenanigans

Bogie is curled up in the fetal position snoring loudly and drooling all over the glass pane of the passenger window. I’m going 90 down a deserted road in the middle of nowhere with my hands tightly clenched on the steering wheel; I have literally not seen another car in days. On my left hand side I notice a gigantic billboard advertising “Barney Smith’s Toilet Seat Museum.” Ten minutes later I completely lose my shit.

We just stole a car.

And a Rolex.

And a pair loafers.

And a television.

And a computer.

And some original paintings.

And silverware.

And a lot of jewelry.

And about twenty-five bottles of expensive booze.

And a wooden crate filled with fifty jars of imported caviar, which we still have because the soup kitchen refused to accept it because it was too weird.

And a ton of other shit that we didn’t even want but we just took anyway because we felt like it.

Suddenly my heart starts pounding so fast I’m afraid it’s going break through my sternum. My palms start sweating and the back of my shirt is even stickier than usual. My mouth feels like it’s filled with cotton balls and I start silently hyperventilating. I keep checking the rearview mirror, expecting flashing lights or sirens or eighty squad cars or a helicopter or something. Overcome with debilitating paranoia my vision suddenly goes gray.

Bogie is still sleeping like a baby, completely oblivious to my sudden mental breakdown. I slowly pull the car over to the side of the road, trying to keep my breathing in check. I park the car, throw open the door, run to a small grassy plot by the side of the road, collapse onto all fours and vomit like my life depends on it.

*

The two boys sit silently; their arms are covered up to their elbows in magenta slime. The blonde boy has his hands on his knees, leaving long traces of pink sludge all over the fronts of his jeans. The darker boy is occupying his attention by trying to remove traces of pink substance out from under his fingernails.

A squat man with a tweed blazer and square glasses peers at them with an expression of heartbreakingly pathetic earnestness.

“I’m sorry,” the darker boy says, finally tearing his attention away from his fingernails, “what was the question?”

The squat man in the tweed jacket sighs and shakes his head, then stands to turn and look out the window with his arms crossed. It’s a maneuver so deliberately choreographed that it could only have been imitated from a movie about teachers that care too much. “I just don’t understand why you boys keep pulling stunts like this.”

The blonde boy guffaws while attempting to raise his hand in a sarcastic knee slap but finds that his hand is glued to the fronts of his jeans. He eventually manages to separate himself after a long struggle and an obnoxious, wet sticky ‘pop.’ The darker boy shoots him a look.

“Mr. Fuller, in our defense, our stunts really aren’t that bad…”

“I’m sure the owner of the car you vandalized would disagree with you,” the man turns, now revealing a smug grin that threatens to split his face in half. The blonde boy bristles, ready to lunge but the darker one glares again. It’s obvious that they’ve done this before.

“The owner of vehicle we vandalized,” the dark boy says slowly, obviously trying to keep his voice level, “is a kid named Tony Fortin. Heard of him?”

“The quarterback,” the tweed man says automatically.

The blonde boy snorts “Exactly.”

“Yesterday Tony tried to chase down a couple freshmen with his new truck. He left tire marks in the grass next to playground, you can check it if you don’t believe us.”

“Well that hardly seems like a good reason to….”

“I’m sorry, you must not have heard us,” the blonde boy shouts, visibly agitated “we just told you that he tried to run over people with his car. For fun. Run over. Kids. With car.”

The squat man chews the inside of his cheek thoughtfully. He retrieves a pen and a piece of paper. “What freshmen?” he asks with his pen poised.

“Jack Ingraham and Christian Shephard.”

The squat man smiles and puts his pen down, “Now, now, I happen to know Mr. Ingraham and Mr. Shephard pretty well and they have been known to tell some pretty tall tales.”

“Lying about a dog eating your homework is different than lying about some fucktard trying to kill you with his Daddy’s Ford.”

“Besides, they didn’t tell us about it. We saw it with our own eyes.”

“We saw, Tony. Chasing around a couple of kids. In a truck.”

“He almost hit one of them.”

“He dinged Jack’s arm with his mirror.”

“Christian was crying. He was terrified.”

“About 50 people saw it.”

“They were just standing around the parking lot.”

“Taking pictures on their cell phones.”

“We called the police.”

“Tony drove off when he heard the sirens.”

“Officer Doherty said there wasn’t enough evidence. Then he gave Jack an ice pack for his arm.”

“No one else was willing to take care of it.”

“We had to make sure it never happened again.”

“I would have done something about it,” the man says, defensively.

The blonde boy laughs again. “Do you have any idea what kind of face you made when we told you who he tried to run over? Jack and Christian might not be honor students, but they don’t deserve to get run over by a truck.”

“In front of their school…”

“While other people point and laugh.”

“So I guess, to answer your question, Mr. Fuller, we ‘keep pulling stunts like this’ because if we don’t do something kids like Tony Fortin get away with stunts like that…”

“…while the administration turns a blind eye…”

“…because he can throw a football.”

“Last year Tony and the rest of the football ogres got drunk and threw a log at a moving Mercedes…”

“…got off with a warning.”

“Six months ago he got caught smoking weed in the woods behind our neighborhood with a bunch of middle school girls…”

“…he had to sit out of practice for a couple days. He still played in the State Championship.”

“Yesterday he tried to crush a couple of innocent kids under his truck…”

“…so we covered his car in magenta slime.” The boys both start grinning maniacally.

“So I guess what we’re trying to say here is…”

“…we pull our little stunts…”

“…because you just sit back and do nothing…”

“…while kids like Tony Fortin go around destroying other peoples’ property…”

“…convincing little girls to get high so he can start molesting them…”

“…maiming kids he considers inferior just for sport….”

“…because you’re too chicken shit to do anything about it.”

“Mr. Fuller, you suspended us for building a trampoline in the library last year…”

“…’destruction of property’” the blonde boy imitates the squat man’s patronizing tone, waving his finger around erratically “is a serious business, boys.”

“But Tony threw a log at a moving car. He threw. A fucking log. At a car.”

“And I just can’t help but notice that kids like us keep getting in trouble while kids like Tony get away with murder in this town. Do you have any idea why that is?”

The boys both stare at Mr. Fuller, whose face has transformed to a series of gradient hues varying from scarlet to purple.

“The thing is, Mr. Fuller, the thing that separates us” The dark boy gestures to himself and his accomplice, “from Tony is that we don’t do bad shit. We are not bad people, but we are constantly being vilified for one reason or another…”

“…because Tony has something that we don’t have…”

“…and do you have any idea what that thing is, Mr. Fuller?”

The two boys sit silently, staring expectantly and the small, squat, blotchy man in tweed behind the desk.

The dark boy leans forward, fixing the man with an unblinking gaze, “The thing we don’t have,” the dark boy says slowly, “is ‘money.’”

*

My insides are acid and there are stress tears running down my face. I’m taking huge gasping breaths, heaving dry air because there’s nothing left in my stomach.

Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck fuck fuck my life is over. There is nowhere to go from here and there is no turning back. There is no way in hell we’re going to get away with this.

I hear footsteps behind me and I spin around. Bogie is standing about ten feet away from me, barefoot and bleary eyed.

“You OK man?”

My attempt at recovery just debilitates me even more. I cough desperately trying to catch my breath.

“Fine” I wheeze.

Bogie looks around the thick woods and the deserted road. “Where the fuck are we?”

I look around. “We’re about twenty miles away from the Barney Smith Toilet Seat Museum,” I say.

“So, Texas?”

“Yeah, probably.”

Bogie stuffs his hands in his pockets while he continues to take in the sights, “Hey man, is it cool if I drive for a while?”

“Yeah, sure. I need some sleep.” I throw Bogie the keys and he catches them in his left hand.

“Ready to go?”

“Just a sec,” I say. I take a big deep breath and then vomit one last time into the dirt, “OK I’m ready now,” I say wiping my mouth.

“Dude, that was fucking disgusting. Warn me next time.”

“Sorry.”

We make our way back to the car in silence. Bogie climbs into the driver’s seat and rubs his hands greedily over the dashboard.

“Next stop: Toilet Seat Museum!” Bogie says as the car jumps to life, “Hey!” he turns toward me, “think they’ll want any caviar?”

“Worth a shot.”

“I bet people in Texas don’t even know what caviar is.”

“You didn’t know what it was until, like, three days ago.”

“Yeah but that was before I became all sophisticated and shit.”

“Well then maybe you should eat some.”

“There is absolutely no goddamn way I will ever eat that dank substance,” Bogie states.

“Yeah,” I say, cautiously sniffing the lid of one of the unopened jars, “should we have refrigerated it? It’s pretty pungent.”

Bogie shrugs and slams on the gas pedal as we jerk away from the corner. I glance over at him; his left arm is balanced on the edge of the steering wheel while he uses his right to change gears. His posture is slouched casually and his face is contorted in concentration. He pushes a pair of smoky aviators up the bridge of his nose.

“Are those Ray Bans?” I ask.

“What? Oh, yeah. Found them in the glove compartment when we were passing through Mississippi.”

“Not bad,” I say. I lean my seat back as far as it will go, trying to adjust myself into a comfortable sleeping position. “You know what, man? I think this lifestyle suits me.”