You admit; you’re the obsessive type – born that way – every birthday your mom tells people you came out looking for work. You got it in your head you were going to skip grades and head straight to UCLA Summer school was the place.
But you also got it in your head that your life was slipping away – sixteen; over halfway to thirty. Grey hair – wrinkles – hard of hearing – staring off into space. All downhill. Big conflict – must be part of getting older. You can feel it. Typing class – easy grade – counsellor convinced you.
You and twenty others – clattering and a teacher who yells – she IS deaf – mid-term and typing a letter from Mr. Doe of the Acme Auto Supply Company – Dear Sir . . . – and you’re sitting next to the open window and it’s hovering in the 90s and there’s a breeze.
Smoggy breeze – stings your eyes. But tucked in there you smell Coppertone with maybe Zinc Oxide and maybe Chlorine – heading straight to your brain and staying there.
You drift off – you’re somewhere around Trancas – cooking oil, fries and frying shrimp – championship tan. Good times; last year. What happened to that guy? The one from Ventura? Said he was going to call – never did – fake i.d. – Boone’s Farm – great kisser. Said he was at UC Santa Barbara in the fall. Maybe you’ll go there. Forgot his name.
You missed the barking – class stopped typing – you didn’t hear it. Teacher stands in front of you as you keep hammering keys on a letter to nobody. Dear Sir . .and then gibberish. Teacher barking at you. Landed an F for the trouble. Class giggles.
You didn’t like Typing anyway – don’t see the point – you’ll never have to type anything for the rest of your life. Scratch Summer School – scratch skipping grades – scratch UC Santa Barbara.
Bus home – Number 7 – crammed with kids from the beach. Towels, wet hair and sand all over – Coppertone and seaweed. Heading east.
Back of the bus, the guy from Trancas – the good kisser – the one who never called.
Gets off at La Cienega – walks right past you – looks right through you. You’re gonna say something – no you’re not. Girlfriend with him – they’ve got plans – they don’t include you.
Get off at your stop and trudge the million miles home. Land in your room – collapse on the bed – turn on the radio.
Music fades in – you drift off, back to Trancas . . .at least for a half-hour.
Life sucks – music, not so much.
Here’s John Mack Flanagan from KHJ, August 16, 1975 to take your mind off things.
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