EVERYTHING AND I MEAN EVERYTHING is coming up roses. There's the new job at the Post Office, which all right is a job and so sucks . . . but it's what gives me the scratch.
My number didn't come up. Waiting for the day proved excruciating, but of all the moans all over town there was none coming from my house. I've got a new lease on life, in manner of speaking . . . so that's what gives me the inspiration.
There's Patty, my peppermint. Cool and crisp like driving snow.
When Carol left Livermore I was the one who knew she'd stay gone, and the only one who didn't have to figure out it was going to be for good. But that's the last I heard for a while because you can be damn sure her parents were not hot on me in the first place and even blamed me in their ignorance: since when does skin color make somebody a runaway-maker? If they looked past the tan they would have seen a man who was ready to settle down, get a job, and treat their girl all right. Doesn't make a difference . . . that may have been worse than losing her, having their daughter move down the street with a darky in that too small, white bread, old mine town.
I'm hip to where she's been hanging out under another name. Look her up in Laguna Beach. Sunshine. If the dreams keep up, I'm going to have to go see her.
