Bitches With Problems (Sneak Preview)

Bitches With Problems by Bridget RyanBitches With Problems is a wild ride through a cautionary tale of how one young woman barely made her way through the drug filled music explosion of the 1970’s. Set on the Canadian edge of the Detroit River, the journey across that iconic border, from Windsor to that magnetic American city, an alluring metropolis, on the verge of collapse. This is a harrowing journey from one side of recovery to the next, where relapses, rebirth and a life lived in the moment combine to show us how to survive the impulses of youth and all its addictive promise.

Excerpt from Bitches With Problems:

 


LOCOMOTION

I told Mary I didn’t want to hitchhike all the way to Banff, that late at night.  I mean, it was at least a two-hour trip and we were a pair of unaccompanied young females, and that, a Barbie-type scenario, did not make.  Even I knew that, and it was generally agreed that I had no sense.  So, there we be, thumbs out and long hairs flowing in the dark autumn wind.  Inevitably a car stopped within seconds and backed up, just a little too eager for me.  But hey, who cares when you’re young and witless.  Three men peered through the grimy windows expectantly and I guessed we passed muster, because without a second thought, the doors swung open and we jumped into the car and roared off, on the greatest misadventure of my life.

The three men were in varying degrees of disarray, not that Mary noticed.  There was an older gentleman who called himself Mike, but the other two guys kept calling him Don, which I found slightly disconcerting.  He was in his fifties, maybe, and I couldn’t help but wonder what he was doing with these two heavy metal types.  Neither one of them, looked in too good of shape.

When we finally reached Banff, unmolested, I wanted to go back to our place pronto, but Mike/Don insisted we go to the Banff Springs Hotel, where he had rented a suite with promises of champagne, caviar and wild abandon.  I was not in the mood, not being particularly attracted to any one of these desperadoes, but to my dismay, Mary had somehow developed a serious interest in Mike/Don, which was completely unimaginable to me, but who was I to cast stones?  Anyway, she begged and pleaded and even offered to pay me, if only I would please, please go to the party with her, because she would not go alone, nice girls that we were.  She wanted to get to know this guy with the big mouth and lots of money (or so he said).  I was becoming very apprehensive.

So now, we’re at this bizarre party and this Mike character really had rented a huge suite at the Banff Springs Hotel.  If you’ve ever been there you know what I’m talking about.  Big bucks and lots of ‘em.  There were tables loaded with delicacies and booze everywhere, with people coming out of the woodwork.  I met a woman named Margie from New York City and much to my surprise, she too, had joined the worship cult of this creep.  It was disturbing.

I should mention why I was so leery of this guy.  He said his name was Michael Rutherford Jr., (don’t you know), celebrated author of “Five Easy Pieces” and that he lived on Long Island, New York.  He carried this dubious looking black briefcase, chained to his wrist, everywhere he went, even to the john.  I could not help but wonder whether he was carrying a weapon, in there.  God, so jaded, at the ripe old age of 20.

In the meantime, I’m still trying to deal with Mary, who at this point in the evening was ready to bear this man’s child.  I mean, have a little pride, why don’t ya?  The guy was grotesque.

Soon he began making suggestions that were becoming so absurd and so out of this world that even now, I cringe.  He wanted to take everyone to San Francisco.  Now.  In private planes.  He would rent them.

With the aid of Huxley’s favorite drug and against every lesson I had ever learned in my short life, I got caught up.  I still had grave misgivings about this mysterious stranger but under the influence, the brainwash began.

Mary started to launch an all out attempt in convincing me to drive to the airport in Calgary, with these miscreants and fly off in chartered Cessna’s in the middle of the night, to God knows where.  It’s so maniacal, I do it.  She bails out just as I climb into the car.  On our way, out of the hotel, Mr. Rutherford asks a young bellhop and another woman who worked at the front desk, along for the ride.  They both quit their jobs on the spot and away we went.

All the way to the airport I keep changing my mind.  I know that I can’t possibly fly down to the States with this madman, without something macabre happening.  To me.  I try to get out at the first gas station we stop at and hide in the bathroom, but again, I am dissuaded.  I am told I am a wimp and they ask me if I’ll spend the rest of my life dodging such incredible opportunities.

Finally, we arrive at the airport.  It’s about 4 A.M. when he disappears into the office.  The next thing I know, I’m flying over the Rocky Mountains, with the four of us in one plane and the rest in another.  By this time, Mr. Michael Rutherford Jr., has picked up on my deep and abiding doubts and I get the feeling he’s none too pleased.  He watches me all the time, which creates such a feeling of alarm within me, that I can hardly contain my panic.

We reach Billings, Montana a couple hours later and it strikes me as being quite weird that we have no problem entering the States.  Yet, another mysterious development, which I find discomfiting, since here we are, crossing an international border in the early hours of the morning and the customs officers have no interest in us, whatsoever.  Two of our parties strongly resemble homicidal drug addicts and still, we sail right through as if we were Mother Theresa and entourage.  They don’t even ask for our passports.

The first thing we do is get hotel rooms and I am a little adverse to the idea of having to share a room with Mike/Don.  He very gallantly rents a room just “for the ladies” and he picks the lucky little bellhop to bunk with him.  The other guys get the last room.  Off we go, to our respective rooms and it seems like just a few minutes elapse before we hear loud thumps which seem to be emanating from the room next door, occupied by none other than Mike and the tiny bellhop.

It is now, some eight hours, since we’ve left the relative sanity of Canada and there is beginning to be rumblings within the ranks.  It seems not everyone is feeling quite so cocky the next morning.

I’ve made friends with the two homicidal drug addicts (of course) and we three seem to be saner then the rest.  Stan and Greg begin to share my concern that all is not well in paradise, and that old Mike/Don may have a different agenda up his long black sleeve.

We secretly convene at the local saloon.  By this time, we have agreed that something is not right with Michael Rutherford Junior.  What’s with the briefcase and those loud bumps in the night?  Is he some sicko fetish dude or something even too to fearful to contemplate?  Why does he keep harkening on and on about his friendship with the Kennedy’s?  Why does he keep telling us that he has pictures of that Kennedy kid who had his leg cut off?  Now, that’s crazy.

The next day we meet in the restaurant and Mike and his briefcase host a small soiree featuring bottles of pink champagne, “for the ladies”.  We’re talking 9 A.M. here.  Soon he begins a long, involved saga about the death of his wife in the fires of San Francisco, which to my untrained ear, seems to me to be about a century off.  As he becomes more and more loquacious, he begins to boast about his very close personal relationship with Teddy Kennedy.  Well, now I’ve heard it all.  It’s all getting a bit too much.  First of all, this guy looks like a tall Charlie Manson and secondly, why is he hauling all of us around in private planes and spending tons of money on hotels, if he doesn’t have some dark, grim intentions.

That day we fly to Jackson Hole, Wyoming.  It’s a famous ski resort for the very rich and just happens to be inaccessible by public transport.  The town itself is all laid out like some old West ghost town with wooden boardwalks and hitching posts and all the doors to the different establishments, swing in.  There is nobody around because it’s October and the fat cats have yet to arrive.

Each day I wake up a little more neurotic then the day before and soon I’m making frenzied phone calls to my boyfriend back home, who happens to be a journalist and who tells me in no uncertain terms to get the hell out of there, fast.  In the meantime, he decides to trace the infamous Michael Rutherford Jr. and find out if I am travelling with an imposter, or what.  He calls back that evening and in a voice filled with terror, informs me that he has, in fact, spoken to the real Mr. Rutherford, not 10 minutes ago, at his home on Long Island.  Furthermore, he has divulged the whole sordid tale to my parents who are frantically calling the RCMP, to come to Wyoming and rescue me.  It feels as if things are getting dangerously close to some terrible finale.

I organize an emergency meeting in our room and tell everyone I was right all along (I make sure to include this fact first) and that dear old Mike is not the man he appears to be.  Suddenly, we notice his briefcase hidden behind a chair.  He had gone out for cigarettes three hours before and for some reason, had neglected to chain it to his wrist.  I want to open that briefcase.  I need to open that briefcase.  I can’t stand it any longer.  Before we can break into it, there’s a loud banging at the door.  We’re all so freaked out, nobody will open it.  At last, Stan gets up and opens the door.  A giant police officer with a Smokey the Bear hat fills the door.

In a loud booming voice, he demands to know whether we recognize the suspect in the squad car.  We peek through the curtains and lo and behold, if it isn’t Mike/Don sitting in the back seat, with a shotgun pointed at his head.

The big cop informs us that the perp is under arrest for something he declines to divulge.  After they screech away, we try desperately to jimmy the locked briefcase.  It finally pops open and unbelievably, there it is.  A photograph of Teddy Kennedy and his son with Mr. Mike/Don himself.  Quelle astonishmant!

Following this revelation, we are flabbergasted.  Why did the cops have a gun at his head?  That seemed a little severe, unless?  What crime had he committed?  Who the hell was he?  One thing was certain.  In the unlikely event, he was released that night, he must not, I repeated, not, be allowed back into our room to get the case unless there was a cop standing beside him.  He was obviously some kind of dangerous psychopath if the cops had to hold a gun to his head.  We fell into an uneasy sleep late that night after his groupies assured the rest of us, that no way, would they open that door.

I awoke to him sitting on my bed inches from my face, demanding to know why, why, why I had never liked him.  He accused me of calling the cops on him.  He was crying and holding a butter knife in his hand and tapping it against my leg.  I thought this was it.  I was dead.  Very soon.  After the longest 10 minutes, I’ve ever had the displeasure to endure, he very abruptly jumps up and runs out of the room, briefcase in hand.  The women are screaming, “Michael, Michael don’t go.”

I could not believe them.  Were they fooking nuts?  I was just about murdered (albeit with a butter knife) and these crazed women wanted him to come back and “talk about it.”  I never did find out who opened the door that night and let him in, but I have my suspicions.   So, there we were, stranded in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. I have a picture of all us standing outside our motel room, looking exceedingly pale.  My parents wired me the dough and I flew out later that day.

Six months later, I got a call from the F.B.I. in Florida.  They traced me to my parents’ home, somehow.  I wondered how they got my name.  They wanted to know if I knew a Michael Rutherford Jr.  I said no.  Not the real one.

 


five bitches in a pack

1 Bridget (Jet)

the leader of the pack – that old song

but we were girls

in tennis clothes

high school uniforms

sweaters with buttons

pinks and pastels

on our way to hell

in small cars – in pursuit of

big boys playing little men

love 15

love 30

love lost

love won

2 Mia

when being pounded on the tennis court

my best friend, Mia

having a great time

smoking pot and taking wild crazy rides

in the county at night

she had a new boyfriend – Neal – we called him “the pusher man”

the savage and uncivilized

part of my psyche

chained to the stuffy world of tennis for so long

another nature beckoned

which craved excitement

and yearned to be free

escape was

what I wanted

what I craved

sick of competition

in the tennis world – little did I know

battle beyond the court would be just as harsh.

but it was a helluva lot more fun – at first

Mia had been my best friend since grade nine

we were drawn to each other because we were both

a little docile

a little introverted

and I like – a little docile – a little introverted

I like to think, a little deep

we were the same size, which is important

to best friends.

like Cathy and Patty

‘walked alike talked alike…what a crazy pair’

we could trade clothes

Mia, a sweet and gentle girl

when she wore her little cheerleading outfit

(even stoned on acid) – the whole school loved her

Mia was loyal and stuck by my side

spent every free moment together

discussing issues of great

Importance…to us – we talked about it all

but boys were our number one topic

and where and how to get drugs

and how much money we had to get drugs

and what nights we were going to do the drugs

every Tuesday we had our meeting in the cafeteria

the five of us all of us deciding where when what how who do we ask –

about drugs, about boys, about boys with drugs about drugs and boys

still trapped in Windsor – Catholic girls

clocking Ian at an Alice Cooper concert

at Walkerville, an uptown school

I liked him a lot and so

we infiltrated the hip guys group

and never looked back

at our own high school –

swallowing mushrooms and smoking hash

Mia still involved with “the pusher man”

we got all our drugs from him

straight looking guy and very friendly

we were the second tier in the drug world of my high school

first tier were very wealthy girls chipping heroin at 16

of the five girls, I ran with

they all went off

to do normal things and married doctors

lawyers – except me

3 Gabrielle

by the end of grade ten

we had made a few more friends

who shared our sensibilities

Gabrielle – so exceptionally

endowed, all the boys

would flock around

at football games and

everywhere we went

they never had a chance

she was too smart

to fall for it

indifferent to the attention she received

If we could only put 

your head, on my body

we could storm Hollywood.

Gabrielle would tell me

We could make it all the way to the

top, baby!

She had an X-rated body

and didn’t like it

when I stood at the end of the hallway at Brennan

and called her 38, she hid

sensible and grounded

not one to take any risks

or chances with chancers

if too high she would go home

we took that walk on the wild side

She never went near the edge

4 Susan

tall

large breasts

gorgeous

boy’s crazy about her

funniest thing I saw her do

brought a knee-high guy

to our high school dance

 

Susan – politically astute – resident intellectual

the third member of our little group

denizen cynic and an unforgiving misanthrope

She kept us grounded with her extended stream

of wickedly pessimistic observations

about our insipid, private, Catholic school

our stupid, plaid, school uniforms

those uniforms bore the brunt

of her disdain – and most of her most caustic remarks

they were wool and had to reach below our knee

it was torture wearing those

Godforsaken kilts in hot weather

our parents forced us to attend private

school and shelled out good money

that we might enjoy the oppressive privilege

little did they know

God couldn’t help us now

5 Laura

Laura – the fifth and final

component of our secret circle

the most romantic of us all

so slender (much to my chagrin)

and beautiful and oh, so fragile

had a bad habit of constantly falling madly

in love – invariably crying

over one guy or another

Laura could be intense

so, we just tried

to sustain her through every affair

of her young and delicate heart

She loved to love

but seemed happiest

when she was miserable

so there we were

a five pack of crazed

Catholic schoolgirls

 

1 the bookish athlete

2 the cute cheerleader

3 the buxom bombshell

4 the skeptic

5 our fragile little love addict

all dressed up in our appalling Catholic uniforms

a group most unlikely to infiltrate

the dark underworld of sex, drugs, rock and roll

God’s plan somehow brought us all together

as we developed an intense need

to explore the forbidden

Nobody could help us now.


COTTAGE 13
A Bette Davis Greeting 

“The condition of alienation, of being asleep, of being unconscious, of being out of ones mind, is the condition of the normal man.”–R.D. Laing

none of us there
dealt with life very well
some less than others
the day I arrived, the rain, heavy and dark

long drive
into the estate
enough to scare
the shit out of me

clearly it had
scared the shit
out of a lot of geese
long before I got there

felt like we
were just driving
along a quaint country road
never seemed to end

becoming more ominous – intimidating
the further we drove
like opening credits
for the gothic thriller my life had become

driven by imagination and addiction
driven along
through miles
and miles of thick forest

when finally we found the place
dark and forbidding
half expecting to see bats flying
out of the belfry

lightning flashing – exploding in the sky
Bette Davis, greeting us at the door
(the older Bette Davis, face all wrinkled
but beautiful in a ghastly sort of way)

her head about to disappear inside
her smoke framed mouth
smoking furiously
with a sinister smile and the famous, “What a dump!”

dripping from her creased red lipstick
running like little webbed streams through her upper lip
becoming deep rouge rivers to her nostrils
Cottage 13 and surrounding environs: a real dump –

a great, big, beautiful dump.
the romantic beauty of the lovely, leafy laneway
turning into a miles-long ordeal
trying to imagine a new beginning

with too much to endure
before we sleep
before any new beginnings
could hope to begin

cars, like sanity, are driven –
driven past all these huge, old
mansion-like structures
architectural madness mixed with mirth and metaphor

housed in our brains – red brick matter
ancient, moss-covered, gothic sense
made out of
mortar and madness

fifteen cottages with fancy porticos
adorning massive columns
pseudo-Victorian mansions
ivy-covered with tunnels connecting each ward

tunnels of not enough love
cliche’s for the kooky
to adorn our minds
asking ourselves if this is at all a good route to follow

this decaying adornment, this labyrinth
to run through but never getting to the exit without bumping
into the same dead end a few hundred times
without realizing you have to fly right out of there

like Icarus – the father cliche – Daedalus egging his son on
we all know how that turned out
wax winged boy and doting dad had some great ideas
too bad it all turned to goose shit

fifteen identical buildings sinking into crap filled madness
was I the lucky one getting number 13
all grouped together beside the lake
surrounded by  fields of crap

crap left behind by
winged creatures tethered – caught – in an orbital maze
finding the good sense god gave geese
to fly right the fuck out of there.
out of Cottage Thirteen…

Cottage 13

“Surely, all who are locked in boxes of different sizes should have their hands held.”

Anne Sexton

you never wanna spend six months
in a place called Cottage 13
not if you can help it
of course, nobody in there, could help it…

never wanting to admit
we were actually in
a mental hospital
who would?

nurses pretending
we were all gathered together
in a “therapy unit.”
the rest of the nuts who needed drugs

were kept under lock and key
somewhere else on the grounds
people don’t like to call themselves nuts
but nuts sounds way better than insane

we all had our reasons
but we were nuts – certifiable
if we hadn’t been, we wouldn’t have been there
now, would we?

Cottage 13 – a big mansion facing the ocean
like something right out of “The Great Gatsby”
not “The Great Gatsby” of the early chapters
where Daisy and Jay think they might have a second chance;

“The Great Gatsby” after the swimming pool scene
once the place has gone to pot
and the head of the house
has bled in the pool

but at first glance
even with its ominous tone
slightly decaying air
it really was beautiful

“What do you think you are, for Chrissake, crazy or somethin’? Well you’re
not! You’re not! You’re no crazier than the average asshole out walkin’ around on the streets and that’s it.”–Ken Kesey, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest

try it – squint a little
imagine all your memories
far more positive
than they really were

Cottage 13
and the surrounding grounds were, well –
really quite beautiful
from a warped, romantic perspective

despite having
to avoid piles
of goose shite
everywhere you walked

beautiful grounds covered in crap
just like my memories
but there’s a silver lining, right
tell me there’s a silver lining

I’m still looking for it
maybe I’ll find it here, in my shit covered memories –
those beautiful grounds, covered in feces
once in a while one would come wandering
this crazy bastard, screaming he was Jesus Christ.
would spot me and shout, “and there she goes – it’s Mary Magdalene”

always smiling seemed pretty harmless
I’d see him out there, me in my sunglasses, even in the rain
with my rubber boots; even in the sunshine,
there we’d be: Mary Magdalene and Jesus Christ, trying to find our way

I have found it easier to identify with the creatures who verge upon Hysteria, who were frightened of life, who were desperate to reach out to another person. But these seemingly fragile people are the strong people really. –Tennessee Williams

wading through fields of goose shit
there were twenty-seven of us
all forced to live together in this weird
place by the sea

most of us had some serious personality problems
which is why we ended up in there in the first place
I guess it’s kind of mean of me to call us all crazy
even when I include myself

but crazy is it is always the first
word that comes to mind
when I think of that time
at Cottage 13

group therapy everyday
sitting on ugly couches
nurses in our group
so very pleased

when someone broke down
proof of a breakthrough
ready to deal with the pain
never felt comfortable

crying in front of others
so I kept my mouth shut
sat silently on the fringe
like some kind of ghoul

“The natural role of the twentieth-century man is anxiety.”
Norman Mailer

it wasn’t like the people who were trying to help
went out of their way to make us feel anything but crazy
some good people but generally speaking, everyone
staff and patients alike, were all a bit off

strong kind of crazy – Patsy Cline crazy –
song of the love loons
like good coffee
like the dark haired men

I learned to crave
strong and crazy
brawn and hazy
filtered though as the music and the booze played on

you could say that it was all a little off kilter
like a Gothic thriller, a film or a book
with half-crazed characters wandering through the
pages and the scenes and the goose poo

only difference was
we couldn’t just switch off the insanity
like old movies on a late night TV set

set on the night table – then switch off the light
just go to sleep
or wander out of the movie theatre –
taking all those images imbedded in your brain –
back into a normal life
learned one normal thing there
and so many other places
learned there’s
no such thing – no normal

something I should have seen coming
driven in that little Falcon
with my lovelorn first lover
headlong into life

“Normal” as fiction – like films or stories –
only exists on the page
something everyone tries to capture
call it their own kinda normal

some of us get there
more slowly than others
detoured by cottage 13


THE MAN IS NAKED
Just after landing a teaching job at the Foothills Indoor Tennis Club, in Calgary, I found a great place to live.  It was an old, enfeebled, Victorian house, complete with turrets and leaded glass windows. It was downtown, close to the club, the rent, an unbelievable two hundred dollars a month, for the ground floor flat. Strange as it may seem, after paying the landlord for the first months’ rent, he never came to collect the rent again, so I lived there for free.

Detroit Drawing by Rusty McCarthy
Detroit illustration

From the aerie, that was my bedroom, I could see through the ample glass of the French Doors, the stone steps descending to a grove of trees, their arching bows, a leafy canopy, shielding the sumptuous sanctuary of a lush garden. Such dense foliage cloaked the house that I could roam the grounds undetected, secure in the knowledge that I could not be seen and more importantly, to be living alone.

Home from the tennis club, by 2 p.m., I would slip into my bathing suit, head for my private Garden of Eden, set up my chaise longue in the sun, roll a joint, pour a glass of wine (or two), stretch out and listen to my favourite “Motown Soul”, (ever hopeful that my freckled skin would somehow tan).

My customary peace was shattered one hot Friday afternoon, by a loud knocking. I thought it must be the landlord because I had not told anyone, of my exact location. I hurriedly threw a shirt over my bathing suit and hustled through to the front door, neglecting to look through the peephole. I swung the heavy door open and there stood A Naked Man!

“Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God,” I squealed.

I slammed the door in his face and tore back through the house, closing drapes, locking windows and making sure the French doors were bolted. Shaken, I made my way to the phone and called the police.

I was frantic. Why was this guy standing on my front porch without a stitch? Did he just stroll down the street and happen to turn in at my house? He must have stashed his clothes in the bushes, knowing he could not be seen from the street.

I waited for the cops to come as I hastily downed another glass of wine. This could not be happening. It was surreal.

A second knock! A squint through the lens of the peephole revealed two detectives. I opened the door gingerly.

They asked me to step outside and began asking questions.

“What color was his hair?” smirked the first detective.

“I really didn’t get a good look at his hair.”

“Well, what color were his eyes?” they countered.

“I didn’t get a good look at his eyes, either,” I answered.

Snicker, snicker. They were laughing at me.

They began to look around the property and then advised me to get a friend to come and stay with me. I had just moved to the city and I did not know anyone.

The police assured me they would have a patrol car parked in front of my house and told me not to worry.

“Right,” I thought. “The naked maniac is probably going to come back here, in the middle of the night to murder me.”

Their theory was that someone had been watching me from a high-rise apartment, near my house and the appearance of my man was a one-off thing.

But not in my mind. The vision of my naked visitor haunted me night and day. I was sick with fear and the only relief I got came when I drank.

One morning I awoke to find the leaded glass windows throughout the house had been cut out. Apparently leaded glass is rare and fetched good money.

Just about the time I began feeling a little safer, I decided to go camping with two girls I had met through tennis.  As we were leaving, I noticed a woman moving into the flat on the top floor.  She was very fair with long blonde hair, freckled and the same height and size.  I was pleased that I would have an upstairs neighbour but she looked just like me! It was a little discomfiting but not about anything that I could put into words. It was strange that my doppelgänger was now living above me and at the same time I was pleased to have would have a neighbour upstairs. Life would be safe again.

When I got back to town, I took a cab home.  As soon as we turned the corner to my block, I could smell smoke and I saw the fire engines.

“What address didya want?” the cabbie asked me.

I could barely answer for fear it was my house that burned down. Sure enough, there is was, with no top half to the house left.

The turrets were gone and it was now a square block of smouldering wood. I got out of the cab and quivered my way toward the fireman standing before the front porch.

“I live here,” I sputtered.

“What happened?”

One of the fireman told me not to worry as the bottom of the house had not caught fire. He took me into the house and showed me the streaks of black soot running up and down the inside walls.

He took me to the top of the stairs. There was nothing left of the apartment. It was horrendous. My doppelgänger had not been home when the fire was set. Later, I found out, that two men had broken in and had soaked the walls and floors with gasoline and set the place alight.

She looked just like me.



ABARS

a somewhat seductive seedy bar

a swaggering elderly shambling hotel

the original rickety wooden tavern

kneeling on the grimy banks of the Detroit river

a honky-tonk bar!

the perfect dive bar with

pickled eggs and beef jerky

with booming jukebox

filled with great music

we riverside voyageurs

on hot summer nights

underage and undercover

we primped and wore lip gloss

white jeans with serious belts

trying to break the age 19 legal age image

we would connive and pass slack doormen

edging through to the back to regroup

sitting at the big round table

the table on the dance floor

the one furthest from the bar

an untouchable dream

for un-carded youth

we drank cokes and pitchers of beer

blissfully dancing with fervour

ABARS was the happening

place with all the cool bands

and all the cool guys

still scoping the room

older siblings.

who would surely escort us out by

our ears

drenched in the humid secrecy of lives

daring to be have lived life

too young,too soon

amid waves of youth

craving adulthood

in all the wrong places


 

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