“Just Another Day” by M.E. Purfield
7:28 a.m. Geneva grabbed Roosevelt’s shoulder as he stood at his locker and turned him around. He rolled his eyes and went back to rummaging through his books. “We need to talk,” she said . . .
7:28 a.m. Geneva grabbed Roosevelt’s shoulder as he stood at his locker and turned him around. He rolled his eyes and went back to rummaging through his books. “We need to talk,” she said . . .
Here I am, ten minutes after five in the a.m., standing on Fowler Street, one of Trenton’s meanest, a shit-eating grin on my face. How did I get here? It’s like this . . .
I was seventeen in 1965. The “Sally Bumps” gang hung out at Vinny’s Bar. Their main racket was stealing copper from the telephone company . . .
I had talked myself into a luxurious three-bedroom apartment in a classic Tudor building in Jersey City. It was 1969. Back then, a suit and a little grooming would suffice if accompanied by a few months’ rent . . .
In 1965 we were just short of driving age. Our mode of locomotion was hitchhiking . . .
The train lurched forward like a giant hiccup. Holiday awoke from his hiatus, opening his eyes just enough to make out light and dark shapes. You coulda blindfolded him with dental floss . . .
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