Soldier in Paradise: A Novel

By Steven S. Cullen

Soldier In Paradise is a novel depicting the human experience of life through the eyes of war. Th is fi ctional autobiography follows the trials and tribulations of one young mans journey out of childhood adolescence and into the prison of memories inescapable by any means. Th e struggle to forget the pain, wrestle with guilt, and relish the good that comes with moving on and starting a new life is one battle that continues to be fought by Veterans everyday. Steven S. Cullens evocative and vibrant writing leaves the reader poised to truly grasp the physical and emotional passage through life during and after Vietnam.

"Let each man hear his own music and live by it. Th e drums roll one way for one man, I guess, and another way for another. You have to listen to your own."- Audie Murphy

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 16, 2011
• ISBN: 9781463439620

Steven S. Cullen

Steven Cullen (1952-2010) decorated Bronze Star Veteran, writer, legal specialist, and educator was an east coast transplant from Greenville, R.I. raising his family in Tucson, AZ. Steven was stationed in the 25th Infantry Division at Fort Shafter in Honolulu, HI from 1979-1984 after his Vietnam Tour in 1971.

Book preview

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

For all who served in ‘Nam,

But especially for those still living

With the horror,

and

For my father, who knew all too well

The horror of war.

—S. S. Cullen

Chapter 1

There are certain things human beings

Are not permitted to know—

Like what we’re doing.

—William Burroughs

So, there I was: in lovely, downtown Providence after midnight, parked outside Skinny’s expecting to roll a queer. My first time, it was far from my usual Friday night out of sucking down sixteen-ounce cans of cheap Schlitz or Schafer somewhere in the woods. No, not tonight. Tonight, Jesus Christ, I was going to beat the shit out of some poor bastard for a few bucks.

I sat in the back of Angelo’s apple-red GTO, not wanting to be there and wondering why the hell I was. Russ sat beside me, and Paulie sat up front—their first time, too.

Angelo (Angie, Ange) razzed us. You cherries sure look nervous. Breathe, for Christ’s sake. What the hell are ya afraid of, some fucking homo? Mick, you wanna hit of this? He turned and offered me a half-pint of peach brandy over the back of the front seat. Peach brandy in June. He loved the shit. Not for me though. It tasted awful, like guzzling orange-flavored Romilar, cough syrup with codeine that was used recreationally at the time for its ability to impair, if you drank enough of it (and only through a straw).

My father said that Angelo was very Italian, you know, the dark skin/greasy hair/talks with his hands criteria. That he was, and handsome, too. Five-foot-nine, powerfully built with wide shoulders tapering to a flat, stomach over solid legs, dark eyes in a rugged face topped with thick, black hair. He was behind the wheel without any worry, having busted his cherry a long time ago when he rolled his first at fourteen. His cousin, Mario, had hooked him up with some very bad dudes from Federal Hill, the city’s nefarious Italian section. Yeah, and I mean nefarious, because The Hill was Mafia country. For six months now, Angelo had traveled regularly with his paisans, bushwhacking the homosexuals who frequented Skinny’s, bashing their heads in with their old Little League Louisville sluggers, right in the alley adjacent to their bar. Their meaning, as Angelo put it, those rip-roaring faggots who brazenly sashayed up the steps to Skinny’s. They had come to own Skinny’s, one of the few places they could go public.

Angelo had parked a couple of shop doors down from the alley entrance that began ten feet from Skinny’s front door. This section of the street was narrow and still cobblestoned, the roadway uneven and canted toward the front of the bar. There were some cars parked on both sides, and the street lamps cast a yellow haze over them. Skinny’s was a cruddy dive, seemingly held together precariously by walls of rust, its brick friable and copper colored, appearing oxidized like all the exposed chrome and steel in the little Rust Belt city on the bay.

Skinny’s was located a few blocks from the bus station on Weybosset Street and a mile from The Hill. The East Side—where the upscale Jews lived. Centrally located you’d say for the convenience of a certain socio-economic clientele who arrived by Greyhound or Trailways. Above the door sign for Skinny’s, the place boasted Narragansett beer signs—neon in two single-pane windows on either side of a piece-of-shit front door faded red.

While we waited, Angie filled us in. Most of Skinny’s patrons parked in a lot behind the esteemed establishment, but Skinny wouldn’t allow anyone to use the rear door. So, the regulars came and went by the front, and when they left, after hours of downing ‘Gansett—rotgut beer brewed right down the street at the massive brick brewery—they turned down the darkened alley and staggered through a hundred feet of shadows to the rear lot. And no matter how many times they got rolled on the way, Skinny, who was the bar’s four hundred pound owner, refused to make the rear door available. We said to Ange, explain that, will ya? Well… ends up that Skinny didn’t give a shit about his customers getting robbed because, one, Skinny was straight and didn’t care who took the faggots’ money, and, two—you go it—he took a piece of the roll. Yup, we had to pay Skinny off—that’s the deal.

I tipped the bottle a couple of times. Too sweet, but I felt better and passed the bottle to Russ, despite his preference. He passed it back to Ange. Russ took a rolled joint from his top pocket, fired it up with a silver Zippo lighter and took his pulls, the burning end glowing a charcoal red in the darkness with each draw. Russ wore black-rimmed glasses, which he kept poking back up on his nose with his middle finger. Dressed in chinos and a polo shirt, he was a very conservative looking pothead. He leaned forward, passing it up front to Paulie. Come. rrrhhh. on. come. rrrhhh. on, Russ choked out, the smoke still trapped in his lungs, then forcefully exhaled where the hell are these guys, anyhow? in a long plume of gray fog. We had been there almost an hour and hadn’t seen anyone enter or leave the bar.

The windows were down and Hendrix was on the eight-track, the volume low. The June night was balmy but moist and sticky, covering us in a cloak of paste. The smell of salt air wafting from the bay blended with the odor of petroleum emanating from the storage tanks near the docks a few blocks away. I liked the penetrating scent. Growing up, I visited the city often enough for the scent to become part of the season’s change as much as the sweet fragrance of apple blossoms in the orchards in our town. Ah, the potent combo of petroleum and the sea, its fumes like smelling salts reviving me from the cold, dead winters back to the warmth of a living spring.

Hey, Paulie, how you doin’, man? Russ said, stoned and nervous.

Russ was talking to the back of Paulie’s head. Paulie was blonde, a big Polack with a wide Slavic face. The left side of his skull was made of metal, the end result of a car crash years earlier. A little slow in the cognitive department, he seldom engaged in conversation and usually only when prompted. He was tripping on two hits of acid when he rolled his car on a back road up in Scituate, a small village in the Rhode Island boonies. The fifteen-year-old girl with him flew through the windshield of Paulie’s old 1948 Pontiac and landed like a rag doll on a stone wall. She miraculously survived, too.

Paulie, are you with us, man? Russ asked, trying to reach him again.

Yeah, I’m in the present, in the groove, in tune. Paulie replied, softly.

So, how do you do this, Angelo? Russ asked. I mean what do you do? What do you say? Like hey, this is a stick up—

A stick up! Angelo exclaimed. Fuck no, Russ. A stick-up… Paulie and I burst into laughter at how ridiculous that sounded. . . . what the hell’s that? From some old Cagney movie or something? No, you just walk up to him and tell him you’re going to kick the living shit outta him if he doesn’t give you his wallet. Jesus Christ, Russ, a stick-up…

I saw the bar door open. A small man, slightly built and dressed in a white Nehru jacket, stumbled out of Skinny’s. He glanced over at us, and then turned the corner of the building, entering the wide alley leading to the rear lot. Hey, we’ve got one, Angelo announced and yanked the keys from the ignition, abruptly cutting off Hendrix’s rendition of the Star Spangled Banner in mid-riff. Shouldering his door open, he said, Let’s go.

By the time the three of us managed to get out of the car, Angelo had already reached the entrance to the alley. As we ran to catch up with him, I saw him grab hold of the little man from behind, spin him, then slam him against the bar’s wall, pinning him there with one hand to the little guy’s throat. Panting, Paulie, Russ, and me formed a semi-circle behind the two. We were several feet from where the building ended and the lot began. I was closest to a yellow umbrella streetlamp on Weybosset. The only other light was the one in the rear lot, which dimly lit the alley. Angelo demanded his money.

You’re hurting him, Angelo! Don’t hurt him! Russ yelled.

Mick, watch the street, Angelo commanded me, pointing with his free hand up the alley without taking his eyes off the little man. I didn’t, stuck on what was going on in front of me.

Please… take your hand… off me, the little man did manage to say. I’m not… going to resist… you. I’ll… cooperate. His voice was a forced and raspy soprano through Angelo’s chokehold.

Angelo removed his hand and stepped back. Straightening his jacket, the little man moved away from the wall. He fiddled with stem of his glasses—rose-colored granny glasses—jiggling them and spoke in his normal voice, an octave lower. Jeez. Okay, you guys definitely don’t want to get into my pants, right? I mean, it better come out of my pocket and not my zipper, right? He giggled, and then reached into the back pocket of his red bell-bottoms.

Come on, come on! Hurry it up, hand it over! Angelo demanded.

"Sure you don’t want something else, handsome? He giggled again. Angelo snatched the wallet from his outstretched hand, tore some bills out, and then flung it to the pavement. Russ went over, picked it up, and brought it back to the little man.

Let’s go! I said.

Take off your shoes, Angelo commanded.

Jesus Christ, Ange! I said. Let’s go!

You know, good-lookin’, I’d take everything off for you, the little man said, putting his wallet back in his pocket. Giggling, he sat down, tugged at his feet, and handed his footwear to Angelo. Angelo turned and held them up for us to see. They weren’t shoes, but boots—calf-high, black engineer boots with large gold-colored buckles and thick heels and soles, the type worn by local members of the ECMF, the East Coast Mother Fuckers, a New England motorcycle gang. Angelo reached inside one, and then threw it down. He reached inside the other and pulled out some crumpled bills from the toe of the boot. Angelo displayed the money in his hand. You see, Mick, I know these fuckers, Angelo said with satisfaction standing over the little man. Angelo tossed the other boot onto the pavement.

The little man got to his knees in front of Angelo. You know, Angelo, I’m in just the right position to do you some good, he said. Angelo kicked him in the face. The little man’s glasses flew off and blood spurted from his mouth as he fell back against the wall. I grabbed Angelo by the back of his shirt and pulled him away.

Fucking faggot! You fucking faggot! Angelo yelled over him.

Russ dashed about, gathering the boots and glasses. He plopped them in front of the little man curled up on the pavement, then backed up toward the street. Paulie stood there watching. Paulie! Let’s go, let’s go! Russ yelled, taking hold of Paulie’s arm. I pushed Angelo passed them, back up the alley to the car.

Russ and Paulie reached the street as Angelo pulled the car up to the alley entrance. I held the door open, pushed Paulie into the back seat and Russ piled in on top of him. "Go! Go! Go! Russ yelled.

I was halfway in the car when Angelo peeled out. Those fucking boots! Angelo yelled, as he sped down the street, did ya get a load of those fucking boots?! He laughed.

Russ and Paulie just got settled side by side as Angelo cut down an alley. Jesus Christ, Angelo, did you have to hurt him like that?! Jesus Christ!

Fucking faggot! I didn’t like what he said, Russ! I hate that kind of faggot talk!

Yeah, but damn, you could’ve hurt him, bad!

Fuck him! He deserved it, trying to hide that money from me! Angelo turned sharply, roared down a side street, and then cut down another alley, tossing Russ and Paulie side to side in the back.

Slow down, Angelo! Slow down! I yelled.

Angelo turned right, wildly, out of the alley and onto Westminster Street. He gained control just seconds before swerving into an oncoming panel truck. We sped a few blocks and took another right at an intersection onto Broadway. Slowing down, at first I was confused as to where Angelo was going, but then it hit me. Shit, we were headed for South Providence—the ghetto.

Angelo explained that he had planned it—if we scored—he would take us to get a piece of ass. Men, welcome to Angelo’s coontown, where the whores are big, black, and beautiful. Angelo was delighted to introduce us to another pastime in his clandestine world of Mafia children. He took us on the scenic route, cruising slowly passed dilapidated five-story tenements lining both sides of the street. The houses stood just a few yards apart from each other, all looking the same with boarded up windows, peeling paint and collapsing stoops. Stripped down cars sat on their axles under street lamps. And while he drove, Angelo boldly exchanged menacing stares with soul brothers who passed by us in their boats: big Cadillacs and Bonnevilles and Monte Carlos. Angelo stared back at the revelers, too. Those who loitered outside the neighborhood bars, amazed at seeing four white boys in South Providence, on a Friday after midnight. They stood in the gutters and on the sidewalks, shucking and jiving as Angelo put it, to the sounds of Motown that blared through the open bar doors into the streets from the bands inside. We drove slowly passed it all, with Angelo, the tour guide.

Then there she was, with three other girls on a corner, waving to the passing cars and strutting her stuff in pink, hot pants. Angelo went wild and pulled over.

She was a large, very dark-skinned black woman who stood almost six feet tall with huge breasts and buttocks. She had to be fifty years old. Her name was Loretta, and she took all of thirty seconds to negotiate the price and act, after which she squeezed into the front seat between me and Angelo, smothering us in a pungent odor of hard liquor, cheap perfume and sweat. Loretta leaned over me and yelled out my window. Connie! Come on honey, we’ve got a date! Come on sugar, hurry it up! The smallest of the three girls on the corner walked quickly to the car. I got out and let her get in the back between Russ and Paulie. Then, Angelo did it to me again, speeding away from the curb when I was just halfway into the car.

Loretta was loud. I’m feelinnnnn’ finnnnnnne! she said, and no, I’m not drunk, Connie! Loretta amused us, babbling on about her clientele: mostly horny white boys, and her competitors, Wynona and Deloise, those black-ass bitches back on the corner. The whole time she was directing Angelo to my crib. Nothing was heard from anybody in the back.

We arrived at Loretta’s in five minutes. She amiably pushed me out of the car and leaned on me at the curb as Russ and Connie got out. Loretta pulled Connie out by the hand, and that’s when I saw Connie close-up for the first time. She’s a doll, isn’t she Mick? Russ said. I nodded. Hearing the compliment, she looked at neither of us, but parted her full, sensuous lips in a wide smile, revealing a perfect set of teeth. She had large, dark brown eyes and a very short Afro. She looked boyish, but her figure, under a clinging black mini-skirt and thin, white sweater was anything but that. Her skin was golden. She was very, very appealing, and very young.

Loretta told us to wait by the car while she and Connie went into the house, a three-story, fading puke green clapboard tenement, to get things ready. The street was dark, and quiet, and deserted. When Loretta returned to the car without Connie, she seemed anxious. Angelo and Paulie joined us on the sidewalk, and Loretta led the way down the sidewalk to the front stoop of the house. I nudged Angelo and motioned toward a driveway across the street where two men had suddenly appeared. By the time we reached the stoop stairs, the men were lounging against the back of a car parked in the drive, smoking and passing a bottle. Christ, oh shit, we’re probably in for it when we come out, I thought. I felt a sudden urge to run back to the car, but Angelo seemed unconcerned.

We followed Loretta through the front door and climbed the narrow, winding stairs to her third floor apartment. The staircase reeked with the odor of fried meat, burning pot, and urine. They’re going to jump us when we come out, I whispered to Angelo on the first landing.

Jesus Christ, Mick, don’t worry about them—you won’t be able to get it up. Anyway, it’s probably just her pimp checking her out, that’s all, Angelo replied. I trusted Angelo. After all, Angelo visited coontown often enough. But like never having rolled a queer, me, Paulie and Russ had never picked up a hooker, either, because Angelo could never convince any of his Fairview pals to partake in these escapades until now. So, who do you want? Angelo whispered to me on the second landing.

Connie! Russ blurted a few steps above us. Paulie trailed on the stairs below us.

Me, too, I admitted.

Well, I like them big and plenty, and Paulie won’t give a shit who he humps anyway, so we’ll take Loretta, Angelo said.

Inside the apartment we gathered in the tiny kitchen to confer about the order of business. Angelo and Russ would go first while me and Paulie waited our turns in the kitchen. Loretta took Angelo by the hand and led him through the living room and down a hallway to one of the bedrooms. When Connie appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, Russ tripped over my feet getting to her. She laughed, and then told him that they had to use the living room. Paulie and me took a seat at a beat-up dinette set where Paulie promptly pulled a joint from the inside pocket of his jacket and lit up. He offered it to me, by gesture, but I declined. I never got stoned when I was anxious or scared in a situation, and this was one of those times. Paulie reached over from his seat into the refrigerator and helped himself to a beer. Tight quarters. I could hear faint music from the living room and thought I heard them, noises and low voices from Russ and Connie.

Russ showed up in the kitchen, first, about twenty minutes, later. He plopped in the chair next to me with a dumb-ass look on his face. God… Jesus… was all he could manage. Paulie threw his head back and laughed hard.

I stood up, took a deep breath, and then walked to the kitchen doorway where I bumped into Angelo. Go get her, champ he encouraged, slapping me on the back. Easing through the doorway, he added, Loretta’s all yours, Paulie, my man.

The living room was huge compared to the kitchen. Connie lay on her back on a couch, her head on some throw pillows, her face and body barely visible in the dim light from a lamp on the end table behind her head. The stereo was low. She was smoking, and she was nude. I tingled somewhere close to the base of my penis.

Hi, I said.

Hi, she replied, not looking at me.

I slowly crossed the braided rug to her. When I stood over her, between the couch and a coffee table, I didn’t know what to do next, and she wasn’t helping. I glanced about, unable to look at her, noticing that her cigarettes, an ashtray, and some magazines on top of the coffee table were neatly arranged, just like everything else in the living room. She finally sensed my feeling of awkwardness and put out her cigarette, grasped my hand and gently pulled me down to kneel beside her. She smelled of Russ’s English Leather. I hesitantly leaned forward to kiss her lips. She turned her face away from me.

What’s the matter? I asked.

She looked at me. You’ve never been with a whore before, have you?

No, I haven’t.

Whores don’t kiss on the lips.

Oh, oh—I’m sorry, I didn’t know, I said, embarrassed.

But it’s okay to kiss my tits, alright?

I nodded, relieved to know at least two of the ground rules.

Come on, let’s get you hard, she said and rubbed my crotch as I leaned forward to kiss her breast.

Can I come out now, Mama?

I jumped up at the voice and knocked the ashtray off the coffee table. Connie sprang up from the couch and scooped a little girl in pajamas up in her arms. No, not yet, sugar, Connie said, not just yet, OK? Let’s get you back to bed for a little while longer. Connie carried the child toward the hallway.

Grandma’s home, I saw her. Is she going to stay?

You’re going to see her, sugar, don’t worry, she’s going to stay for a while, Connie assured her.

I picked up the ashtray and some of its spilled contents, and then sat in the center of the couch, feeling foolish. Sorry about that, Connie apologized, reappearing and standing before me. She let me look at her then knelt in front of me and pushed my legs apart. She undid my belt and unfastened my pants, then tugged my zipper down. Lift up, she whispered. I raised my buttocks off the seat cushion. She pulled my pants and jockeys over my hips, then under my buttocks. I sprung out at the ready. I sat back on the couch as she pulled my clothes down to the tops of my shoes. Then she went to work, forthwith, stroking with her fingers and thumb, getting the right response from me, causing me to moan in pleasure. She stood up and turned her back to me motioning to scoot forward between her legs as she widened her stance. She found me with her hand and eased over me, inching down, slowly, until she had engulfed me. I grasped her small waist just above her hips, tightening my grip as she moved up and down, me, a passive pile-driver, at first very slow, very slow, then faster… and faster… and faster… She rose back up, moving to the top of me one last time, just hanging there with a slight grip, and with her right hand, she pulled me out. I exploded over her buttocks with a mighty groan of release that Ange swore later could be heard all the way back downtown to Skinny’s.

Connie went immediately to the bathroom while I got dressed. I stumbled into the kitchen, wondering if I had the same dumb-ass look Russ had. They were at the table having a beer. They both smiled wide at me.

She’s a black ma-gic wo-man… a black ma-gic wo-man… got me so blind, I can’t see… Angelo sang, doing his best imitation of Santana. They broke out laughing, confirming that Connie had indeed been successful once again.

Paulie appeared with a nude Loretta, and we squeezed into the tiny kitchen. A moment later, Connie joined us in a white silk robe, everyone adjusting to make room for her, and after some small talk and surprisingly warm good-byes, we bounded down the stairs with Angelo mimicking Loretta, feelinnnnn’ finnnnnnnnne. When I reached the front door and started down the stoop, it hit me. I stopped on the top step, aghast to see that joining the original two across the street, a large group of men had converged in the driveway. I felt a stab of fear as I made my way down the sidewalk behind Russ toward the GTO. Nobody spoke. My heart beat faster when I saw three men break off from the noisy clump of people in the drive and head across the street toward Angelo’s car. Russ dropped back beside me. Oh Christ, here they come… oh Jesus, here they come… oh Christ, here they come… recited Russ, no doubt believing the litany would bring divine intervention to save us from harm.

Hey, muthafucka! You better get the fuck away from my car! Angelo yelled at the men who had walked over to the driver’s side of the GTO.

Oh Christ, Russ moaned.

Angelo stepped off the sidewalk and walked toward the men. The largest of the three sauntered toward Angelo. When Angelo and the big man stood a foot apart in the street… they embraced.

An-Gel-O, my man, you fuckin’ Dago Wop. Where the fuck have you been keepin’ your greasy, Eye-Talian ass?

At your big, black mama’s, Angelo replied, and they laughed, together. First, Loretta’s daughter, and now Loretta’s son. Happy to see each other, the two chatted by the trunk while me, Paulie, and Russ got into the car, extremely relieved, but extremely pissed at Angelo for putting us through the ringer. I’m going to kick the ever-lovin’ shit out of him, Paulie said, uncharacteristically pissed off and talkative. Russ calmed Paulie down, emphatically dissuading him from fucking up Angelo, particularly then and there.

After visiting, Angelo slid into the driver’s seat. He started the engine, then handed Paulie some joints to pass around, courtesy of the bruthas. Angelo peeled out and fish tailed down the street. Back on Broadway, we cruised toward downtown Providence, passing a joint around without conversing. Twenty minutes later, on Route 44 headed home, Angelo finally broke the silence. So, what did you guys think of Angelo’s coontown? Angelo asked.

No one answered him, so Angelo turned the eight-track on, and while Hendrix screeched and waa-waad, finishing his version of the national anthem, I sat in the back seat of the GTO, not wanting to be there and wondering why the hell I was.

*     *     *

That was it in total—what the fuck was I doing. On the drive back to Fairview, I thought about the four us, friends since first grade, and how we had gotten to where we were—this. Hell, growing up we had good times. We were cub scouts our first year at Fairview Elementary. We learned to canoe with the rest of the pack on Fairview Lake that spring, inhaling, with gusto, that special seasonal aroma of apple blossoms and pine trees and murky water. We joined Little League together, played ball on emerald fields during cool summer evenings. When we were kids, even the nor’easters turned out to be a good time for us, the miserable wet winter cold not apparent to us, getting soaked to the skin while sledding down hills and crashing into snow banks and knocking each other silly in pick-up hockey on frozen ponds. From first grade with old Grandma Appleby to the twelfth, the four of us remained like brothers, marching side by side through Fairview’s hallowed halls of education, together, culminating in the honor of being members of the class of ‘69, the first class to graduate from Fairview’s John F. Kennedy High School.

Boy, the time had just zipped by. And then we went fucking nuts.

Our sophomore year at Kennedy High School became irrelevant, a hippie term that we happened to use and agree with at the time. School was fucking oppressive to us, sitting through Algebra and Ancient History classes trying to make sense of where it all fit into our future. The administration was dictatorial. What, a dress code? No jeans, no sideburns, no long hair? Hell, haven’t you been watching television, like the Beatles on Ed Sullivan? Did you ever see a painting of our Founding Fathers? Christ. What? No mini-skirts? Fuck you, teach.

Yeah, we rebelled in ‘65 against the establishment—another hippie term we liked—like millions of other teen-agers across America. The crowd I hung with was cool, defying the authority of teachers and parents and police, becoming cocky and bold, and down right crazy. We grew our hair long, smoked cigarettes (Marlboros of course) and walked with a swagger in bell-bottoms and black leather jackets. On Friday and Saturday nights, when we were still without wheels, we roamed the neighborhoods busting balls, disrupting the neighborhood as a gang on foot, bent on vandalism and petty theft, breaking windows and mailboxes and stealing cases of beer and liquor from unlocked breezeways and garages. We bunked school in good weather, guzzling the stolen beer all day in the woods. And when it was real cold, snowy, or rainy, we guzzled it at somebody’s house until just before their parents were due home. And, the girls were with us, too. Chicks.

Donna was one of them. She sat beside us throughout grade school. She played hide and seek and kick the can late into the summer nights with us. And years later, when it came time to play with sex and drugs and alcohol, Donna willingly and enthusiastically played that game, too. Donna, oh wow. When my hormones detonated, I responded in good form, going out with Donna and her friends who all had gone out with Angelo, and Russ, and Paulie, too, experiencing sex on the stairwell of a dank basement and on a blanket of pine needles, making out while unbuttoning blouses and unhooking bras and unfastening jeans, did you feel her up, Mick? And on occasions, I got lucky, getting jerked off or getting my fingers wet, all of it so new and exciting and fantastic.

Of course all of this behavior somehow became known to our priests—that fucking confessional—and ministers who raised hell with us for being so downright sinful and disgusting. We weren’t exactly religious, so I sure as hell had no guilt feelings over a couple of orgasms, or a few cases of stolen beer for that matter. But in our younger years we were considered good boys, worshiping at one of Fairview’s three churches, Catholic brick, Episcopalian stone or Protestant wood, all bordering the Town Common. I made my First Communion and Confirmation at St. Philip’s, and attended Mass regularly, forced to by my parents who were old-fashioned Irish Catholic, faithful in prayer and ritual, but not so much in deed. But then, at age fifteen, I just refused to go. I said fuck it.

No more two hour masses for me, no more genuflection to bullshit sermons of doom and gloom by Father McNamara and no more genuflection to this and that and to the gospel according to whom and so and so and to the fire and brimstone—you will burn in hell!—and ritual after ritual of touching this and kissing that and genuflection and genuflection, for what, no more, no more, with the sickening smell of old ladies’ perfume mixed with sweat and mold and incense making you want to puke. The Catholic Church was absent any love and warmth and understanding. Jesus Christ the Son of God? Maybe, but I didn’t believe it.

Confession? Right. On my knees in the black confessional, baring my fourteen-year-old soul. Hey Father, I beat my meat. You skunk, you’re damned to hell, my son, that’s ten Our Fathers and ten Hail Marys. Fuck that shit, I had said to Angelo, but never to my mother.

And not long after forsaking St. Philip’s, something far from the thrill and wonder of carnal knowledge struck our crowd hard, and like a plague, it devastated us. We realized