Steven Hunley
03-18-2010, 04:17 PM
Back to the Edge with
Attack of the Crab Monsters
By
Steven Hunley
When I went over early one morning she wasn’t there. But her daughter was. She was standing up in the crib with her hands on the bars. So I pulled her out and gave her a change, then took her with me downstairs.
“Seen Tina?” I said to the girl across the street.
“Haven’t you heard?” she answered, “She got busted last night.”
The story was that at the party someone was opening up a kilo in the bedroom when the cops walked in. In those days everybody in the house got busted. The cops would sort out who was who later. Eleven people busted and only two pairs of hands were on the weed. I dropped the daughter off at Grandma’s Down the Block and waited for the weekend to end. On Monday she was sprung on an OR release. (own recognizance) For her it was a kind of romp. She ate the lousy food and wore the lousy county blues, and I mean lousy county blues, but all the time considered herself a day-tripper on some kind of tour. My tourist girl didn’t collect souvenirs, but that was all right, they collected on her instead. Monday night became Monday Night Marathon as we made up for lost time. When I woke up I noticed that on her calendar she’d drawn a heart around yesterday with her pink iridescent nail polish.
Things were settling down by the next week and her trial was still well off. But something else was on, was on me. I had noticed an itching in my, shall I say it... pubic area? Closer examination proved what it was.
“Hey,” she says, lookin’ all close at, shall I say it? Her area.
“I got little tiny scabs! Little teeny tiny scabs on my pubes!”
“Me too,” I reply, “now you mention it…but hey… seems like mine… are… movin!”
So they weren’t little teeny tiny scabs after all. They were little teeny tiny crabs after all.
We tear open the Merck manual, have a consultation, and drive to the Rite-Aid to score. And I must say this; Pyrinate A200? It stings like hell. But if you’re into pouring turpentine on your, should I say it… area? Proceed with caution. Handle with care. Always dose your significant other if they’ve just got out of the clink and wore them county blues, they call them that for a reason. There are some things in life you don’t need to share. The Crabs is one of them. County Blues is the other.
Me, I’d found something better to share.
That afternoon when I left I got to the bottom step, about five steps from the street on what New Yorker’s would call the stoop, I stopped. I sat down for a think. The sun was out, the birds were singing, and my hand you can’t see because like Napoleon’s it’s hidden, but not in my coat, in my pants. I’m scratching my crotch when I should be scratching my head. What exactly had gone on here? My girl had been busted and gave me a social disease, that’s what I called it for lack of a better name. That should have repelled me. Instead I felt closer. Was I a sick puppy or what? What exactly had she infected me with? Was it love?
Can it be defined by a single word? A single gesture? Or do you need something that accumulates? Does it take time to reveal itself? Or is it shown in the blinding flash of an instant?
Could it be seen by you, as it was by me, in a heart-shaped smear of iridescent paint? Or does it take the sharing of some tragedy to do it?
Maybe it takes some shared agony or ecstasy, maybe a lot of time or no time at all, maybe something or nothing of value to you both. It may be the amount doesn’t matter.
Sitting in the shade, listening to the birds, watching the sunlight play on the leaves, was such a delightful combination. All the forces of nature were at play. Therefore, everything was in balance.
I thought, “It’s all too beautiful.” So it was for me. Maybe it is for you too.
Authors note: Itchycoo Park was written by Small Faces. “It’s all too beautiful” is stolen from that song but is a refrain we all can use at no cost, and possibly much profit.
Attack of the Crab Monsters
By
Steven Hunley
When I went over early one morning she wasn’t there. But her daughter was. She was standing up in the crib with her hands on the bars. So I pulled her out and gave her a change, then took her with me downstairs.
“Seen Tina?” I said to the girl across the street.
“Haven’t you heard?” she answered, “She got busted last night.”
The story was that at the party someone was opening up a kilo in the bedroom when the cops walked in. In those days everybody in the house got busted. The cops would sort out who was who later. Eleven people busted and only two pairs of hands were on the weed. I dropped the daughter off at Grandma’s Down the Block and waited for the weekend to end. On Monday she was sprung on an OR release. (own recognizance) For her it was a kind of romp. She ate the lousy food and wore the lousy county blues, and I mean lousy county blues, but all the time considered herself a day-tripper on some kind of tour. My tourist girl didn’t collect souvenirs, but that was all right, they collected on her instead. Monday night became Monday Night Marathon as we made up for lost time. When I woke up I noticed that on her calendar she’d drawn a heart around yesterday with her pink iridescent nail polish.
Things were settling down by the next week and her trial was still well off. But something else was on, was on me. I had noticed an itching in my, shall I say it... pubic area? Closer examination proved what it was.
“Hey,” she says, lookin’ all close at, shall I say it? Her area.
“I got little tiny scabs! Little teeny tiny scabs on my pubes!”
“Me too,” I reply, “now you mention it…but hey… seems like mine… are… movin!”
So they weren’t little teeny tiny scabs after all. They were little teeny tiny crabs after all.
We tear open the Merck manual, have a consultation, and drive to the Rite-Aid to score. And I must say this; Pyrinate A200? It stings like hell. But if you’re into pouring turpentine on your, should I say it… area? Proceed with caution. Handle with care. Always dose your significant other if they’ve just got out of the clink and wore them county blues, they call them that for a reason. There are some things in life you don’t need to share. The Crabs is one of them. County Blues is the other.
Me, I’d found something better to share.
That afternoon when I left I got to the bottom step, about five steps from the street on what New Yorker’s would call the stoop, I stopped. I sat down for a think. The sun was out, the birds were singing, and my hand you can’t see because like Napoleon’s it’s hidden, but not in my coat, in my pants. I’m scratching my crotch when I should be scratching my head. What exactly had gone on here? My girl had been busted and gave me a social disease, that’s what I called it for lack of a better name. That should have repelled me. Instead I felt closer. Was I a sick puppy or what? What exactly had she infected me with? Was it love?
Can it be defined by a single word? A single gesture? Or do you need something that accumulates? Does it take time to reveal itself? Or is it shown in the blinding flash of an instant?
Could it be seen by you, as it was by me, in a heart-shaped smear of iridescent paint? Or does it take the sharing of some tragedy to do it?
Maybe it takes some shared agony or ecstasy, maybe a lot of time or no time at all, maybe something or nothing of value to you both. It may be the amount doesn’t matter.
Sitting in the shade, listening to the birds, watching the sunlight play on the leaves, was such a delightful combination. All the forces of nature were at play. Therefore, everything was in balance.
I thought, “It’s all too beautiful.” So it was for me. Maybe it is for you too.
Authors note: Itchycoo Park was written by Small Faces. “It’s all too beautiful” is stolen from that song but is a refrain we all can use at no cost, and possibly much profit.