The South Side of Racine, 1988

Every time you pick me up in your mom’s red Nova I light up a Salem Light, when Lester Morgan tries to rape you he knocks the brass numbers off your house. My dad arrests him for breaking, entering, I play the organ in your basement, your mom is selling it in the classifieds of the Journal Times. Your mom’s dirty novels aren’t hidden so well in her high heels closet, your kitchen brags pictures of mushrooms in frames, yellow ruffled curtains you have to iron, hide our vodka-thieving. After school hash brown patties with Lawry’s Season Salt, Southern Comfort, contact lenses. Kris Boesel’s house afterschool is different, kimchi her mom makes, buried in the backyard, spicy, hot rice in the steamer. “Why you want butter on you rice?” her mom asks, our dairy a mystery, we have to take off our shoes, wait for Kris to do her “Coming home from school chores.” A few dishes, wet laundry in the dryer. You and I sit in Kris’s room, fabric softener, listen to Depeche Mode, smoke the butt of my father’s Camel Light, the hall way quiet and dark, socks that match, breathe in, and out,in and out, Minnetonka moccasins, my boat shoes, the smell of your dad coming home. Hide under the pine tree until he passes out, Tupperware containers of my mom and dad’s booze, Pimm’s, Grand Marnier, Bailey’s Irish Cream, a puddle of puke we cover up with branches and stems.