Young Hot Lesbian Babies

Last night at a Greyhound Bus hub I was sitting and waiting and reading when I heard a duo of giggles erupt below my chair. I found two young girls lying in a "P9" position, fondling each other's hands and each one whispering things that had the other erupting in loud giggles and the resonating "outside voice" that is usually found in trailer trash women.

Both "girls" were dressed in pink pants that hugged their baby-fat butt cheeks and black hooded sweatshirts that bore an effigy of Jack from A Nightmare Before Christmas. One was Caucasian and the other was real Asian. Both shared about three braincells, two vaginas, and one wardrobe. They tickled and poked and sang in a kind of manic daze, high on hormones that had no place to go but to their heads. These were the girls that would never look for or notice a man over five feet eight inches tall. These were the girls that would rather explore each other's nether regions or date smooth bodied emo-boys than spend ten minutes with any sick macho that dared to grow real facial hair.

Along came the mother . . . .

She was blond (faux real) and had spent the better part of an afternoon squeezing into jeans she stole from her daughter's closet; shifting and sucking until they clamped shut and left a circular life preserver of fat around her waist (perfect for rebounding off dank alley walls on a long walk home from the local biker bar).

She gathered the two girls, imploring them to behave, to stop singing, to stop freaking out the world . . . but to no avail. They swaggered onto a bus for Phoenix and I never saw them again . . . until I arrived in Los Angeles for Christmas.

Fishin' in the Mornin'

Today I got up early, like I did when I was little and living with my dad on The Island.

I have no snow anymore, but I had snow then. It would pile on the cedars and wait until you passed underneath, then the winter birds would take flight, looking back over their winds with a beakish smirk to watch you dig melting ice out from under your collar.

We would trudge to the lake, a glorified pond in the center of The Island with three frozen tributaries like Winterland Slip 'n Slides. Dad would make me swear not to tell the mom, and he'd go down first, his block and tackle on his chest. He always told me to count to twenty, but I always got nervous when he disappeared behind the stumps and wilting ferns and snow mounds so I jumped to follow and usually rammed into him before he had time to clear the path.

He always got mad, but he loved it.

The shack was always there; I never questioned how, even though with age I can imagine him sneaking out of our three-room house in the pre-dawn and trekking to the pond, in the dark, alone, and pulling the tiny wood shanty inch by inch onto the frozen water.

I pretended to help him chip the hole and he waited until I got tired, then finished the job. We would fish then, rarely catching anything and never ever speaking. Then the sun would peak and we'd pack and be home for supper with mom.

Now I fish alone on the rocks. Barefoot and dirty with a single long pole and the waves that are warm and move and not nearly as mysterious or old or wise as a cold wall of ice.

I caught a fish though, which for most people is a fair trade for cold. It was small and of unknown variety, so I tossed it back into the waves and wondered how for it could swim, wondered if it would ever look up at my father through that cold, solid wall.