From my ongoing Autobiography, Bakersfield Blood/ A Wine Squeezed from the Grapes of Wrath
"It's Billy and Dave," said I, as I looked down from my 3rd floor window.
"Let em in," says my cockeyed stepfather. (Not born cockeyed; just punched too hard while doing time in the pen. And somehow the look just fit right in with his flat left pinky. The one he says got that way from the ruler of an overzealous nun.)
For some reason cockeyed step-dad doesn't look too thrilled about the visit. Me, I'm thrilled as can be, and so I fly down the stairs like only a fourteen year old can.
Last time Billy and Dave were here they shared some really good stash with me and cockeyed step-dad, and they gave me a stack of records. These guys were cool, man; I mean, really cool!
I came to a stop on the 1st floor landing, my long hair coming to rest around my shoulders, and jerked open the door.
"Billy, Dave! C'mon in, man."
For some reason, Billy and Dave didn't look too thrilled about the visit. They brushed right past me without so much as a "f'kin aye, little dude." I guess no stash today; no records to add to my collection.
As they start up the stairs I see a lead pipe slide down Billy's sleeve and into his hand.
The year was 1976; the bicentennial. What a fun year that was...for most people.