February 7, 2011

Except for the first few paragraphs of each chapter, I took Dead Ginny off the net in 2005 but if you want to read and/or listen to the sucker for free, click this. Thanks. G.


Gerard Jones

Chapter Ten
Clayton Street

So. Anyway. Wherever I was. This is depressing. Kennedy got shot in November of 1963. Then came what? Christmas. Hm. Let me see. Christmas of 1963. Damn! Christmas of 1963 was my Christmas of the Mafia girl! It lasted until March of 1964. That was when everything changed (everything changes all the time, yeah, but in March of 1964 things changed, like, a lot). I can't remember her name. She wasn't even Italian. She was tall and skinny and droll and Irish, with lots of freckles everywhere, like on her forehead and her back and on her soft white freckled thighs. Her legs were extra soft, like, too soft. Kind of squishy and extra white; she was what you might call delicate, I guess. But brazen, too. Not to steal anything off of Mick Jagger, but you got the impression the only exercise she ever got was practicing the dual arts of deception and seduction. She knew all kinds of ways to get you thinking she was, like, the most sexually desirable woman who ever lived. And she wasn't! Well, she was and she wasn't. She had short red hair that got oily easily. And freckles. Lots of freckles. Everywhere. Even on her lips, her thin lips, her lips that seemed all the thinner from biting at them the way she did as she watched my eyes while I fucked her slowly, deliberately, like we both knew and wanted to know full well exactly what we were doing. And there was a smell about her, too. A smell I still smell sometimes: baby powder and dirty diapers and her sister's perfume, all mixed together with the taste of lipstick and clean pillow cases and slippery petroleum jelly—Marnie! Marnie McCracken! Damn! What a mind! It may long since have fallen to pieces, but the pieces are still there if you poke around long enough.

Marnie came into Kay-Bee's to buy presents for her sister's kids. I carried them out to her car for her. That was my job. Carrying things out to people's cars for them. One of the presents was a tricycle. We came into some slight contact with one another. We couldn't help but come into some slight contact with each other while we were trying to get the tricycle box jammed into the back seat. She was driving her brother-in-law's black two-door 1962 Chrysler Imperial. He hadn't traded it in on a new one yet. Minuscule sparks crackled between the hairs on our arms—actual physical electrons and things. One of her breasts brushed my cheek. We looked into each other's eyes. The way she looked at me was like she wanted me to shut up and put my hand up her dress, like she practiced it in a mirror. According to the directions, there was some assembly required.

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Gerard Jones
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