An Outlaw’s Confession
You got it all wrong. Kathy was 13 and I was 23. I would fly to her elementary school on my metalflaked chopper where all the girls fought to climb on board. Kathy, the redhead, clawed through the mayhem up the chromed sissybar and the fish-tip pipes fired a salvo forcing the others away.
We jammed into Hollywood where she worked the long nights away stripping at the nastiest glitter-filled, gangster clubs on Sunset. Moved by her polished brass pole vibrations I coulda bent her over a trash can in the dank alley and had my way with her.
As the sun rose every morning, she stuffed all her hard-won earnings into my leather saddlebag and I rode her back to the ghetto, barbed wire protected elementary school where cops and protective service folks waited at the entrance pointing guns, waving subpoenas and screaming. I couldn’t hear them. All I heard was the gyrating rock and roll from the night before and my fish-tips calling me to escape.
My wife waited for me in North Long Beach with perfectly scrambled eggs and steaming hotcakes while clutching her bible and crying tears of dire hope.
–Renegade
