“Dave Cruz (1979)”
by W.Z Snyder
© 2006 William Snyder
It is 1979. I am nineteen and I am dating Cathy MacMurphy. Without doubt, I feel attraction toward her, but I am dating this girl out of vengeance more than anything else. She is a friend of Allison Bullock. Allison had the audacity to break up with me a few months ago, virtually ripping my thumping red heart from the chest cavity. O.K., maybe she didn't rip my heart from my chest cavity, but she did embarrass me. Cathy is good looking, one of those full figured girls. My mother does not care for this girl. She is loud and exceedingly forward, making all of the first moves in the situation. Come to think of it, I can’t even begin to keep up with Cathy MacMurphy.
It is a warm summer night. We are at the Hawthorne Community Fair with Ricardo Mora and his latest playmate. Ricardo is my roommate and he is remarkably adept at the playboy lifestyle. He is the only guy I know who actually has one of those little black books, filled with dozens of phone numbers. His sister, Lilly dumped me for a guy with a silver Corvette last year, inspiring me to make a statement by joining the United States Air Force, where I spent just a few months before being discharged due to my unsuitability to military life.
Ricardo and I rent his oldest sister’s rambling beach house, just a block from the ocean in Hermosa Beach – with six other guys, none of whom have the inclination to clean up after themselves – ever. When we go to the beach, Ricardo makes it a point to discreetly tell the girls we meet that we live just a block away. Ricardo is always ready with a line. Once he asked a couple of sunbathing beauties to watch our metal folding chairs while we walked up to the house to make some ice cold lemonade. They agreed and we sprinted up to the house.
“Don’t worry about a thing Billy boy, the old lemonade trick works every time. These girls will melt in our hands like butter when we get back.”
Making the lemonade took a little longer than it should have because we had to find the dirty pitcher and glasses and then break them away from a calcified mountain of filthy dishes in the sink. Then we had to chisel away the life forms that set up housekeeping inside the glassware.
After much hard work, we returned to our prospects on the beach. Unfortunately a couple of mammoth body builders had taken our chairs and were talking to our girls. It was pretty tough to sound suave and sophisticated when Ricardo asked, “Hey fellas, can we have our chairs back, please?”
YOU CAN READ THIS STORY IN IT'S COMPLETE FORM IN THE EIGHT-FINGERED CRIIANL'S SON...It is 1979. I am nineteen and I am dating Cathy MacMurphy. Without doubt, I feel attraction toward her, but I am dating this girl out of vengeance more than anything else. She is a friend of Allison Bullock. Allison had the audacity to break up with me a few months ago, virtually ripping my thumping red heart from the chest cavity. O.K., maybe she didn't rip my heart from my chest cavity, but she did embarrass me. Cathy is good looking, one of those full figured girls. My mother does not care for this girl. She is loud and exceedingly forward, making all of the first moves in the situation. Come to think of it, I can’t even begin to keep up with Cathy MacMurphy.
It is a warm summer night. We are at the Hawthorne Community Fair with Ricardo Mora and his latest playmate. Ricardo is my roommate and he is remarkably adept at the playboy lifestyle. He is the only guy I know who actually has one of those little black books, filled with dozens of phone numbers. His sister, Lilly dumped me for a guy with a silver Corvette last year, inspiring me to make a statement by joining the United States Air Force, where I spent just a few months before being discharged due to my unsuitability to military life.
Ricardo and I rent his oldest sister’s rambling beach house, just a block from the ocean in Hermosa Beach – with six other guys, none of whom have the inclination to clean up after themselves – ever. When we go to the beach, Ricardo makes it a point to discreetly tell the girls we meet that we live just a block away. Ricardo is always ready with a line. Once he asked a couple of sunbathing beauties to watch our metal folding chairs while we walked up to the house to make some ice cold lemonade. They agreed and we sprinted up to the house.
“Don’t worry about a thing Billy boy, the old lemonade trick works every time. These girls will melt in our hands like butter when we get back.”
Making the lemonade took a little longer than it should have because we had to find the dirty pitcher and glasses and then break them away from a calcified mountain of filthy dishes in the sink. Then we had to chisel away the life forms that set up housekeeping inside the glassware.
After much hard work, we returned to our prospects on the beach. Unfortunately a couple of mammoth body builders had taken our chairs and were talking to our girls. It was pretty tough to sound suave and sophisticated when Ricardo asked, “Hey fellas, can we have our chairs back, please?”
“Dave Cruz (1979)” is from my collection of short stories, The Eight Fingered Criminal’s Son.
3 comments:
Good one!
Did Dave Cruz ever catch up or pop out as you turned a corner?
always have been a big fan of this story, i could say one of my favorites
I enjoyed reading this again as much as the first time I read it.
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