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January 2014, vol 9, no 4

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Rich Youmans

Memories of Tommy While Driving One Winter’s Night


I remember him: The one who always got his way, who hung into the night at 8th and K, and dated the blonde with the smoky green eyes and candy-red Corvette. The one who took on every dare—to jump head-first off the Stony Creek bridge, to climb the radio tower down at Mercy’s Point, to push that Corvette to the redline limit and do bootlegs on River Road. The one who went clubbing at the Crazy Juke with his brother’s fake ID, and always began dancing with the band’s first notes—an explosion of arms and legs and laughter. The one whose rebel yell ripped through the school halls at the end of every day, and whose squealing tires were heard for blocks as he peeled from the student lot, the blonde (as always) by his side. The one who lived for every moment, and never wanted to grow old.

The one who always got his way.

black ice skimming through starlight, ignoring the




crane