Saturday, mar. 15, 2008
lot of our money was spent buying beer from Stigo,
the obligatory local burnout.
(Teen lore had it that, at some mega rager back in the 70s,
he'd taken enough acid to freak a gray whale,
and had never entirely returned.)
He'd come by the theater once a night to see if any of us were interested
in purchasing a sixer or two (at 100% markup, of course).
You'd know when he had arrived because he would announce his
presence via loud barking.
You'd hear the bark, run for the candy counter,
and make a frantic butt-first dive over the red vines and junior mints.
You'd glide, aided by years of butter-flavored spills and money sweat,
just as Stigo made his
barking lunge. If he caught you, you'd get licked. Literally.
From your chinny chin chin to your hairline you'd be moist with loony
spit. But, if your athletic skill or momentum carried you over
the counter before he could get within tagging distance,
you were safe because, by rules not questioned, he never followed.
You were in no man's land.