Grand at the Game

I got out and went to junior college for a year.

I include this under Military Service because

I reenlisted. Reenlistment Blues. All I could

remember was getting laid on payday. Taking

a big taxicab to the village. The bargirls whistling,

“Here Comes Santa Claus.” I forgot the parades.

The inspections. The hi-fi wars in the barracks.

The pressure to give $1 for a football stadium

so some shavetail hotshot could be grand at

the game. Some draft-dodging cheerleader.

Grand Guy Guy Grand. The Magic Christian.

Terry Southern, where are you now that we need you?

Twirling at Ole Miss, one presumes. Charles Willeford

belonged to the same junior college honors society I did.

Phi Theta Kappa. And I thought I recognized Dr. Bottosto’s

lecture on propinquity. I drove by the house Debierue lived in,

off Range Line Road, out by the Faith Farm, out west of Lantana.

I refer you to The Burnt Orange Heresy. An art critic

killed a woman for pouring bacon grease down the sink.