The Shore Magazine - TWO ODES by Stephen Ausherman

Molly was a tattooed love fiend who smoked and cussed and popped pills
she’d ordered out of the back of a Kung-Fu magazine

Silver daggers dangled from her ears and the crow’s feather in her hair
doubled as a roach clip

This was the scene: Dorton Arena,
on the State Fairgrounds in Raleigh
I’d come all the way from Winston-Salem, but Molly
She lived where she was at

Fate and Rick James, who headlined the show that night
Molly looked dead at me every time he sang that line
That line that goes Give it to me baby
She even mouthed the words at me.

She looked at me through sweat-smeared eyeliner
like a raccoon in hot water
I told her, You look just like Joan Jett
She flashed me a Lucifer salute and said
(in a voice deeper than my own)
Shit yeah. Rock on.

Later we kissed in the parking lot
And when we kissed, I felt possessed
I breathed in her sugar-spun breath

That night, that fateful night
we found true love in the parking lot outside Dorton Arena
And we found more love behind the horse trailers on the fairgrounds
And a dry November breeze wicked the sweat off our skin
And we shivered under a dark Carolina sky
And the earth smelled of crushed onion grass
And I sensed spirits of the Cherokee watching over us

We felt young, but we felt older
and we felt our hearts beating together
Quick and frantic and all jacked up on Kung-Fu pills

Now, decades later, my heart still races when I remember that night
But Molly from Raleigh – I don’t know if she remembers
I imagine she’s out there, somewhere, maybe in a prison cell
Maybe overthrowing hell
And I imagine she remembers our song
Give it to me baby

She remembers how I picked straws of hay out of her hair
She remembers kisses that tasted of Copenhagen and watermelon gum

And our last kiss, a kiss fueled with knowledge,
knowledge from a lifetime of experience with loneliness
knowledge from the realization that in my lifetime
from the moment I was born to that last kiss
nights like this happened, on average, once every fifteen years

Fifteen and already he was cool as beans
He had sunglasses with mirrored lenses
He had a Velcro wallet with pictures of girls in it
And he had hair – sunshine blond and thick as deep-pile shag
down to his shoulders, but spiky on top
He was punk rock
He was kind of new wave too

He played a bass guitar he’d built himself
Out of parts from bass guitar he’d smashed on stage
And no it wasn’t part of the act because Billy Cray
Wasn’t in the band

Billy Cray was never a part of anybody’s band
Or anybody’s gang or club or team
He’d whoop your ass for thinking otherwise

He’d cut the sleeves off his T-shirts because he had muscles
people needed to see. And a tattoo of a skeleton
with a Gatling gun. He’d done it himself. It looked pretty good

He knew karate and he could hypnotize animals with his steely gaze
He carried a throwing knife on his belt and he knew how to use it
Years of practice, throwing it at trees
We’ve seen him do it

He could pop a wheelie on his dirt bike and ride around like that
He could say fuck you in eleven languages

He could buy Boones Farm wine without getting carded
And drink down a whole bottle without throwing up

He had girlfriends in Wilmington, Conway
And Myrtle Beach and Bethel
Girlfriends with names like Kim, Velvet, Shaunda and Summer
And Bernadette and Donna

He wore sweatbands on his head and his wrists
Billy Cray was always ready for action

Day he turned sixteen, he bought a yellow Camero
and blew out of town so fast he left a vacuum
And it sucked away all our hopes and dreams and fears

Some say he’s a mercenary who can be seen
On the pages of Fortune Soldier magazine

They say he married a woman from a freak show
The one with the fangs and claws and splotchy fur
That one they call the leopard lady
And he keeps her locked up in his shed

We’ve heard he boxes under the name el cuchillo
And he’s undefeated in Nicaragua
And he killed two prison guards in Nevada

Some say he rides in a rodeo, others say a pony show
Some say he’s the sheriff of Arizona, others say New Mexico

But we aren’t really sure of his doings and goings
and whereabouts now
And without that, we don’t really know who he is anymore
And without that, we don’t rightly know
Who we are ourselves

Stephen Ausherman is the author of a collection of travel stories, Restless Tribes, and the award-winning novel, Typical Pigs. His next novel, Fountains of Youth, is slated for publication in 2005. Visit his site: www.restlesstribes.com