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39 Tracks On Saturday afternoon my father dropped Mom and I off at the beauty parlor and headed for the bar. I walked to the library and entered the world of Narnia, guided by the lantern light. I carried an armload of books back to the parlor in time to watch Mom’s tightly curled hair become enveloped in a fog of Aqua Net. We walked uptown to the bar, I stopped at the door and watched as she disappeared into the smoky room. Soon my father brought a quarter out and I skipped to the corner drug store, ordered a chocolate milk shake, took slow spins on the leather seat after each sip, making it last before I crawled into the car’s back seat. Toward sunset, orange pop and potato chips arrived at the car door, when he later staggered out with pepperoni sticks I knew I was in for a long night. Their arguing woke me, You worthless crippled whore bitch. You’re nothing but a damn dirty dog. 40 He drove wildly through the city streets. You’re millstones around my neck, swinging the station wagon onto the railroad tracks as we screamed, empty beer cans jigging crazily by my feet. Through eight-year-old eyes the lantern light appeared straight ahead blinking in and out of the fog, the roar and whistle. ...

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