Archive for the ‘Runnin’’ Category

Well, I was planning on staying.  It’s my “SMILE” piece that’s sticking around this blurry, blog space for a bit longer.  Since our red-hot debate about how fashionable mental illness is, I’m still getting comments and emails, as well as views on the “SMILE” series.  If you haven’t finished reading it, do it!  Love it, […]

“When’s the last time you ate?  Figures Pat wouldn’t feed you.” “We were traveling.  No money.  Not his fault,” I say. “And his parent’s place was stocked.” “There’s good food at the shelter.  They order pizza on the weekends.” “Screw that.  Just let me go.  I’ll figure it out,” I say, but I don’t know […]

That’s right.  The last installment of Runnin’ is tomorrow.  Is Pipes sending her home? To a shelter? YOU decide. Not really.  I would never give you that much control.  And besides, it’s nonfiction.  You can’t change the past.  But you can write about it.

  Finally, Pipes comes back with a greasy bag and hands it to me. “What are you doing hanging out with a guy like that?  Pure trouble.” “We’re friends. I didn’t know he was in trouble,” I say shoving my face full of fries. “How’d you get here from Michigan?” “Hitched.” “And how’d you hook […]

I have never been inside a police station before, but it’s nothing special. It looks like the welfare office my mom went to, with cinder block walls and sliding Plexiglas windows you talk to a receptionist through.   I wait on a wooden bench near the front door while Pat’s dad talks to an officer.  I […]

Pat’s dad pops his head in, a quick jerk like a jack-in-the-box.  His face is bland, his head dull and balding.  He’s so boring, almost invisible like another shade of yellow blending into another wall in the house. His face, frozen and dead, his eyes fixed and expressionless as he stares at me on the […]

“Every hear of Syd Barrett?  Original singer of Pink Floyd.  Now, he’s a genius.” Pat says. He flips through his records gracefully, an odd and gentle gesture I’ve never seen before.  He slips the vinyl out of the paper, holds the record by the edges like it’s a red-hot wire, a lit bomb about to […]