Candy Loving
Photo credit: Markus Spiske and Eric Nopanen.
We were trailer park kids who stole things. Middling shit. Squirt guns. Bazooka Joe. Saltwater taffy. Licorice. Playboy magazine.
Gordie was always sore. His dad tooled belts. Used them on Gordie. Buckle end to the back and shoulders. My dad was still doing years in Walla Walla. DWI. Vehicular Homicide.
Up in the tree fort, with its warped planks and nails rusted like black-eyed peas, we spread the mag out on the floor. As if it was a map. Some kind of treasure hunt. Sacred.
The centerfold flipped open. Her name was Candy Loving. She looked like most of my dreams. Feathered and glossy. Had a staple in her navel. Sand dollar nipples, puffy like scallops. Chia pet pubic hair. Gordie said, “That looks like your mom,” so I clocked him. Harder than I’d meant to. We didn’t talk for days.
Years later we snuck into a strip club. Jiggles. Sat in the second row. Behind the rich geezers. “That looks like your sister,” I said. He swallowed a double shot of Cuervo. Then a Coors. Said, “It is.” And never stopped staring.
About the Author
Len Kuntz is a writer from Washington State and the author of five books, most recently the personal essay collection, This is Me, Being Brave out now from Everytime Press. You can find more of his writing at https://lenkuntz.blogspot.com.
