Wednesdazz Read. . .
“Star Star” (The Rolling Stones)
Chimlyn heard a pigeon, or perhaps it was a dove, cooing softly. He and his buddies had gotten together to enjoy some underage drinking, but the town cop and some deputies showed up to spoil it. Everybody had scattered, leaving all the beer and other drunken possibilities at the scene of the crime. The cops had somehow found out they had planned to party at the barn, which had put an end to everything. No puking, burping, or playing grab ass. Life could be so unfair. If he had gotten apprehended (cop lingo for busted), life would’ve been even more unfair.
Chimlyn had ditched himself under a pile of straw in the hayloft. He just couldn’t get busted. His coach would kick him off the team, and football was too important to him. It was the only reason the other kids hung out with him.
He didn’t move a muscle for what seemed like hours, and it worked. He wasn’t one of those who got dinged for consumption by a minor. He made a promise on the spot that would last one whole week: no more drinking.
He left his hiding place only when he heard the prolonged sound of silence—no “10-4” or “How many perps did ya cite?” or any other of the language the law used.* * *