At 12 years old Phil had the waterfall conk, and he had a way of spitting, rolling his tongue and blowing it out beyond 3 sidewalk squares. We hung at Phil's house. Part of it was his older sister at the ironing board: ratted hair, white lipstick, pink shell sweater, legs in black stretch pants and the tiny ankle bracelet.
It was late afternoon, our crew sprawled on the floor with some dice, passing a cigarette, when the Mongoloid brother popped in with shiny eyes and fell in next to me. "I know you. You altar boy. St. Margaret Mary.
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