From Jilt to Joy (The Clueless Christian series Book 1)

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She did her best to clean it up then took the first bus out of town. The General was a filthy fraud for rigging who went to war; the builder was a low-down crook for his corrupt bricks and mortar. Sonny became her hero for his auto-execution.

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The slut turned out to be my mother with inheritance and insurance her immediate solution. Full-bellied war heroes glare beforethey retreat to the business of baseball, beer, and the late-night thrashings that followed. An old lady, the one whose tonsils were scorched by the new doc on her back porch, spies a tin of kraut, fat with gas, and offers a nickel for its seething toxins.

An ex-sailor, still a year or two away from the brain surgeon counters with a dime. The auction is on; two bits win the can of cabbage; carrots go for less. White natives and refugees will eat well tonight. Too foreign for the first World War, too slow for the second, the hard-boiled Pollack boxed his way into local legend when he beat the man who beat the man who beat Mickey Walker. An ugly brute, Wadzu Gawluk kept his fists high burying the wreckage of his misshapen head from his hundreds of welter, middle, and light heavyweight brawls during the Golden Age of Dempsey up to the dawn of World War II.

Uncle Wazoo, as I called him, owned and exhibited enormous hands; flounder-sized palms and cucumber fingers all with the texture of crocodile leather from decades of drowning his fists in pickle juice. With a ten-dollar bill in his left hand and a fifty in his right,the Pollack patrolled Brenner Street from West Side Park to Woodland Cemetery, up to Springfield Avenue all the way to Market where the blemish had taken hold. Down Neck though, Europe persisted. From Spring to Fall, Wazoo would goad local wannabes in their 20s into bare-knuckle matches.

If you hit his paunch, you won the ten. Smack that crumbling face and US Grant was yours. Before each match, street urchins not yet called delinquents roamed the recesses of six-story walk-ups for loose change and cardboard canisters of dated beer. I followed along while Gawluk treated his pretenders as filth. He broke noses, split.

The proud Pole gave me the ten dollars to purchase candy for his young admirers. Opponents never won a nickel for their work. We are all wiser because this illiterate warlord from Poznan taught youngsters like me how to become a man. The house was not plumb and the wind knew it. In winter, drafts broke into whistles and spooked the old mutt; he paced the linoleum in search of calm. At times, field mice would cozy between cinder blocks and joists while waiting out storms, only to have the mutt paw their retreats in protest.

Most nights shades would remain up taking in the moon and stars, but with each cold snap they would come down holding in any dying heat. On snowy nights, the lost stepfather and fermented mother would retire to the foam-fill by midnight to sleep below a vinyl headboard with chewing gum warts or to linger a little longer with the residue of alcohol and ashes of death.

By one, the young fellow would fidget on his stale mattress with the glow of a space heater from the kitchen below and the drum of ice pellets on the corrugated roof above. In the dim, he would raise the shades and press his face and hands against the glacial pane. The ice pellets would have changed to snowflakes too muted to stir the snoring man or the drunken mommy.

And the boy would have dozed off on the front room rug; his visions of a snow day unfazed by the fading warmth of the space heaterand the expectant blurry blush of the latest used TV. With a crowbar from the cellar, we pried the drawers open bottom to top. Each drawer contained six sealed shoe boxes, all with an index card taped to the box top. It provided a name and a date, all from the s. With a pen knife, we cautiously opened the containers.

Fourteen had the look of three-day-old snow, three had the color of a grocery bag. The shoe-box babies remained a taboo topic, not discussed again after that day of discovery in Sally, the abortionist and neighborhood barkeep, died in when her house burned down, as well as the dresser, from faulty Christmas-tree wiring that took her straight to limbo.

My two aunts and my mother lived, even prospered, well into their 90s. In , they all chose to die within a week of each other taking any knowledge of the back-alley scandal with them into dust. I am revealing this tale to you — a tale without certainty, yet a tale I cannot deny. Asleep on his front porch at the junction of Routes 10 and , Mauritius Henson snored with little of the authority that built the town where he was born. On his lounge, Mauritius slumped like melted butter sliding off a stack of pancakes. Henson, what are you reading today? The volatile Barbasol once stood for the supremacy of capitalism by destroying the competition here at home and in foreign wars.

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He battled ball teams and railroads to submission. After the Great War, Mauritius used some of his hard-won money fabricating a large pond near the RR station. Soon the locals were walking by to view the mallards and herons feeding on the fishes. Black and white swans became. A proficient schemer, the Colonel secured one million dollars at one percent from retail investors for stores, restaurants, and filling stations that would keep tourists coming by train or automobile.

Unlike other speculators, Mauritius handled the squeeze with ease. By the time the panic slackened Henson had taken control of the railroad, purchased the county bank, and won the race for mayor. Within a year, biplanes flew in for refills and repairs.

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Time, of course, ceases for no man. The bank lost its accreditation, and the obelisk mysteriously toppled one night in The Poisons changed its name to Iron Mikes and moved to Allentown. Kevin took the strap today for dropping orange slices on the kitchen floor. Stevie had his fingers snapped for changing channels much too fast. Lola had her hair cut off for grass stains on her Levi jeans.

Robby stood in the pantry from breakfast until bedtime for not eating cold Farina.

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Jimmy wretched from a heavyweight fist to his solar plexus for coming home at half past seven. Deborah sported sores across her back from a crack willow switch wielded by her mother. In ramshackle houses on Eden Lane or brick and block mansions on Starlight Ridge, World War II took its toll by bashing children for not becoming men and women by the age of eleven.

Tommy raced into traffic on Garnet Avenue. In the villages beyond Bell Labs, children from both sides of the tracks cringed and caterwauled every time their parents. Yes, the greatest generation was hungry once and they won the war,but when their celebrity ended they took out their hysteria and depression on their children like their parents did to them. Years before I lost at living, years before my days of giving, marched in 96 of us, pomp and all that circumstance, adolescence bursting forth, children selfish for their chance.

Artie Bourgeois, black and beaming, lugged the flag for all his scheming. Nancy, though, is another tale with oozing welts from neck to rear. Trumpets blared that we were nearing, parents cried with teachers cheering. Seats assigned from front to back, best ones given to pretty faces; average lads and average lasses were left to fill the average places. Trained since five to obey orders, geeks like me sat near the borders. Reverend Winston prayed for grace, for those begat to the master race. He joked how sad we were when we learned Mr.

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Berg was not a christian, who journeyed to the Promised Land to secure Israeli citizenship. Then Winston offered a bible reading to keep our hearts from ever bleeding. Principal Hubbard came out festive, waxed too long, we all grew restive. Words of welcome lost in time, rattling the assembly hall. Pierson could not take it, she curled right up in a taffeta ball. Was she drunk, was she bloated? We learned later her bowel exploded. Melancholia gripped the elite, beautiful girls gave out a shriek.

Carolyn Klinger snagged the award, for an instant only it was praise the Lord. Now we came to the genius hour, reaping his medals for mental power. We sat around like the boneheads we were as all his accolades were duly accorded; If aptitude denoted genetics our parents should have had us all aborted. At his grave site a few years later, they asked forgiveness for the old race-baiter. Grand Dame Hoskins of the B of E handed out diplomas affectedly. Katie swooned, Lenny collapsed, Roger the Dodger tumbled across the stage. We played dumb, never saw a thing, in the land of the blind we were king.

We marched back out, a girl with a boy, puffed-up pride, overblown with joy; most of us graduated high school, found some work, found some action. Most of us married, half divorced, we all spent life tailgating passion; isolated in the languor of my cynical strain, old memories flourish even as I wane. When the calendar blazed summer on high, our town would get ready for the day-long surprise. All along Highland to Salem Drive School banners would flaunt the one flag that mattered. With Caballeros from Hawthorne, bugles tuned, we would all be aglow for the Fourth of July.

Focusing on action, I am always there in faded old jeans and a royal blue tee. We all show off on the Fourth of July. Your blouse will get wet and make me so proud. They have this guy streaking on a Fender guitar. Fourth of July, Fourth of July, chicks becoming women by holding hands with plow boys locked in as boys all of our lives. For one night in the heat the world feels complete with Chester fondling his sweetie down the right field line.

The first rocket sizzles from on to of the hill. She swirled around with one lasting wave. Is she with that stupid Rico from Philly on this Fourth of July? I must treat her real fine on the Fifth of July. She scaled trestles to wave at Rolling Red loaded with coal to feed the mills. She plunged the depths of sinister pools where catfish ripped through her baked-ivory flesh. She skipped rocks where the basalt channel turns shallow; and, savored blackberries where George Washington once did the same.

She slid on mossy erratics eroded smooth in glacial times. She searched for mallard ducklings that she and her girlfriends watched them grow. Along the slip-off slope, she plundereda Ford jalopy that in its prime killed my cousin Rodney. The river flowed past sprouting hobo-huts the cops and rednecks raided once every month. The river flowed past gravestone slabs of Captain Kearney and his sister Anabella who panned for gold with their slaves as they pined for Irish mates. The river flowed past gin mills where blokes paid for what skirts plied, that essential texture of rawness that goodly girls would die for.

Along the river, Lena lived and laughed at those usual items that make a lifetime worth it. I wanted a car for trips out of town to meet girls who would praise me without their knowing how much of a loser I was. Once my Bel-air was detailed and polished, I showered squeakier than clean with Irish Spring and jammed personal items like Aqua Velva, Listerine, and Brylcreem in the glove compartment for seducing jail bait from Dover and Sparta.

While Tweedledee and Tweedledum searched the mean streets for muscle cars with plenty of torque. Gary and I sought out brassy virgins coveting enticement. We sat at a milky formica booth where we selected three songs, for a quarter, to play on the Rockola. They knew in a minute these little kittens were virgins, and sent the belles packing, back to the unfinished side of town. While Gary took off to find for the Tweedle twins, I argued I would not dial to their favorite station. Besides, the vestal vamps had moved on to next topic.

They reveled in what their short-shorts and midriff blouses hadaccomplished. They had given me an honest hard-on, unlike those I conjured up at bedtime most every night. They jumped at my offer allowing them to slide their hands over the magic rising and undulating in my crotch. It was time for us to steal away in the night. I left my wing men buying birch beer for the bawdy ride back to Garnet, while I drove Barb and Sandy to a neutral corner, where the baby-vamps voiced several times I should take them for a joyride when I came back by myself.

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  6. Who would believe that ride to Dover and beyond would be the first of four thousand drives to nowhere over the next 50 years. Fur-bearers slither in the mud with craggy, would-be mountain men in histrionic pursuit. November remoteness, desolate girls hunt for heat along the quivering lip. To get the free app, enter your mobile phone number.

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    From Jilt to Joy (The Clueless Christian series Book 1) From Jilt to Joy (The Clueless Christian series Book 1)
    From Jilt to Joy (The Clueless Christian series Book 1) From Jilt to Joy (The Clueless Christian series Book 1)
    From Jilt to Joy (The Clueless Christian series Book 1) From Jilt to Joy (The Clueless Christian series Book 1)
    From Jilt to Joy (The Clueless Christian series Book 1) From Jilt to Joy (The Clueless Christian series Book 1)
    From Jilt to Joy (The Clueless Christian series Book 1) From Jilt to Joy (The Clueless Christian series Book 1)
    From Jilt to Joy (The Clueless Christian series Book 1) From Jilt to Joy (The Clueless Christian series Book 1)
    From Jilt to Joy (The Clueless Christian series Book 1) From Jilt to Joy (The Clueless Christian series Book 1)
    From Jilt to Joy (The Clueless Christian series Book 1) From Jilt to Joy (The Clueless Christian series Book 1)

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