a theme emerges

Wreck of the month
As a kid I would build complicated roadways in the sand and dirt under a huge five-trunked Weeping Willow near our house. My collection of HotWheels, Corgi, and Matchbox cars would barely hit the the streets before there'd be a violent pile-up, usually resulting in flames. Imaginary drivers and passengers who occupied cars with functional doors would run off, the others had no escape route and were imaginarily mangled or burned alive, screaming for help!
My friends and I also liked to hang around a gas station that had a new totaled car on display every month. We loved the smell of gas and would get nauseous inhaling the nearby fumes as we inspected the crumpled cars. Usually these cars were set up as warnings against teen drinking and driving. These tableau didn't scare us. We were intrigued by the drama and violence the twisted steel and smashed glass hinted at. The degree of damage and amount of blood and trash inside always told us a story. Aside from underage drinking teen sex was always a key ingredient. (Another one of our pastimes was rousting half-naked teenagers doing whatever they were doing down the beach from our house. The boys would always chase us, pulling up their shorts, threatening our deaths) We'd work up a scenario on the way home from the garage only to come back the next day because one of us would insist they had seen some bit of evidence that the others hadn't noticed. Was that a trace of blood on the tire iron, or just rust?
The hazardous roadways I built under the willow during the day rarely made it through the night, flattened by the passed out bodies of the bums that hung out there after dark and drank. They always left behind wine bottles and small label-less tins that I learned contained Sterno. She told me not to touch them that it was poison. I'd been using them as substructure for my highways and ignored her warning.


Beach House
We had a canvas tent that my brother, sister, and I slept in sometimes. It was set up at the edge of where the grass met sand. Our mother called it The Beach House. One night as we lay on our sleeping bags waiting to sleep, a flashlight beam started darting around the wall that separated us from the lawn that led up to the house, someone was coming. We sat up on our elbows waiting to see what was up. The front flap opened revealing mother in a nightgown. She had a big knife that she waved around, motioning for us to follow her. As we left the beach the driveway filled with cop cars, and the officers took off towards the willow. We tried to malinger and see what was going on but mother hustled us up to the house.
The next day we found out a bum had killed another bum, stabbed him. We were banned from going to the tree, but overwhelmed by curiosity, we went. We hoped for evidence, blood splatter, ripped clothing, we didn't know. We wanted anything that would reveal the details of what happened cause no one was telling us. My streets were trampled of course, but evidence-wise there was nothing, not even the usual discarded Sterno cans. I suppose we expected what the wrecks-of the-month provided, a story. I checked the paper for a few days but there was nothing.

Harbor Hall native oral

HH
Harbor Hall was a big L-shaped colonial mansion high on a residential hill. Massive injections of cash from wealthy, guilty alcoholics, had allowed it a return to its once former glory. It occupied a corner lot with inside access to the glassed-in porches along the public side, but none from the street. A roofed porch also ran along the inner flank of the shorter wing. It was bordered by the lawn and parking lot. It was out of sight from the street.
There were usually a few guys malingering on this porch til lights out. One night I hung out with them and found out it wasn’t only the last drag on their cigarette that was keeping them up late. It was also for the blow-jobs that were offered up by an old native woman who set up camp a few nights a week in an alcove between a row of bushes and the side of the vacant warehouse across the alley.
I was being a wet blanket because none of them wanted me to see what they were up to. At first I thought they were afraid I’d snitch, then I saw her, and understood their shame. She was built like a motel refrigerator, with short stick-like legs holding it up. Cropped dark hair was tucked behind her ears, her age was indeterminate. She stood still for a moment, hands on hips, and barked her presence. I couldn't tell what she said, if it was a word even.
The others were watching to see what I'd do. It seemed like a good enough opportunity to get my first female blow-job, plus it would put them at ease, so I went after her. I found her squatting with her back up against the side of the warehouse. It looked like she was taking a shit, and my penis inverted at the sight. Her head was tilted back, eyes slitted, and her nearly toothless mouth wide open, abnormally wide. Arousal was out of the question. I wondered if they paid her, they must, and dropped a five in her lap. She didn't move, she was waiting. God built her for this, I thought.

She told me she was a christian and a pineapple and a lesbian.

She told me she was a christian and a pineapple and a lesbian. I knew that the Mary on the dashboard was not ironic, without asking. I also knew straight away that she meant no harm and maybe she knew the same thing of me. That even beyond the illusion of the nice suit, I was harmless, just some lost and drunk guy, at the edge of a carless boulevard, stranded, in the middle of the night. One lone crystalline tear trailing down his cheek...just kidding there, couldn't not. I passed the gutter test, once again, but a few days later sitting sober by the pool, it occurred to me that my luck may be soon running out and that Los Angeles was not Traverse City, and that my next free ride may not turn out so well.

Harbor Hall

There were usually a few guys malingering on the porch til lights out. One night I hung out with them and found out it wasn’t only the last drag on their cigarette that was keeping them up late. It was also for the blow-jobs that were offered up by an old native woman who set up camp a few nights a week behind a hedge across the alley. I was being a wet blanket cause none of them wanted me to see what they were up to. At first I thought they were afraid I’d snitch, then I saw her, and understood their shame. She was big—as in wide—and boxy. Short dark hair was tucked behind her ears. Her mouth lacked teeth. Her head was built for blow jobs. She stood still for a moment, hands on hips, then ducked behind the bushes.