Date: Mon, 24 Dec 2018 22:43:47 +0000
From: Bogan <nifty.bogan@protonmail.com>
Subject: Former Street Rat 09

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like this site and we don't want it to go away.

These stories are my memories.  I might change names, places and other such
detail, but they are my memories.  If you wanna use the stuff in here as a
jumping off point for your own stories, that is fine by me.  Just remember,
these are my memories.

**************************************

Oisin's Books was a huge place.  I've never heard of a bookstore that was
bigger.  It had 3 floors and a basement.  Mismatched bookcases everywhere.
And sometimes books stacked on top of neatly shelved but crammed shelves.

It was a huge place.  I think it's history section was as big as most other
bookstores.  And all the books were second hand.  They didn't carry a
single new book.

You could never just pop in for a quick look.  All the books were separated
into sections like sci-fi or LGBT.  But that's were any organising stopped.
Nothing was alphabetic.  Or arranged in any other recognisable pattern.
Books were just shoved onto the shelves wherever there was room.  Or on top
if there wasn't any.

Whenever we went to Oisin's, we would split up.  I don't remember any time
that we didn't.  We were always interested in different things.  Chaz
especially liked all the high brow literature.  He had wanted to be an
English teacher.  Petey's taste would vary.  Just as mine would.  Brian
would get stuff like science or plumbing or animal husbandry.  But when he
was being honest with himself, he'd go to Young Adult Adventure.

I'd almost always head to the basement.  All the paperbacks were in the
basement.  They were mostly different genres of fiction.  But there was
some non-fiction as well.

The basement was darker than the rest of the bookstore.  See, there were no
windows to let sunlight or streetlight in.  But it wasn't as dark as
twilight.  More like an overcast day.

It was just a large rectangular room with a staircase leading up to the
ground floors.  Most of the bookcases reached up to the low ceiling, making
these tunnels of books.

I loved roaming around those tunnels.  Randomly stopping to look at
shelves.  I usually had no plan.  Just looking for things that struck my
fancy.  Sci-fi or mysteries or horror.  And the trouble would be the
selection.  They had so much good stuff.  And we'd restrict ourselves to
one book.  Two if it was something special.

So with book in hand, we'd head to Barrow Park.  We'd stop at a market
stall and buy some fruit.  We were always eating crisps & candy bars, and
drinking soda or beer.  But a trip to Barrow Park required something
special.

The park was a nice size.  And it had lots of dips and ridges.  Evergreens
were planted on the hills, making all these little hallows.  We'd find an
empty one and spread out on the grass.

The park was surrounded by busy streets.  And all sorts of vehicles were
speeding by just on the other side of the trees.  You could hear the cars
and the honking and yelling.  Or an emergency vehicle go by at speed.  You
could hear them, but you couldn't see them.  And for some reason, that made
it feel like they were far away.

So you'd read a book.  Or eat an apple.  Sometimes you'd just lay on the
grass looking up at the clouds.  And those were the good times.

We went to parties.  But only if one of us knew who was throwing the party.
As long as one of us could vouch, we felt okay to go.  Except Brian.  After
his first disaster, we didn't let him vouch for anything.

Their seemed to be an unspoken rule.  Whatever problem you had with
someone, or if one group had a problem with another group, you didn't cause
trouble at a party.

Maybe because we had so few good things in our lives.  And so we held on to
what we had.  The cafe that wouldn't throw you out.  The shop that sold you
alcohol.  The bookstore where security didn't follow you around.  You
treated them with the utmost respect.  And the rest of us would beat down
anyone who fucked with that.

So you'd go to a party.  And you got drunk outside of your crash-pad.  You
drank where there were a handful of people that you didn't even know.
Because there were a hundred eyes watching.  And there were a hundred fists
ready to fuck up who ever broke the peace.

So we drank and smoked.  We sang and shouted.  We danced and moshed and
stomped our feet.  You ran into old friends.  You made new ones.  You
straightened out misunderstandings and you made peace.  And you were happy.

But I'll tell you what is my happiest memory.

We were all at our place.  We were all asleep.  Then something pulled me
out of my slumber.  I sat up in my sleeping bag.  It was still dark
outside.  But there wasn't much noise coming from the street.  So it was
after most of the night owls left, but before the early risers got started.
A neon sign was casting a purple glow into our place.  It was the only
light to see by.

Around me were my brothers.  All of them in their own sleeping bags.  All
of them asleep.  They looked peaceful.  And across from me were our boots.
You only ever took your boots off if you're safe.  And there they were, all
neatly lined up against the wall.  Same type, but all subtly different.
Our boots against the wall.

And I lay back down in my sleeping bag.  And I closed my eyes.  And I felt
happy.

Not as dramatic as a rape or a beating.  Not as tintalating as a cleric
pissing in your mouth.  But these were our happy times.  And they were my
happy times.

Merry Christmas, Bogan

nifty.bogan@protonmail.com