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A letter from Rick

Posted on Sunday, February 8, 2009 in Letters, letters To Stu

December 5, 1963

Dear Stu,

How have you been? Stu, let me tell you, I’m so god damn depressed I’m going out of my mind. We’ve lost every football game we’ve played, I’m doing pretty well. I lettered last week against Hamilton, by the way I got thrown out of the game for fighting with a nigger. We’ve had many injuries, ten to be exact.

I got a job. I’m a box boy at this market. It’s really bitchin’. The women checkers all fuck for the boss and some of the personel, but not me.

From your description, Frisco sounds really bitchin’ (weird). I hear there are a lot of queers, but that the town is pretty open as far as drinking or sex. Are there really places such as the one you said where there is a naked girl in a fishbowl?

Stu, I’ll tell you things aren’t to good with me, I’m really lost in life. I don’t know what to do, go to college or go in the service. I don’thave a goal in life. I don’t even know what I want to be, I think that’s the problem.

Christmas isn’t too far away and I hope you’ll find time for us to go together. We’ll relive the old times like shitting in Duffy’s bed or when we stole that car and drove it off the mountain in Malibu! Write—don’t forget.

Your buddy,

Rick

Rick Phillips was this kid from Philly who was kind of an American Bandstand Italian greaser type. In high school, a few streets over. Every morning he walked to the school bus stop , which was just in front of my house. We sneaked a few cigarettes before the bus came. I smoked Marlboros and Rick smoked cigs with menthol (Newports I think). Rick’s dad, a Joe-Palooka looking guy named Max, worked in a pickle factory. One time we visited the place. It was cool. His mom, a blonde floozie (I think she once worked in a taxi dance hall), had great tits that she always used to threaten to show us (but never actually did).

After high school Rick moved to Santa Monica with his mom, mom, who worked in a pickle factory and had great tits (which Rick would constantly brag about!). I went over there once but, the house smelled like pickles so I never went back. About three years later, I was working in a leather shop (remember those?)making suede pants and shirts (Jim Morrison actually came in and bought some). During my lunch break, I saw Rick walking along the boardwalk near the old amusement park .He had gotten all these muscles, and was walking a white Alaskan Husky with one blue eye. We talked, but there was no friendship left .That was the last time I would ever see him, but everytime I eat pickles, I still think about him, and I’m sorry I never got to see his mom’s tits.

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