Stetson, age 11: Vanilla and balmy with an undercurrent of musk, probably just like what the Electric Horseman smells like I think as I wrap the last of the Christmas tree lights around my Huffy Pro Thunder bike.
I’ve been walking these streets so long, singing the same old song
Fourteen strands of light run from the handle bars down to the front wheel guard, across the center bar, finishing at the chain guard. Every now and then Sharon glances over from her parent’s porch. I can’t tell if she’s annoyed or curious.
I know every crack in these dirty sidewalks of Broadway
Where hustle’s the name of the game
The extension cords, seven in all, run from the chain guard up to the socket by the back door. My little brother’s standing there waiting for the signal.
There’s been a load of compromising on the road to my horizon.
I put my hat on and give my chest another spray of Stetson. Straddling the Huffy now. From the top of the driveway. Almost ready.
I’m gonna be where the lights are shining on me.
Like a Rhinestone Cowboy. Riding out on a horse in a star-spangled rodeo.
Sing it, Glen. I hope Sharon’s watching this. I steal a glance for her.
Like a Rhinestone Cowboy.
Getting cords caught in spokes and flipping over handlebars,
hat smashed, both wrists probably sprained.
The first thing I do is look for my hat. I sit up and notice my hands are bleeding. Sharon has knelt down near me, she looks concerned. “Are you okay?” she asks. And I am. In fact, I’m perfect.
boys people have to grow up? it really ruins them.