My mom Doris Small thought the greatest honor on earth was getting published. For some reason -- a lack of time, a lack of confidence -- she never tried to write a book. But when I was in college and getting published in a magazine, this inspired her. She decided to write something and submit it to the magazine.
She wrote a parody of the Longfellow poem The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere -- updating it to be about a Boston drug dealer who gets a warning from the top of the Prudential Tower and rides off to tell his clients that the narcs are coming.
To give the effect of an illicit document, she wrote it on the back of a brown paper grocery bag that she cut up so it would fit in her typewriter.
As it happens, my mother was a great believer in the value of what she called "white lies." This is when you stretch the truth in order to preserve someone's feelings.
So I wrote a response to her submission from the editor of the magazine and all he had to do was sign it. She seemed delighted with the response and that was how we left it.
The truth is, I never let anyone see her submission and I barely read it myself. I was a college student. And college students are supposed to be embarrassed about their parents, especially when parents do something as unusual as submitting to the college magazine.
This Mother's Day, when I was looking through everything I've saved from my mom, I found her submission again. And guess what? I read it carefully -- at last -- and I really enjoyed it. I don't totally understand how she chose this particular creative outlet. It doesn't sound at all like her. But, in my opinion, it's fun and well done.
Because getting published would be the most exciting thing for Doris, I'm publishing it now, virtually, right here. Typing her words after all these years gave me a powerful connection to her that I never would have expected. Another reason for saving things, and for enjoying them before someone tosses them.
Read on and feel free to form your own opinion. If you decide to share your reaction, I hope you will honor Doris's penchant for white lies -- and tell me that you really enjoyed it too.
Sleazy Rider
or
The Slum Landlord's Story
Hey, you guys, I'm gonna tell you about a ride I took in April of '75. Not many dudes are still around that remember that caper.
I said to my sidekick, "If the Narcs pull a raid tonight, go up to the observation deck of the Pru and give me a signal with your torch -- one flash if the fuzz is comin' by car, two if they're closin' in by boat. I'll be waitin' across the street, my cycle souped up to maximum, my helmet strapped on to stay, my accelerator foot aimed and ready to go."
So my pal heads back to his pad until he gets the call -- the Feds is on to us and are already headin' down to the docks. Like a flash he's off to the Pru and up the express elevator. He looks down a minute at the Combat Zone, his home away from home. He knows he's about to help save many of those great strip joins and adult book stores. Every pusher in town will look up to him. I was ready, squintin' into the darkness, watchin' for the signal.
There it was -- one flash, then another.
I was off. Vroom, vroom. I didn't have time to waste if I was to arrive at the drops before the Feds. I knew the fate of a lot of innocent junkies was riding with me.
It was midnight by my super duper deluxe Seiko. I went roaring down 93, bound for Medford. The campus was lit up by kids lighting up. I found my contact in the library, a spot where he wouldn't be spotted. I warned him of the danger, and was off on the next leg of my trip. I hit Lexington about 1 A.M. My contact was in his usual spot -- parked in his Caddy watchin' the action near the Minuteman. At first he refused to believe my story. Thought I was tryin' to pull somethin'. So I swore on the gilded weathercock.
I was off again. Vroom, vroom. It was two by the clock over the all-night supermarket when I pulled into Concord. Herman the Horse was slow to understand, and I left him there never guessing he would end up with a slug in the gut.
Well, most of you know the end of this story. I kept ridin' -- vroom, vroom -- always one town ahead of the Feds. Yellin' in the dark, knockin' at doors.
Now here's the creepy part about it. The last time I was in the pen, some of the guys there told me that my ride had gone down in history! Would you believe that sometimes pushers, before a big bush, think they hear my bike vroom, vrooming down the highway?!
Clarence Ruffian '04
