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Jett Superior laid this on you on || September 1, 2009 || 10:54 pm

how to tell a story

At one point in my life I dated this boy named Tony Knuckles. Hand to God, that was his name. I was crazy about some Tony Knuckles.

He wasn’t stellarly good-looking or anything, that boy. He had some amazing blue eyes and he was tall and swimmer’s-build rangy, but beyond that he was pretty average-looking. I was into Tony because he was the first boy, I guess, that I both wanted to fuck and hold an active, lively conversation with (though not necessarily simultaneously). We held one another’s rapt attentions hour after hour on the beat-up couch in his daddy’s auto shop (I wasn’t allowed to go to the Knuckles’ house, no-no-no), often with as much as three or four feet between us.

I don’t guess there was a single subject in our available repositories of knowledge that went untouched. We laughed a goodly amount, Tony and me, two smart-mouthed and hard-knocked and enthusiastic kids. Anything and everything slid into and out of our conversational domain. Tony wanted me to wiggle out of my shorts, sure, but he seemed just as content to climb around my brain for as long as I would allow.

Or maybe he had Ninja-like control over his hormonal fluctuations, I dunno. Hormonal control, if you can recall what boys are like in their teens, is a pretty gigantic accomplishment; he would deserve to be held in even more esteem were that the case.

My favorite story Tony Knuckles ever told to me goes like this:

I guess I was maybe four or five? I remember that Mikey had gone off to school and I wasn’t old enough yet, so I spent a lot of time in our room playing while he was away, just sort of missing him. I still had to take naps in the late morning, and I had this toy box that slid under the bed when it wasn’t being used.

One day I guess it didn’t get put away before I was put down for a nap, and I somehow ended up rolling off of the bed into it. When I woke up, things were dark and peaceful and still; I was lying there surrounded by stuffed animals.

The lid had closed from my impact into it, I think, and it rolled up under my bed. I was content to stay there for a long time, because I looked around at the stuffed bears and the mostly-darkness and felt all that peace and thought, “I have died and been taken to Heaven. This is what heaven is, oh!”

…and Tony wasn’t afraid, because he believed he was in Heaven. He reclined there content for the longest. That is, until his mother came to look in on his unusually-lengthy nap and all hell broke loose because her tiny son was ‘missing’.

“Tony, TONYYYYY!” she was yelling and I was thinking, ‘Mom? MOM? YOU CAME TO HEAVEN, TOO??’

“Hey, mom!” I finally hollered back after I got my mind to cranking.

“Where are you Anthony, where arrrrre you?” my mother cried out.

“I’m in Heaven, mommy!” and my mother hit the floor in a dead faint because we are Italian and when someone tells you they’re yelling back at you from heaven you tend to believe that shit. It was my uncle Paul that finally figured out I was in the toybox with the underside of the bed blocking the lid.

That Tony Knuckles, what a guy. Had we been a few years older I woulda shimmied out of those shorts for sure.

1 worked it out »

  1. Jettomatika 9.25.2009

    MORAL OF THE STORY:

    Tony Knuckles is/was great, the end.

     

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