“Hey, young Mick. What’s the matter?” At the time, he had sort of squatted and laid his gnarled hand on me.
I was shaking so bad, his hand slid off. He grunted as he rose from his bent position.
“Them heebie-jeebs got you?” He’d looked at me with an amused grimace.
I must have been about fifteen then, sporadically going to school, tired to death of living on my own with no friends, no family, no warmth.
It was about this time of year, too, as I recall.
I hadn’t started working full-time—or even part-time—at the Orpheum, but snuck in to sleep when the shelter got too full or I was too scared to stay there. It was before I met Randy.
Anyway, I’d explained to George about the fantasy film, and about how lonely I was. Old George had laughed and told me to buck up.
“Somewhere I read bein
