He was the King of the house. Nothing moved without his approval and permission. Mom was his lifelong slave running around to serve the King’s every...wish and fancy. Pop was a bull dog of a man short and stout strong and muscular with dumb bell moustache and the mind set of a tyrant. We were all shit scared of him. Mom used to tell us that this was a family trait which ran down from father to son. But frankly deep inside Papa was a loving and caring father to us . We however never could. I was honed and tanned from working construction and a week’s vacation in the surf. The young women, smelling sweetly of oil and girl sweat, eyed me appreciatively and murmured apologetically as they were pressed backwards even more tightly against me as more passengers got on. The bus started up once more, making its swaying, rumbling way down the beach, the back of the bus very warm from all the perspiring bodies. I had become distinctly aware of the pressure of the dark-haired girl’s. More

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