THE NORTH RIDING PROJECT

I was hiding out in Frankie Johnson’s car, a canary-yellow ’69 Super Bee that could shit and get.  We were on a spree, stealing anything we could get our hands on – tape players and car batteries, gasoline and beer.  It was a day or two after my sixteenth birthday, and I hadn’t been home in a week.  And even though my old man was telling everyone around Knockemstiff that he hoped I was dead, he kept driving up and down the township roads with his head out the window looking for me like I was one of his lost coonhounds.

Pollock/Knockemstiff