Prose: The Sounds of Imaginary Dreams
It was either the Goodwill or the Salvation Army, the later being situated on a steep slope toward the lake, and the former making no impression on my memory whatsoever.
It was where I bought my first radio. It was silver. Dad painted it blue, from the same pot of paint that he touched up his car after I reversed it into the garage when the door was closed and bolted ( I assume) since the door didn’t budge when I hit the speeder pedal with the vigour and enthusiasm of a learner driver. Anyway, the radio … It had two black knobs. One for tuning in the station, the other to turn it on and off. There was no back on the radio, so you could watch all those tubes heating up and exposing their glowing amberish-red selves.
Fascinating. It was just like Eddie, starting out cold and slow, and then heating up.
But anyway, the radio … turn it on and start it up – Rolling Stones in my bedroom. The Doors were singing while I flunked Geometry 101. Hey Jude banged around in my head, and left no room for Chemistry. My youth is probably imprinted on my old bedroom walls, along with my Monkeys poster on the back of my closet door, and a pack of cigarettes hidden behind the Complete Works of Charles Dickens.