Peaches McGill

Peaches McGill was his name and his arms and neck were covered in tattoos. In 1974 only ex-cons, inmates, and sailors had tattoos. He drove a glittery gold Volkswagen souped up bug with a Porsche engine he put in himself. He had wide muscular shoulders and tiny hips. And a mouth and sneer just like Sylvester Stallone. I called him the Big V behind his back because he looked like the letter V in his tight maroon T-shirt and blue jeans

I'd come home from school and see the Saint Pauli Girl six pack on the top shelf of the fridge and know my sister and the Big V were in her bed. At the time my sister was the Saint Pauli Girl herself, working as a barmaid, wearing a dirndl, raking in wads of cash and counting it in front of me. She had jewelry, scarves, make up, and money to burn at bars with her friends.

Peaches once gave me a toke of marijuana, and after a few moments of intense fascination with the slow-motion water coming out of the kitchen faucet I went down the rabbit hell hole, hallucinating and crying, watching the movie of my life. "Where's the off switch?" I asked.

Our mother and step-father were off renovating their new purchase, a 1750's farm house in western Massachusetts, rapidly destroying all of its original charm. In a few short expensive years they turned it into a prison camp for Madison Ave advertising clients.