By Dinty W. Moore
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Extra info for Between Panic and Desire
Imagine That 39 Yes. And you seem lost. You seem as if you can’t take in the multitude of sights, sounds, and sensory inputs; you can’t make sense of what is happening or construct a version of reality that allows you to move forward — I was on lsd. No, I’m no longer talking about on top of that building. I mean right now. Right here. At this point in your life, as you pick up the phone and call me. You seem lost. You seem overwhelmed. You don’t know what to do next. Keep talking . . One by one, Dinty, the symbols of safety and security came apart in your life.
I see two of everything,” I tell my mom. Though I no longer remember what errand we were running that summer afternoon in the early 1960s, I clearly remember the moment when I made this confession. I remember where we stopped: 22nd and State. I remember that a telephone pole loomed just outside the car window, right along the curb. The pole, scorched by sunlight and stippled with tar stains and nails, seemed out of place on the treeless street. My mother pauses long enough to digest my words, jerks the Chevy into park, then turns in her seat.
The car, I believe, was a Pontiac from the mid-1940s. My ten-year-old mind had great difﬁculty comprehending this unexpected discovery —someone abandoning an entire car. An entire car? At that point I was holding onto everything in my brief life: bottle caps, baseball cards, small bits of oddly shaped stone. Yet someone had left behind a car, lost track of a full-sized automobile. It made no sense. Perhaps that’s why Tommy Mucciarone refused to approach. Tommy just glanced fretfully over his left shoulder while the rest of us, the boys on the Schwinns and Huffys, yanked at the oxidized wipers, searched for the missing cigarette lighter, picked through the rubble and trash of the ﬂoorboards for coins, maps, clues, whatever little thing we could ﬁnd.
Between Panic and Desire by Dinty W. Moore