Sim Carter: Past Tense Imperfect

Leaving Home: The Beginning I looked at the clock glowing on the dashboard; just after eleven... Leaving Home: Part Two He was tall and almost cool with aviators and a mustache that matched his shaggy golden brown hair... Leaving Home: Part Three The next couple of months blurred by. Phillip kept up, I don't know, I guess I'd call it a full frontal attack, but gently. First came the awkward acknowledgment that calling all over Vegas, hunting me down, was going too far. He neighed his whinny of a laugh. "I guess I got a little crazy." In return, did I tell him I didn't need crazy in my life? Did I tell him to scram, to get lost? Did I tell him we were on two separate journeys? Or instead did I say nothing? Did I find his fascination fascinating and blush demurely when he talked about the skin in the hollow of my throat or told me I looked pretty in pink? Funny how something like that, a compliment when you're craving one, can stop up a hole

#15 Euclid Street, Santa Monica Last week I posted the first part of this transition piece, the story of my first marriage, the tale that took me from my parents' home to my first place.  Leaving Home: The Beginning   is #15 of the On The Street Where I Live stories . You may want to read it before you read this. Here's the second installment. Leaving Home: Part Two He was tall and almost cool with aviators and a mustache that matched his shaggy golden brown hair. What made Phillip uncool was the way he had to shove those aviators up his slippery nose over and over, an act of uncoolness I could relate to all too well. The other thing that marked him as uncool was that he was full-time; a management trainee at Drug Star in Santa Monica. The rest of us that worked there, the young ones anyway, were part time. We were going to school, trying to be something else, trying to find a real place to start our careers. The drug store as a place to have a career? Definitely not coo

#15 Euclid Street, Santa Monica, California I've been married twice; one that didn't take, and one that did (knock on wood).This is about the one that didn't. You'll notice, it's only the beginning. I'm not sure how long it will end up being, as long — or as short — as it takes I guess. It's one of those transition pieces, the story that took me from my parents' apartment on Fourteenth Street in Santa Monica to a sweet little back house one short block away on Euclid, #15 of the On the Street Where I Live stories. If you've been here before you know this isn't a story in the fictional sense of the word, it's memoir. I'm of an age where I'm looking back, trying to figure out the route my life has followed. A few of you have showed an interest; thanks for that. Also, I hate titles; mainly because I'm no good at them. I think I'll call this one  Leaving Home I looked at the clock glowing on the dashboard; just after elev