#residentist

Dad was nothing more to him than an exhaust cloud out the tailpipe of his Oldsmobile Cutlass shooting north when mom was pregnant at (ohthankgod) 18. Mom never gave up the short skirts or a j on the patio with her feet kicked up, but she did string a cross around her neck sometimes when she needed free daycare from the local Baptist church. Sammy grew up as "Kit" and Kit grew up with a heaping helping of thrifty desert tack: grape jelly peanut butter sandwiches but never with the crusts cut off, rusted white beater cars with a red door on the driver's side and a green one for the passenger, hauling the icebox out of the freezer to stick behind the intake of the box fan in the doorway... At twelve he learned to chew on the left side of his mouth when a cavity crawled up the roots of his molar. At thirteen he got his dry socket sucked out and decided to become a dentist. In the time since he's perfected ineffectual timidity, a wry sense of self-deprecating quirk, and sometimes the Wednesday NYT crossword. Find him daily at the Silver Strike for a late breakfast of black coffee with an ice cube in it and toast. Find him weekly at the blackjack table for some quality time with mom. Find him as scarcely as possible at home as he sails through the logistics of a recent divorce.