by J. Edward Kruft Venti Views Adam-12 Mom sat me in front of the TV so she could drink highballs in the den while my father was at his Tuesday night poker game. I was in the fifth grade, so what does that make me, ten? I could hear her—over the blare of police sirens and dialogue with drunkards and squad-room chatter and the sound of what I now know to be my crush on Officer Reed—riffling through his desk drawers, taking books from the shelf and fanning them, holding them by

by J. Edward Kruft Pamela Heckel Henry and Jonas sat watching a re-run of The Rockford Files in the den that used to be a garage. Henry’s mother was in the kitchen, listening to the radio, smoking and otherwise making herself useless, as Henry’s father liked to comment. “I want a pop,” said Jonas. “Rude!” replied Henry. He thought: I can’t believe I let this guy stick his dick in my mouth. “Am not.” “Are too. It’s rude to make demands on your host.” “Oh, you’re a host?” “Damn

by J. Edward Kruft Savannah B. Reg sits on the edge of the bed. Across the way, a Francesco Molon mirror reflects. “Because that’s what fucking mirrors do, don’t they?” He throws his lead-healed Gucci slipper but misses and then throws the other slipper ever harder and it nicks the lower corner but doesn’t make a dent or even a scratch (he manages to stumble from the edge of his bed to examine) and certainly it’s a cry from what he intends — wants — which is to explode the mo

by J. Edward Kruft Siora Photography Tina ordered the basket of popcorn shrimp at the gas station. The guy who took her order had an oval tag on his striped shirt that read: “Billy.” “I guess,” she said reluctantly, “you could tell them whatever you wanted.” “Huh?” the attendant tilted his head. “For your name tag,” she pointed. “If it were me, I’d tell them my name is Serrated. Like the knife. Only I’d pronounce it Ser-ray-TED. You know. Just to throw them off.” Billy cleare