Thanksgiving

It was Thanksgiving Day. I was probably 12. My Mom was going to cook a dinner. I'm sure some people were going to come over later.

I put on my Billy the Kid jeans, a wool sweater over a T shirt and an old oversize cotton flannel shirt that used to be my Father's over that, it was cold out, a pair of US Keds, said I was going for a walk and was out the door.

I walked West out of my tract to Gilbert. There I picked up the Red Car track line that jogged a little to the North all the way to Highway 39, up around to Cerritos, where the Red Palm, Gypsy Fortune teller house was. I knew a guy that swore there were whores in there. I was sure he was right but never knew for sure. I was too shy for whores and later on, too cheap. Then North From there. At Hobby City, up around Lincoln, I started to wonder how much farther I should go. I wasn't tired. I've always been a walker. When I got to Knott's Berry Farm, it seemed far enough. He had built this replica of Independence Hall on the East side of his property, with a big lawn and pond. I sat on a bench there and watched the ducks for a little while. Then I walked home. I'm not sure how far that is. More than twelve miles for sure, not close to twenty.

By the time I got home dinner was over. Whoever had come for it was gone. Nobody said anything. I took a nap. Later I had left overs and then went back to my room and read.