Free Punkzilla by Adam Rapp

wispy mustache that she put Vaseline on. Her and Fat Larkin lived in a residential hotel around the corner from Washington House. They had this big German sheperd called Saint Ray that only had three legs.
    I stole a Clairol Nice’n Easy kit from the Walgreens and even though it stunk and Shurl almost burned my scalp it worked so now even though you can see my blond roots most of my hair is black.
    Me and Branson were hanging out on the steps to the YWCA because that’s where Mrs. Mitre always gave Branson a couple of bucks for carrying her bag to her car. She’s this elderly skeezer who swam everyday to ease some spinal condition. Her hands shook and she walked all hunched like a troll. She started giving me a buck too just because I was there and then me and Branson would go to the Virginia Café to play video poker. The guy behind the bar liked us because we’d help him take the chairs off the tables and mop the floor.
    When he plays video poker Branson always doubles down no matter what the machine deals him so we’d either win big or lose everything. I made $114 once and it paid our Washington House rent for a month. This big guy with a pink face named O’Meara takes the rent money but he never talks to you. He just stands behind this bulletproof window all day and reads hot-rod magazines.
    Spanish Dave slept on our floor for a week. He was running from some girl who claimed he got her pregnant and she was supposedly hunting him with a letter from a lawyer and a digital camcorder. Spanish Dave spoke Spanish in his sleep but English during the day. When I asked him how much Spanish he knew he said “I don’t know no fucking Spanish. I can like count to FOUR and shit but that’s it” but he was fluent in his sleep P I swear. He’s fourteen like me and Branson but he has hairy armpits and he would get people to give him a quarter to see naked pictures of his mother that he downloaded off the Internet. “That’s her I swear for God” he would say. “Look at them titties kid. Nice right?”
    Man my stomach feels twisted in knots. I just hope I get to Memphis okay so I can see you P. My hand is mad killing me too so I’m going to end this letter.
    I just heard an announcement that we’re getting close to some place in Idaho where we’ll get like a half hour to walk around and get something to eat.
    Maybe that lady with the shower cap will give me another cigarette if I’m nice to her? Maybe I should tell her my name is Shirley?
    Love,
    Jamie
    P.S. I can’t believe you’re dying. Please don’t die.

October 10, 2007
    Dear Jamie,
    Hi, honey. How are you? I hope well.
    I haven’t received a letter from you in a few weeks, and I just wanted to check in with you to see if you’re okay. I spoke with Master Sergeant Mastaglio the other day, and he mentioned that schoolwise you were doing better. In fact he shared the good news that you got a B+ on your most recent history test. I was very proud of you when I heard that, Jamie. It honestly made my day. He also told me that you’re still struggling a bit with your Monday drill ratings. Just remember what your father told you: Marching and maneuvering a rifle is like anything else; it just takes concentration and a little elbow grease. I hope you’re still taking your medication. I know your father and I were very detailed in our request to the infirmary nurse, as was Dr. Carroll, and as you already know, she thinks that Buckner can be a very positive step for you.
    Things at home are good. The fall seems to be flying by. It feels like it was the end of August just a few days ago. It’s been quite chilly this week. I just pulled all of the old wool blankets out of the trunk in the basement. You know how stubborn your father is about turning the heat up.
    Edward just got word that he was accepted early to the University of Chicago undergraduate premed program. Your father and I were so thrilled! And I know Edward is relieved. I think his shoulders have dropped