Sunday Oct 25

Ridgeway-Poetry Kevin Ridgeway is from Southern California, where he resides in a shady bungalow with his girlfriend and their one-eyed cat. He spent his early adult years living in New York City and New England, where he spent time studying creative writing at Vermont’s Goddard College, followed by years of shenanigans. In the four years that he has been active, his work has been published in a wide array of small press literary journals in the United States and overseas. Recent and forthcoming publications include Chiron Review, Re)verb, Lummox Anthology 3, The Mas Tequila Review, Cadence Collective, Bank-Heavy, Suisun Valley Review and The Commonline Journal. He is the author of two chapbooks of poetry, Burn through Today (Flutter Press, 2012) and All the Rage (Electric Windmill Press, 2013).
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The Downey Bob's Big Boy, August 1983



the smog settles into the purple hearted clouds
withering into dusk.  a dark colored Cadillac
parks itself with two heads low to their cushioned rests
camouflaged by the tinted windows, a sonic
boom of Teddy Pendergrass' voice misjudged by
a shaky skeletal hand marked by red ant tracks adjusting
the volume. the passenger door opens and
one of the two passes the throwback checkered 
pot bellied burger mascot and without waiting to be seated,
rests on a stool at the counter, his imported Italian
shoes dancing up and down in anticipation of chasing
the dope sickness away.  He doesn't remove the dark
maroon glasses or the Dodgers baseball cap that
causes his black curly mane to stick out in bonsai formations
he orders a cup of black coffee from the young
and flirty waitress, his mustache raining joe
over his tailored Pendleton shirt.  he taps the counter
nervously, his wedding ring reverberating the fear
of remaining straight with the new baby he doesn't 
want to corrupt.  he sighs and rests the gun on the table
before cocking it at the waitress' head and tells her
he will blow her motherfucking head off if she doesn't 
empty the cash register.  she complies, stuffing the cash
and loose change into a doggie bag out of which he
retrieves a fifty dollar tip that he sticks in the front
pocket of her apron.  he chortles briefly and shakes his
head before he sticks the gun down his pants and
walks outside casually.  he pulls a filter less camel
from the same soft pack that sits in his top
dresser drawer along with the sunglasses, his
driver's license and his musky collection of colognes,
all of which represent the only evidence in
the private museum of that sinister night
and the crime of our family’s century hits
the local headlines with the clink of
handcuffs around his wrists, the helicopter
spotlights making it easy to see him as they
haul him away for twenty five to life, Big Boy
smiling from his faded cheeseburger throne
of dreary broken suburban justice