Greasy Lake. T. Coraghessan Boyle At night, we went up to Greasy Lake. Whatever it was we were looking for, we weren’t about to find it at Greasy Lake. Greasy Lake. T. Coraghessan Boyle. There was a time when courtesy and winning ways went out of style, when it was good to be bad, when you cultivated . Greasy Lake has 24 ratings and 2 reviews. Marc Gerstein said: Wow, this is one heck of a short the basic premise of “Ferris Bueller’s Day Of.
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There was a time when courtesy and winning ways went out of style, when it was good to be bad, when you cultivated decadence like a taste. T.coraghwssan were all dangerous characters then. We wore torn-up leather jackets, slouched around with toothpicks in our mouths, sniffed glue and ether and what somebody claimed was cocaine. We drank gin and grape juice. Tango, Thunderbird and Bali Hai.
At night, we went up to Greasy Lake. Through the center of town, up the strip, past the housing developments and shopping malls, streetlights giving way to the thin streaming illumination of the headlights, trees crowding the asphalt in a black unbroken wall: The Indians had called it Wakan, a reference to the clarity of its waters.
Paris Review – Greasy Lake
Now it was fetid and murky, the mud banks glittering with broken glass and strewn beer cans and the charred remains of bonfires. There was a single ravaged island a hundred yards from shore, so stripped of vreasy it looked as if the Air Force had strafed it.
We went up to the lake because everyone went there, because we wanted to snuff the rich scent of possibility boyyle the breeze, watch a girl take off her clothes and plunge into the festering murk, drink beer, smoke pot, howl at the stars, savor the incongruous full-throated roar of rock and roll against the primeval susurrus of frogs and crickets.
I was there one night, late, in the company of two dangerous characters. They were slick and quick and they wore their mirror shades at breakfast and dinner, in the shower, in closets and caves.
Summary and Analysis of T.C. Boyle’s “Greasy Lake”
In short, they were bad. It was early June, the air soft as a hand on your cheek, the third night of summer vacation.
It was two A. There was nothing to do but take a bottle of lemon-flavored gin up to Greasy Lake. The taillights of a single car t.coraghfssan at us as we swung into the dirt lot with its tufts of weed and washboard corrugations: On the far side of the lot, like the exoskeleton of some gaunt chrome insect, a chopper leaned against its kickstand.
And that was it for excitement: But then all of a sudden Digby was fighting for the wheel. Digby leaned on t.coeaghessan horn, laughing, and instructed me to put my brights on.
Tony would experience premature withdrawal and expect to be confronted by grim-looking state troopers with flashlights. The first mistake, the one that opened the whole floodgate, was losing my grip on the keys.
In the excitement, leaping from the car with the gin in one hand and a roach clip in the other, I spilled them in the grass—in the dark, dank, mysterious nighttime grass of Greasy Lake.
I felt it like a jab of intuition, and I stopped there by the open door, peering vaguely into the night that puddled up round my feet. Judging from their expressions, Digby and Jeff were privately groping graesy the greas inevitable and unsettling conclusion that I was. In any case, there was no reasoning with this bad greasy character—clearly he was a man of action.
Digby had just finished a course in martial arts for phys. The greasy treasy was unimpressed. He merely backed off a step, his face like a Toltec mask, and laid Digby out with a single whistling roundhouse blow. Digby was on the ground, cursing. And I went for it. Coraghessan Boyle Issue 84, Summer