Author's Note: I've always wanted to start a story based on another time period. Usually I write more eccentric writing that most people question and label off as 'stupid' or 'funny.' (AKA: Not the better works.) I'm use to writing more kookier things that usually seem more like hyper rambles. Before I get into this story, this is probably one of my better planned and serious (But still humorous!) works so I really hope you enjoy it. Just not to confuse my audience, this setting is based in 1974, by a 28- year-old man who ends up recharging his life by losing things he's always wanted to lose before, but never knew he had that quench in the first place. Of course the words might seem a bit crude since the tale is told by, as he calls himself, 'the everyday slum.' But it's written maturely, so don't fear it. The story talks a lot about drinking, smoking, swearing, abandoning families, perhaps breaking the law, cheating out of things, and a bit of a gaping age-relationship with a younger girl. So it's either considered PG-13 or R, not sure exactly. Everything is not based on memory of the 70's because I have not experienced it firsthand. I have experienced it in the sense of stories from my own loving parents and relatives, looking up info, and of course, classic age rock music that I adore even at the age of 16. I hope I didn't screw everything up too bad, and I also hope it's a decent enough story. I sure loved planning it. All the characters and story ideas are based from myself, Margo Masur. To put in a looser way, if I find anybody stealing my ideas I will have your tongue ripped out. Artists, and lyrics are copyrighted and are not own by me. (Such as Led Zeppelin, etc.) And so I don't take the fact that I created them and all of that. Please have fun reading it. If you wish to contact me, my e-mail is , and my AIM/AOL s/n would be XxSolarSurferXx. Thanks for reading!

"Dancing days are here, as the summer evenings grow."
As my eyes turned to the throbbing bleed of music blasting through that cheap-ass stereo in my old gas-tank car, nothing ran through my mind. My head tilted up to the ceiling, a cigarette winking dimly in the dark, as smoke poured out of my nose while breathing out, I was just exhausted.
"Dancing days," I whispered inside the dark alone, and closed my eyes tightly embracing the words with greedy satisfaction. The tune of the whole fucking song was crazy, and it made my head spin almost in a drunk daze even though I hadn't had a drink that late night in the car. If I did have any beer or liquor on me that night, I sure as hell would have been taking a drink carelessly.
"You'll be my only, my one and only." drained out Led Zeppelin from the car as I sighed out again, only more ardent about it this time around. My head never turned down but only laid back sloppily. My thick black hair, etched across my ears just barely, slung back and I never stopped my pose.
'Dancing days, that sure as hell sounds like it these days, eh?'
Even in thoughts that clocked inside my brain-dead head, I'd laugh at the most craziest shit. I almost let out a chuckle, my mouth escaping a bursted out laugh that'd probably rip through my throat.
But I only paused and held it in by biting my lower lip intensely. I turned my head back straight and looked out the parked car's window shield, car lights that hardly passed by while flashing light through the night. I could only hide it in tightly. My laughs, that is.
Man, and thinking about that night sky. The freaking night sky, the winking stars, and all of that formal bullshit. I can't say a parked car in the middle of the night was all that passionate in words of the great arts, thank you very much William-Fucking-Shakespeare.
I also can't say my situation was all that hot either, and sadly, Jesus, mostly sadly of all, somehow, I was more.I don't know, happy. I guess. Happier than I was back home. God, I haven't thought of home in awhile then either. At least a little over a year since I've been there.
But sometimes I was also damn right miserable. So in all irony and reality, truly, I was right where I was again just like before. Just some slum that was always crazy and slipped through the lives of enjoyment and misery.
Maybe I should have settled with satisfaction as the main emotion.
I stifled my back as Led Zeppelin song almost completed its journey on the airwaves and glanced down at Clay, her snug cheek pressing lightly against my chest warmly. How she could have stand the smell of those white tank tops I always threw on, I'll never know.
How she could stand the same look on me or on her over and over again, God only knows.
But of course, it's all we had. Just dirty-ass clothes that we never changed or struggled to clean in our passing weeks as we headed out west in our stupid journeys. A busted, fucked up car that was our only getaway these days and some loose change we made along the way.
"Damn kid," I mumbled through my dark lips as I raised my jagged hand to scratch my stubble and goatee on my face. I glared down at the twenty- year-old with dark eyes; her jet black hair swooped over her face like a mask but I noticed her own eyes were closed, so she probably was taking a midnight siesta after our trite days and nights of driving. Told her we couldn't afford a hotel that night, so she decided to sleep on me. Great.
Projecting more sighs from my mouth, I threw my arm around her protectively and held her closer, knowing for now that despite our relationship with each other, she was the closest thing I have held on in my life before for this long, and that it just sickened me.
I only tilted my head back again, feeling more soulless on those hours of darkness; car parked at the side of the road in those rest stop- shit areas and breathed out the last smoke from that cigarette, the radio humming with a new band and a new song.
But my song never changed. I don't think it could.

Home. Pittsburgh. Before my big adventures in car trips, and sprinting for lost 'treasure,' and all that titled crap I get a lot, I use to have a home. Sure, everybody has a fucking home, right? Well, I did anyways if it's worth anything. And Pittsburgh would have been it.
I always have lived my life there, and I always loved it as much as I had always hated it. It was home for God sakes! Just like a child, I've always wanted to run away from it, escape from the city. But on that year of 1974, I never really thought I'd have much of a chance.
As the clouded skies over looked Pittsburgh in one day of that year, I paused as I gazed over into the windows of my own home knowing the day would only get longer and that made me more miserable than anything in my life.
The first thing I noticed in that one morning was that the windows were shut, and damn, I hated when Marilyn did that. But I'll tell you, inside of balling out in anger, I couldn't help but laugh. It was only the morning anyways, no big, fucking deal. But I knew the day might get thick with heat since this old building suffered the most in the approaching days of June.
I rolled up on to the ceiling flatly again, my bare back sticking to the white-stained sheets. I didn't even need to open my eyes to know that my wife was out of the room and into the living room, doing what God-Knows- What. Always an early bird, always, that wife of mine. And while I 'wasted' my life sleeping away, I knew it was probably late in the morning because ole Gregory McGrath would never get up any earlier than that.
Sitting up with a heavy groan, my back tensing and glancing around the most empty room: peeling, light pink wallpaper; hard wooden floors that always creaked out from under you, and older-than-fuck furniture that would make Granny adore.
Maybe life would pick up for me than, and maybe I had a chance, but hell, twenty-eight I was in that date and already I felt just as old as that pissed-off drawer that was inches away from my face every night with sharp corners that bulged near my closed eyes.
I still looked like a slum than. Stubble, goatee, everything. The black hair that was as long as the tip of my top ears, and always slicked back. The dark brown eyes that looked sleep deprived even if I did sleep late. But at least I had a better fashion sense than the ever-switching tank tops and black pinstripe slacks. That day I decided to look a little pleasing to Marilyn, so I threw on my classic light blue buttoned up shirt and classier dark slacks. Hey, tell me a guy who doesn't own a fucking pair of slacks, and I won't believe you.
Running down the stairs to that old house, the wallpaper always the same in every room, and the same dimness in almost every house I've seen, I looked over at my wife who was hunched over watching something on the old television box.
"And a good morning to you, Mrs. McGrath," I called out in a bubbly voice as I headed over to her and kissed her on the top of the head lightly with pride. The woman of my life, the one woman who I fucking married for God's sakes tilted with a bit of a grunt, as her eyes watched the news.
I remember looking at her, my eyes catching her every look like a truthful mirror. Her dark brown curly hair softened across her deeply tanned cheeks, and her wearing that sort of gaudy dress that had light blue roses printing on a cobalt background on a dress. But God, she looked good in everything anyways, despite our lacking of 'dynamite' clothes.
Marilyn glanced up at me sharply, her own brown eyes gazing into my own. She gave me a heavy look but than it melted and her head fell back to the view of the television.
I leaned against the back of the aged, orange couch and watched the box myself for a bit still nodding my head, trying to tease her.
"Greg, stop." she said, her voice a bit dark with her Spanish accent but I could tell she was slightly amused. (I always could.) I did of course and replied in a gentle voice, "Anything for you."
My wife was always tough and as 'standing out' as I am, could read me like a book. As I walked away from the couch and headed closely to the door, she already knew what I was up to without me announcing my 'whereabouts.'
"And where do you think you're going? Out?"
"Yes, dear," I sighed patiently, my hand cocked out; ready to turn the knob of the door. I looked over at her as she gazed back at me with another heavy look.
"Not to see those crazy neighbors, right?"
"Err."
Marilyn gazed another death glare and sat up more straight on that lovely little couch of ours in the living room. I knew it was in for it, so I winced before she could raise her voice.
"Gregory, you have a family, don't you know that?!"
"Yes, dear,"
"And you're out! Always running for work or seeing your stupid bar, or those horrible neighbors!"
"Yes, dear."
Our game never seemed to end, even in these last few days together. I sighed and rocked back and forth on my heels almost childishly while my wife played the part of the mother as usual, ready to scream me stupid.
"You never see me. I don't want you going there! Stay here at least!"

I sucked in a deep breath and muttered, still in my innocent voice, "Fuck you, dear,"
With snapping eyes, Marilyn's mouth bulged open, spitting out the words, "What did you say?!" She gazed at me like was the Antichrist and now that I think about it, those shot-out glances were quite casual when she was looking in my direction.
I looked up at her, a slight smile growing on my face in a boyish gaze of the eyes and replied in a sweet voice, "Joke."
And with that, I spun at my heels and charged gracefully at the door, before my old lady could yell at me so I could finally see my real friends.