A hippy was standing out by the back gate. He seemed drunk, looking thru trash. I ignored him.
“They’re coming to get you, Barbara.”
“Stop teasing, Johnny.”
I glanced at our black and white television. The nerds were still in the cemetery.
Even though stern adult voices warned that ‘images were intense’ and admonished ‘younger viewers should leave the room’, not much was happening. The music was creepy, sure. But I’d seen worse from Vietnam War newscasts. That Walter Cronkite guy’s voice gave me the willies. Swiveling in my jammies towards the yard, the vagrant there had not moved. Looked …