A Night In Daddy's Bed
Bobby reminded me of that sometimes, someone who belonged among the unusual, yet somehow existed in the middle of the ordinary.
He often talked about writing in his spare time, and when he did, his speech would occasionally be laced with literary references.
“Can I see some of the things you’ve written?” I asked.
“You don’t really mean that.”
“Yes, I do.”
He hesitated, thinking it over. “Maybe I’ll bring something next time.”
“Did you always want to be a writer?”
“Ever since I read The Catcher in the Rye.”
My heart sank slightly. I braced myself for another ageing, angst-ridden adolescent clinging to Holden Caulfield like gospel.