Flavin Stories

On the morning that I woke up to my dad “masturbating,” it hadn’t occurred to me that him having his pants around his ankles in the living room was Exhibit A that he was suffering from “difficulty in thinking” and/or…

> I looked out the window expecting to see an engine fire or the Twilight Zone guy tearing off pieces of the wing. <

> “I remember that, although we hung with the same crowd, you at some point had determined that I was a dick who needed his ass beat.” <

> If god didn’t help me beat Ronnie Rocheleau in 1979, why would show up in 1984 as I drove home in the middle of the night? <

The year was 1974, and it was like a bomb had dropped on 23111 Sherman Street. Then came 1983.

> “One white guy doesn’t change the fact that we’re black.” <

> My elbows stiffened, my neck refused to swivel, my view narrowed, and the pressure of the moment suddenly pinched like an improvised performance. <

> We knew, somehow, on some level: this was over. No visible damage, no evidence, no screams, crying or flailing. Just Matt holding his face. <

> We could have talked like normally-developing kids because we were both normally-developing kids, one of whom happened to have a severe physical disability. <

> Deon stood in the middle of the classroom, looking at his phone and describing to the other students a meme about female genitalia. <

> “I love the game because it’s so simple, yet it can be so complex.
There’s a lot of layers to it, but they aren’t hard to peel back.” — Ernie Harwell <

> We could usually see eye to eye on whether it was a bad idea. But sometimes it was a lousy idea and neither of us saw it. This is that story. <