They Were Wrong, I Know

This photo was taken by my father, I think, an old black and white Polaroid. The man is my cousin. I think I remember the girl a little. Well, how could you not? I would have been twelve when this photo was taken. She had a high, baby doll voice. Did he marry her? I don't think so, but I don't remember. They lived in Ohio, and I did not see them much. He married somebody. My cousins were hellboys, but they all married only once. They smoked and drank and used words I never heard other people use. I knew they were wrong, but it seemed so exciting. I never saw them living day to day, so for me, they were only the stories they told, and nobody has ever told stories quite like those. This is the cousin who had the twelve cylinder Jaguar. He lost control on the hill of a highway and crashed it through a billboard. That's the story. He had some trouble with the Mayor's son and his buddies one night, so he stopped his car in traffic and grabbed a tire iron and ran up onto the car's roof and busted the windshield while screaming, "Get out of the car, motherfuckers," but of course, nobody did. That's the story. They go on and on and on. Colorfully.

I've only recently come across this photo again. I want more, but the store is closed. Like I always say, you just can't make old photographs.