Sir Rick and the Sanvador Chick (Speed Didn’t Kill) – A 30:30 Report

05/14/2020 1 By BuddyCushman

Well, Mom don’t like it but we got Dylan blastin’ quite loudly all over the background. That’s the aural background, Petunia, here down on the last dirt road at Swifts Beach. I’m planning to walk out to Route 6 in an hour or so and thumb over to New Bedford. Meeting the man down by the waterfront. The great news is I won’t be needing no thumbing back because my bro Sir Richard Fluming is pouring through the whaling city right at 2:30 and punching’ that ’57 of his straight on down to the community college in Hyannis, and I’m gonna catch that free transportation, hand him and me a black beauty and no doubt by the time we’re cruising up and over the Bourne Bridge we’ll be checking our pulse(s) and talking like a mile a minute. There’s a chick goes to school there down from Marshfield, her name’s Cathy Sanvador and I have had the hots for her for about the last 45 minutes, though we were formally introduced three months ago at a midnight picnic on the CCCC lawn, close up against the admin building where only 15 minutes later we were involved in some serious lip-lock. Yessiree – good things happen on the Cape.

And a piece of good news is I’ve already been accepted for the fall semester there, which I very well may do, attend, after I consult my ghost, witch, warlock, and doofus council for heavy advice. Because, get this, I also have a pending accept at UC Berkeley, which I’d say from my research is the flagship University in the California system, and I am leaning in that direction, all 3300 miles of it away, as I’m pretty well done with winter and believe me we get our winter here in Swifts, Dylan or no, and I took a vacay visit to my main man Dennis Roy up in El Cerrito which is the East Bay, they call it, north of Berkeley and cool in its own right though not as hip, I mean, no one ever heard Mario S giving a rabble rouser speech in the Trader Joe plaza in Cerrito. But the story is Roy wired me the money for a ticket and I jumped Jet Blue and into San Francisco (more on that town later) and I took the BART mover subway kind of thing over the water and through Oakland and Berkeley and Albany and I jumped out there and walked up the hill on Solano and hit the Gordo’s burrito shop, which is only 10,000 times better than any burrito you’ll find back here in the east and from that delight I strolled by Albany High, checking the Cali queens along the way, don’t be needing no Alice Cooper to let me know school’s out, and anyway got to Roy’s and we scoffed down a couple of quick gin tonics in his sunny back yard which abuts a local high school track and beyond that the elevated BART rails and the next day after heavy crashing with jet lag we hit the UC Berkeley campus and I immediately fell in love and from there he introduced me to lunch at a place called Blondies Pizza, which thank you very much in an instant became one of my sacred places and from there we hit multiple Telegraph bookstores and record shops and made it down to Blue Note Music, up on the second floor of a wide open street plaza and I set my mind on a Blueridge acoustic, and that pretty much sums up just a few of the highlights of my visit out west,

And right here and now my man Sir Rick and I have solved via non-stop verbiage many of the Bay State’s problems and decided which staff we would prefer to decapitate back at old Wareham High and when either him or me, can’t remember, suggested lunch we both burst out laughing because food’s about the last thing on your mind under the spell of a high-octane beauty, and I forgot to mention that Sir Rick scored a part-time weekend gig at an auto body shop in West Yarmouth which abuts Hyannis which is where he dropped me and I made my way kind of by feel and asking strangers and a badly vague’d memory to the group home where Sanvador bunks, eight girls share where they have a sign over the front door – “Hatred in the House” – which it was explained to me is kind of a weather report on the daily oohs and aahs among and amidst the co-ed’d residents there, so Cathy likely figured I was doing her a favor by rescuing her very cute and curvy butt out of that horror house and we walked in the sun down Main Street, yes right past that wide open meadow-like lawn at the college, and we stopped in at an art shop where there were maybe 85 large paintings leaning against the wall, every one selling for just $25, and these were like 24’s by 36’s, fairly big mothers and it turns out they were all student created including the Barnstable adult ed class, and there were some real sweeties and we both fell in love with one or two and Cathy was, she expressed dumbfoundedly, impressed with my art expertise, which between you and me was just endless speed talk as in you talk long enough non-stop about most anything and people gonna think you know what you’re talking about – kind of wonders the question, do people really listen? – but for Cathy, already enamored with my cutie face and physique, she was all in on her art historian and abstract expert which was no doubt a positive when it came time to wonder whether we were going to, um, “do it” over in the dunes down the Craigville end of South Street, a place primarily hidden from view from passing vehicle traffic…..

And I didn’t ask her how she knew about it and she didn’t volunteer that information, but yeah, me showing up, the big rescue from psychotic roomies, an honorary degree in art appreciation, me humming Dylan the whole time though I couldn’t remember why, and my general cuteness and grab-all-life-you-can attitude and personal ambiance, the only real question wasn’t were we going to “do it” – cause we for sure were, Charles – no, this was more of a physiologic concern re: the beauties, which clinically may be labeled meth amphetamine, that powdery gathering, in this case enclosed in those mars-black shiny pills, well it has been known on occasion to, how do I say this?, shrivel dicks, the penile part of a young boy’s hopes and dreams, but I’m guessing you will be most glad even possibly thrilled to know that this particular Saturday afternoon in the soft, warm sand gullies close by Hyannis Bay and not far from the Kennedy compound, good old Mr. Wonderful stood right up there at attention and it is no exaggeration to paint a picture of ooolala time on a weekend day.

Sly Stone, right? Hot fun in the summertime. Which is where I’ll leave this one for now.