Bob Bickford Boeken

Love letters, born from high school dances and stereoscopic slides of toddlerhood, Ferris wheels and suntan oil, the streets of Hollywood and Toronto, 1980s music, driving too fast, Hershey bars and bottles of Molson Golden ale, first real kisses and broken hearts. Our eleventh birthday parties, our first cars, our true loves, and our monsters. Getting old. Falling in love. A dash of each, and all together. Letters to all of us, from all of us-the things we remember and the things we've lost.

Remember when you were little? Remember when there were monsters under your bed and unseen things lived in your closet? You heard them at night, even if nobody else did. Remember when everyone you loved-your mom and dad, your grandfather, the impossible crush who sat across the class from you, your dog-was going to last forever and never die? Remember birthdays? Remember when every Christmas was an eternity away, and every day was a perfect surprise when you walked out the front door? It was all beautiful and terrifying, in ways that it hasn't been for a long time. Remember magic? They told you true love can't last forever and monsters aren't real. You believed them and you based everything on it, so you let your world go black-and-white. Come back. Love letters to all of us, from all of us-the things we remember and the things we've lost.

Summertime 1948, and Santa Teresa, California overflows with cold bourbon and hot neon. Billie Holiday floats from open windows, the Mills Brothers are headlining at the Montelindo Hotel, and the beach roller coaster never stops. The tourist crowd smells like sweat and suntan lotion. The sky is gold, the swimming pools are blue, but in dark alleys and behind closed doors, monsters do their worst. Private eye Nate Crowe knows a little bit about loving when it's too late to be loved back. He learned a long time ago that some ghosts don't wear white, and some things can't be fixed. Annie Kahlo is back. She has a gun in her purse, and she's ready to snap. White Rabbit Hop is a taxicab ride back to dancing on tiles, Roi-Tan cigars, gin on ice, east coast baseball on the radio, and mermaids with bubble hoses. Bring a nickel with you, in case you need a payphone.