This is kind of weird, isn’t it?

What? The whole interview with yourself thing? Nah, it’s butter.

I think it’s kind of weird. But I’ll give it a shot. Tell me, why the misspelling in the title of your book?

Misspelling? There’s a misspelling?

Yeah, Witchita Stories. Shouldn’t it be Wichita Stories?

Oh, yeah, I see what you’re saying. But no, it should just be plain old Witchita Stories.

Summer

My sister is sixteen and she’s already at that stage in life where she’s bringing over guys that look like Fonzie or Vanilla Ice. Some have tattoos, some have scars, some smoke cigarettes and listen to music that sounds like it’s been ground up and shit out through a ripped subwoofer. You take a little walk one day, maybe down to the neighborhood park, and when you come back home, you find these dudes there with their t-shirts rolled up to show off their stupid tats, smoking cigarettes and kissing your sister on the front porch. Some have greasy hair, pulled back in a ponytail. Others have buzzed heads and goatees, and wear leather jackets and work boots. It is summer now, both parents at work, and my sixteen-year-old sister is too busy with her greaser on the porch to give a shit about what my brother and I are up to.