Descendant
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It was a sweltering Thursday afternoon and I was caught in the usual southbound traffic jam on the Kennedy Bridge when WRKA played “Diana,” and I felt as if my entire skin-surface was shrinking.
“Diana,” by Paul Anka. That song has haunted me for the past fifty years, and I guess it always will. Whenever I hear it, I can’t stop myself from turning my head around, just to make sure that I’m not being followed, or that somebody isn’t watching me from some shadowy doorway on the opposite side of the street.
“I’m so young and you’re so old.” It brings everything back. The glassy heat of the South London suburbs in the middle of summer, the large 1930s houses with their red-tiled roofs and their tennis courts, the flat sweet smell of British pubs, the shabby clothes and the tiny little cars.
And those things that ran through the streets, dark and voracious and utterly cruel. Clinging to ceilings, rushing up walls. You think that you know what it’s like to be frightened? You don’t have any idea.