Just beyond the windscreen, Rocket Man was hovering above some bad guys trying to destroy America. I was four, eating hot chips squirted with tomato sauce in the back seat with my ten year-old brother. Dad was eating a pie. Donald had, I had not, tasted Coca Cola. I can’t remember what I enjoyed the most; the vengeance or the chips drenched red.
After interval, I held my breath as the King of the Wild Frontier died at Alamo.
I was given a replica raccoon cap and rifle for Christmas. By then I’d tasted Coca Cola.
Suburban Melbourne, 1955 / Bruce Graham Fell