Floating Air Biscuits

Floating Air Biscuits


In certain parts of Wisconsin
it is known as squeezing
cheese. Some natives of eastern
Pennsylvania refer to it
as Hershey squirting, of course.
And deep in southern
Georgia, just east
of Bainbridge, along route 84,
in a forgotten town called Climax,
the act is usually followed
by a voice, monotone,
just a pinch of drawl,
with the simple request: “Hit

the fan.” But the farts
that I grew up with on Boston’s
South Shore, those little
presences that hung in the air
like catchy tunes, we
proudly called air biscuits.
And they were not laid
or cut, ripped or eked,
but were gently floated
from the backsides
of blue jeans, corduroys,
the pleated skirts
of Catholic girls. But it

was Sully’s butt that could
sing. The four of us—
add Sanda and Rothman—
strolling down North Main
after a large pepperoni
at Zack’s, Sully would do
that Chaplinesque walk
of his, his body quivering
like a bowstring, filling
the air with music
and that scent we had
grown used to. Maybe
that was the maestro

that held our friendships
together, a baton waving
entity that propelled us
into the air to slap
those punctuating high-fives
of unity. For we were
inseparable for a time,
a four-part harmony
that turned the heads
of song birds and others,
only to be parted
by a future out of tune.
It is much later

than I think, sitting
here trying to culture
myself, listening to classical
on the disc player.
I try to separate each
instrument from the composition,
hearing them alone, without
accompaniment, sounding almost
lost. It is Ravel’s “Bolero”
and if I listen to it
as a whole, a complete
grouping of disparate elements,
I can hear it piping out

of Sully’s Toughskins,
the brushes slapping
the snare, the crashing
cymbals, even the oboe that
remains constant, floating
throughout the piece.


Dan Memmolo

Posted over on Main Street Rag