and desolate vacuum that could snap a man’s bones simply from several minutes of exposure to the elements in the great white north.
After all these aren’t the things you tell a prospective job applicant up front when you’re trying to entice him with a position — that as it turns out; no one really wants. These are the things you let him find out on his own day by day; mile marker by mile marker. As you might have guessed I was just the idiot that this job was looking for.
The wiper blades of the huge U-haul moving van have been on for ever wearing down what only a day ago was a decent pair of rubber. The constant rythmic rocking of the blades back and forth produced a hypnotic easiness that dulled the senses. A tranquil lull that made my eyes feel puffy and bloated like a swarm of bees had decided it was time to polinate my entire face. I’ve been watching them flick away warm mushy snow flakes ever since we crossed over into Utah. It was as if we were driving thru a 3-D tunnel of ticker tape. It started way off in the distance undulating on an invisible layer of wind. But as it came closer it became more ominous and threatening. Each flake of snow growing larger and jagged as it jumped into Star Trek warp speed before exploding like a soggy sponge on the front windshield.
Sitting up high on this rolling church pew of a seat, staring down at the frozen tundra beneath my wheels It’s hard to believe that just yesterday when we left Los Angeles, it was 80 degrees. Girls were rolling skating clad in beach-ware that is probably illegal in most of the bible belt. Dolphins danced on the waves of Redondo Beach with surfers fighting for unspecified stretches of water. Phrases like Gnarly and Yo Dude pranced along the saline updrafts to my beach front apartment. Dana, Jack the cat and I had front row seats at the beach and the rolling blue Pacific. Long ago when the earth was young; God wearing a black french cap and a long silky orange robe stood in front of a hollow easel filled with nothing but black space and twinkling bits of lights. With a soft and flowing stroke he painted one magnificent brush stroke that was the view from my front window.
But now we were no longer a member of that chosen crowd; That fraternity of sun worshipers who paid top dollar to pick up their mail in a bitchin zip code. A land of sunset margarita parties and flowing blonde hair out of the back of Volkswagon Convertible Rabbits. No we were being exiled from all of that. Now we were leaving. Dana in her pick up truck and Jack the cat and me driving the mombo U-haul from hell. 700 feet of corrugated sheet metal on wheels. We were heading to Idaho Falls Idaho on what we thought at the time was a positive career move.
You see I was a recent graduate of the University of Southern California where I majored in Broadcast Journalism. Like many grads I wanted it all. I was young. I had talent and I was hungry. Just sit me down at some news desk in Los Angeles, give me a couple hundred thousand a year and get out of my way. I would be the second coming of Jesus Christ with a note-pad and a reporters acumen.
But unless your a beauty queen or professional athlete life doesn’t work that way. The script comes to its predestined fruition with the knocks and bruises of trial and error, luck and a dash of talent.
What this all means is that nothing comes easy. You’ve got to pay your dues. Climb the ladder of success rung by rung. etc. etc. etc.
These colloquialisms as trite as they are are probably good rules to go by. It doesn’t take the real world more than a week or two after you graduate in front of family and friends to slap you in the face and become your worst nightmare. Life has a nonchalant way of saying so your A.C., graduate, smooth talker and big dreamer. Well A.C. I I’m Life. Big bad and one nasty son of a bitch who doesn’t think you’ve proved shit in this world. I plan on slapping you in your little wide eyed face a couple of hundred times a day just to remind you who’s running the show here.
After a while of dealing with life head on, my face began to turn red and get big puffy welts. It seemed like life had a pretty good right cross. And I was his sparring partner. In college everything is so ordered and structured. You go to class, you study hard and you get good grades. The real world, I was finding out didn’t always care how hard you studied. Grades didn’t mean shit. Now it all came down to timing and who you knew. Well my timing sucked, and I didn’t know a fucking sould, so with an opportunity to get some functional experience under my belt, even as a one man band in Idaho Falls, I jumped at the chance. It sure sounded like a better proposition than walking around swollen all the God damn time.
My girlfriend Dana is a gorgeous blonde with a dynamite figure. She loves me to death, and has decided to prove that by moving from the promised land of Southern California to the vast enigma that lies on the edges of the great unknown: Out there on the map where Interstate 15 begins to disappear into the folded crease of the atlas that separates this country from Canada.
But she’s a trooper, ready for adventure. Armed with a healthy dose of my optimism and a cooler full of Coca-Cola, we began our new adventure.
Its hard to figure why they call this place the bee hive state. So far Utah seems more like the pull over to get some gas and then freeze to death state. I’ve been to the cold country a million times in my life; but never had I experienced anything like the nastiness of a Late December day in Utah.
When I say I’ve seen cold I’m not lying. I went skiing once with my buddy Adam up in the mountains of northern California. A recreational endeavor that makes climbing the face of Mt. Everest look like a Sunday brunch with grandma. He asked me if I wanted to hit the slopes for a couple of days and do it cheap. Being the college student I was, broke all the damn time, I said sure what do you have in mind.
He says Andy it’ll be great, I’ve got this tent we can toss out in the woods right near the hill. We can wake up and fall into the ski lift line. He made it sound great. Right there at the lodge with snow bunnies everywhere banging on our tent flap to come on in and share a warm hot tottie. The guy should have been arrested for verbal recklessness. He sold me hook line and sinker. He made that tent sound better than a night in the Waldorf Astoria. Being the ultimate sap I am, I wasn’t off the phone with him before I had already started putting a little nap sack together for the voyage. I picked Adam up in my 240 Z. A nifty little two seater that had some get up and go but had not recently been confused with a spacious Cadillac Seville. When I met him at his house, he was smiling like a possessed demon ready to suck the life out of some unsuspecting corpse. He popped open my hatchback and tossed in this nylon tent bag with poles and ropes sticking out from everywhere. He climbed in and immediately began extolling the virtues of outdoor life, the fun we’d have, the sleeping and camping out under the stars. What Adam forgot to tell me was how the temperature had dropped below zero. The smile he flashed in the car was the last one I would see for three days.
Day one was great. Night one left a little to be desired. You see we felt like we were snow gods during the day. Skiing to a fro, with a wild abandon that comes with fatuous youth and knowing we were lodging for free. but then came the end of the day when everyone tired and sun-burned begins shuffling off to their lodge. They’re tired but know that revitalization is only a shower away. I looked at Adam and he at me. A blank gaze covered his face. Neither of us spoke, it was painfully obvious we’d have to find our evening revitalization from some other source.
Adam said he’d liven our spirits by cooking us a little dinner. He said all he’d have to do is fire up the little bunson burner we had brought and cook the hamburger I had pulled from the freezer at home and tossed into the back. Food would certainly get me back in the fighting mood I thought to myself. But there was one little problem. According to Adam the bunson burner worked fine, but he said we needed a blow torch to defrost the burger, which if anything had become more rock like sitting in the back of the car all day.
We decided that it was time to put up the tent. It looked so big in the back of the car, now it looked like an accessorie to a Ken and Barbie set. It took a milenium, but we finally got the tent up.
I was raw and numb from the cold. Banging stakes into snow drifts 20 feet deep isn’t pretty work. I was wearing my leather high tops and every step I took was a plunge into the frosty depths. Pulling my leg out was like trying to pull a suction cup off of a wet pane of glass. I was cold, but sweating under my winter layers. I felt like a snake who wanted to shed his skin and leave it somewhere. Snow was melting inside of my high tops, droplets of thawing tundra ran down my ankle. It tickled but at the same time burned a frozen pain into my frayed nerve endings. All in all, we were pleased by the temporary edifice we had built. This thin insulation against the elements would surely have killed lesser men.
Needless to say that was the worst night of my life. Sleep was nowhere near my conscious mind thanks to the prevailing thoughts of the ski-police finding us frozen stiff in our tiny little hut of death. I envisaged the evening news cast devoted to our stupidity. I saw some fat Eskimo looking piece of shit reporter doing his report in front of our camp area saying something like: Marsha officials wonder if these two young men might not have had some sort of mentally debilitating accident on the ski hill earlier in the day. The question on everyone’s mind is how anyone could could be stupid enough to think they could camp in that flimsy thing and expect to live.
We were wearing something like 14 layers of clothing. It was keeping us alive and giving us that sexy stay puff marshmallow man look. Its a look that snow bunnies get hot over. I must have been hallucinating in the darkening blue of the tent. I imagined waddling into the lodge and pulling off layer after layer. With each shirt or pair of sweat pants discarded another beauty would stop and drop her jaw in awe. We were a ratty smelly mess with no money or real place to stay, but somehow I envisioned us knee deep in fluff chicks cooing and fighting over us. Yeah right!
That night was a living hell. I tossed and tuned relentlessly dreaming of frozen Godzilla lizards roaming the streets of Tokyo killing and maiming oriental people who for some unexplainable reason looked like my grandmother. Normally I sleep in my underwear and socks and that’s it. That’s the way I’ve been doing it for years. Besides it being icebox cold, that was certainly part of the problem. I was sleeping with 14 layers of sweatty clothes. I couldn’t truly lay on my back because I kept wobbling from side to side. Somehow we made it thru the night, tired, hungry and cold, but we made it.
The next day we attempted to ski but it just wasn’t much fun. We both couldn’t help but think about the approaching night and how we would survive it. Mid-way through the day while on another silent ski lift ascent; I told Adam that I couldn’t handle another night like the last one. I said we were going to hit happy hour at a bar and stay there all night. He readily agreed. After that our conversation and spirits brightened. We hit the hills hard a few more times trying to make the most of this incredible vacation opportunity.
That evening we entered the Ski Pole lodge; a quaint little wooden structure that had an open hearth fire place in the middle of the room that patrons could sit around while eating, drinking and dancing. It was just what the doctor ordered. We sat down, examined our wallets and decided we needed to save all the money we had for drinks. That meant we needed to order as much cheap food as we could find on the menu. The answer seemed to be the all you could eat salad bar. This choice would accomplish two things. First it would assure us of filling up on much needed sustenance. Secondly it assured us of at least having a spot in the restaurant where we could stay warm long after we ran out of money to buy drinks. All we had to do was keep eating. No Problem! The first few hours went by uneventfully, but soon we had run out of money. We knew that they wanted to get some other customers into our spot, and soon they would ask us to leave sending us back into the frigid arena of death. We couldn’t afford that kind of mistake. We needed a plan.
“Adam,” I said, “We need to keep eating and eating and eating until there is no more lettuce in that big salad bar bowl.”
He quickly agreed getting up and piling another huge serving on his plate.
This strategy worked quite well for the next hour or so. The waitress would come by and ask us if we wanted another drink, we’d say no — that’s o.k. we’re just going to finish this bottomless pile of greens and rabbit food we’d tell her. After a while she wasn’t even smiling anymore. She’d just stare evily at us and shake her head.
About 30 minutes later it was becoming painfully obvious that we couldn’t eat anymore.
I looked at Adam with a painful obese look on my face.
“Yo dude-man, I’m way too full to eat anymore of this crap. I think we’re gonna get the boot.”
He agreed, especially since our waitress had regularly in the last half hour been going over to a man in the back who most likely was the manager. Every few moments they would look up from their discussion and point at us. Adam sensed the life or death urgency of the situation. It was either salad or death. Death or salad. There were no other options. Adam exhaled deeply as he pushed himself away from the table. With a look of determination he said,
“Andy we’ve got to keep eating. Since there is no room left in my stomach for that, there’s only one answer.”
He put his index finger in his throat indicating he was going to throw up to create more room for the interminable salad bar fixings that continued coming out of the kitchen in big metal drums. I stared as he walked into the men’s room carrying a salad dish with him. This is a sorry state of events I thought to myself.
Just then I noticed Dana behind me in her pick up truck. She was holding her long broom stick out the window with the red bandana tied to the end. This was her way of getting my attention to turn on the walkie-talkie I purchased from Radio Shack for this trip.
“A.C. I’ve got to go to the bathroom can we pull over some where, 10-4.”
10-4 I thought to myself, she’s been watching to much Hill Street Blues.
“Sure I responded, Hopefully there’s a place around here we can go to that won’t be too much of a headache..10-4.” I had to chuckle to myself.
The crazy thing about driving on some of these bucolic stretches of highway is that you never really know where the next slice of modern life is going to turn up. You can drive on forever, staring out at one field after another and then all of a sudden like an lightening bolt ripping out of a stormy sky, there it is. Usually it’s a 250-foot pole with a huge neon sign that scrolls down the daily lunch menu and how much the going rate is for Diesel gas. I always laugh at how much they charge for gas out there anyway. Whether its $1.12 a gallon or $3.40 a gallon — I mean what are you going to do when you’re jamming along on a tank full of fumes and the gas needle is buried into the red below the big E.
As luck would have it we spotted central Utah’s version of the flying J truck stop. The roads were icy so I took my foot off of the accelerator and started to slow down. I felt the 17,000 pounds of crap I call my life shift too and fro in the back. Interstate 15 besides being long and dull is a great place to lament over stupid things like why I thought rope to hold everything in place would not be necessary for this transcontinental haul. I figured well I’ve got a degree, I took physics and geometry. I’ll just pack it while it’s parked. I’ll just mush everything into place and it’ll stay put. Kind of what the Egyptians did with the Pyramids. Who the fuck did I think I was anyway? Ramses the pharoah boy. Hardly! I think I’ve seen one too many episodes of National Geographic.
Getting out at the pump was an adventure all by itself. After 4 hours since the last pit stop my body had frozen up. joints had fused together. Blood flow was something that other people had to worry about; not me. My body had gone into some sort of temporary suspended animation, the only problem; I was awake. Kind of like being 25 years old with the body of a 98 year old man. Bring on the aluminum walker I was thinking to myself.
I did my best Frankenstein imitation around the front of the truck. I thought it was time to check in on Jack. This is as good a time as any to tell you a littl bit about Jack the Cat; or as Dana likes to call him, Homo-boy. We got Jack as a little kitten from the Animal Shelter in Los Angeles. He was this scruffy little molecule of a cat, but he looked more like a porcupine embryo, all spiky and rather beguiled by his surroundings. He was in one of those metal cages which has no floor, only metal rods holding the contraption together. Already you figure the cats in there are in a bad mood because the accomodations were less than comfortable, but in addition to that, they had excrement stuck to their fur. If it sounds lousy it is. Anyway, Jack was in there with a bunch of much healthier, friendlier looking kittens. They were all fuzzy and meowing like crazy which quickly became annoying. I thrust my hand through the meowing cluster of kittens on death row back to the spiky nonchalant one. He seemed to immediately purr when I picked him up. I felt some sort of emotional bond with this kitten. Like the great Feline God that rules over animal shelters around the country had somehow arranged this meeting. I think in his own way Jack also felt the boy and his cat bond that was happening right there in the crux of my arm. I oogled at him like a new dad in the waiting room and thrust him towards Dana.
“Isn’t he cute,” I said.
“He’s kinda cute,” she responded, as she started to scratch his pointy little cranium. Jack checked out this new antsillary stimuli for a moment or two and then decided it was time to reach out and touch someone with all 5 claws razor sharp and open for business. His claws entered the soft meaty flesh on Dana’s arm above the wrist like warm urine cutting a deep path thru new fallen snow. Maybe he was just flustered by all the sudden attention. Or maybe he was — in his own cat way — exercising his hatred for all women because of what his mother did to him only weeks ago. Tossing him out in the cold, pushing him out of that abandoned car down in East Los Angeles. A kitten tossed into a world of RTD busses and endless throngs of cheap leather shoes shuffling down the dirty sidewalks of L.A. Who could really blame him, right? Dana that’s who. She pulled her arm back in pain analyzing the fresh red blood dripping down her wrist.
“That little bastard!” she shrieked. The other animals picked up on her high pitched shrill that seemingly amplified off the walls of the smooth concrete. All hell broke loose. Every animal wailed its discontent for life behind bars.
“You scared him,” I said to her.
“Bullshit!” she retorted. “That little shit head tore thru my skin.”
I kind of laughed and pushed Jack back up towards her.
“Here try again, just move slowly.”
She tentatively started to pet him again, and after a little trepidation on his part he thrust his head out at her using his tiny skull as a battering ram. Dana lightened up and scratched his scraggly black fur.
“You see he likes you,” I said. “Let’s get him.”
Dana stared at the other smiling fur balls that peered out at us from behind the blue card that gave their termination date as the end of the week.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“I like him, look how cute he is, it’ll be all right after he gets use to you, trust me I’m A.C. — College graduate.”
She reluctantly accepted Jack to the family with another scratch of the head.
This may have been the single biggest mistake I’ve ever made in my life. Now don’t get me wrong. I love the Homo-boy, but you just don’t get a nick-name like that for no reason. Jack was o.k. for the first few months, but soon it became painfully obviously that Jack might have served some greater purpose had we allowed his blue termination card to run its eventual course. He grew rapidly in size and in his ability to sulk, cry and cram his body into the tiniest of crawl spaces. Often times we wouldn’t see him for days at a time only awaking to the occasional crunching of cat food in the desperate darkness of our little one bedroom beach pad. Maybe Jack was shy or maybe he had fallen out of a tree on his head causing irreversible cat-brain damage. What ever the answer, he was now ours to love and care for. Oh what joy he brings to our life.
I opened up the side door of the moving van slowly where Jack was last seen cowering 4 hours ago. I opened it up to see his litter box on the floor, not a poop to be seen. I didn’t really find this unusual though because I never expected mr. pschizo to feel comfortable pinching off a bowl movement as we hummed on down the highway at double nickels. I called to him and listened. Nothing. I tried again and listened. I heard the faint meow of a small animal that was in fear for its life. I looked under the seat which floor board to springs, provides about 4 inches of crawl space. Somehow he had smashed his body into this area. By this time Dana had made her way over to the side of the truck. She too had that robotic, lacking blood in the extremities kind of waddle that all you long distance motorists know so well. “Where’s the homo boy?” she asked.
“Under the springs,” I responded. We both looked at each other and uttered more profanities directed at our poor misguided pet.
“Dana, why don’t we give him that tranquilizer the Vet prescribed for the trip. Maybe it’ll relax his sorry little ass.”
Dana nodded as I headed off to make arrangements for fuel.
Truck stops along the arteries of this great nation are truly the equivalent of some sort of road side melting pot. Every nationality, belief, accent and color can be found in these places. Its a schmorgasboard of humanity there for those fascinated with the life strings that make up the human condition.
Its amazing what you can learn about the world from just pumping one tank full of diesel fuel. I remember one truck driver who was positioned one tank away from me who let me know what the South was all about and how it was going to rise again. This guy was incredible; like out of some Dukes of Hazzard episode. He was wearing blue jeans with a Molly Hatchet cut off tee shirt. His hair was disheveled and unkept like he had hung his head out the window of his semi while hauling ass through a monsoon. Maybe that’s why he wore his black fishing hat with lures stuck all over it; to cover that monstrosity of brown covered hair. Anyway, he walked up to me, looked me up and down and then spit some chewing tobbacco onto the ground. He stuck his finger into his mouth where the teeth and lower lip meet, and wiped that area furiously. He continued spraying out slivers of what appeared to be old coffee grounds for the next several moments. The whole time I wondered whether this was the usual manner in which this guy greeted people. I snickered a little as I imagined this guy and his family getting together for Christmas. A whole slew of people in dungarees with cut off tee shirts of the latest rock band to pass thru town. Spittoons all over the place but still there’d be tons of dried black chew juice smudged all over the walls and floors. How revolting I thought to myself. It was then that this down home hill billy decided to mosey on over to where I was standing.
“Boy where ya from?” The words fought to get past his badly decaying teeth and thru his lips.
“I’m from Los Angeles,” I said while readying the diesel hose. He stopped to ruminate my last response. I know its a cliche but I could actually hear the wheels in his pin head turning and whirling, Fighting for anything to say.
“That’s a nice cargo van you have there.” he said, gesturing to my 1,200 foot bright orange U-haul with the mother’s attic sign inscribed on the side.
I shifted my eyes slowly from side to side making sure to keep my head perfectly still. I was checking to see if he was just squaking this primitive banter at me to distract my attention while the rest of his hillbilly tribe came up behind me and stole my wallet. Now I’m sure he could hear the wheels spinning with great salarity in my mind. I repeated the sentence over and over and over inside my head. That’s a nice cargo van you have there. That’s a nice cargo van you have there? What had I done to deserve to be mugged by a bunch of rock and roll hillbilly’s who torture their victims with long venomous streams of toxic waste spit.
“Thanks,” I said. In retrospect there were many other things I could have said; should have said, after all I was A.C. — graduate boy.
After another full 75 gallons of diesel fuel I wandered back over to where Dana and Jack were. Dana had Jack on the front seat and was errotically massaging his throat.
“What the hell are you doing,” I asked shaking my head.
“I’m making sure he swallows his pill,” she retorted. Oh great I thought to myself; now I’ve got a suicidal house pet riding shot gun with my on the great moving adventure to hell.
It seemed like we had another interminable stretch of road ahead of us as we poured it on thru the rain, sleet and snow towards Salt Lake City. I’m not even sure the postal service would allow their people to go out on a day like today.
The road — being so long and boring gave me ample opportunity to reflect on life. The bizzare turns my life had taken and perhaps where it was going. The tough thing about driving long distance is that after a while it seems like there is no comfortable way to sit. I tried putting my leg up, then sitting way forward leaning my chest on the big bus like steering wheel. Nothing seemed to work until I took my right foot off of the accelerator put it up on the seat and then shifted my left foot over to control the throttle of the big rig. I looked over at Jack who was sitting on the floor below the passenger seat. It was obvious the drugs were begining to take effect. Like everything else in life, Jack is majorly susceptible to drugs. His eyes were shut tight with those little **** signs etched in like he was some sort of cartoon cat that had passed on to the great litter box in the sky.
Every now and then I could see his eyelid moving around which I could only suspect meant he was dreaming. Dreaming of being on a beach somewhere in the south of France. A place where men were men and women really were pussy’s. In Jack’s France no one called him missour pussy-boy, they called him Cat. Jack Cat. He walked cool — his tail spiky and thick. He smoked Camel’s without the filters. He knew it would cut down on some of those nine lives but God damn if it didn’t make him the coolest cat in town. In his dreams, Jack was one bad ass cat. He was a third degree black belt in karate. He drove a Ferrari and the women swooned at his paws. He wore a little white bow tie around his black neck giving him that ready for action tuxedo kind of look. These are the dreams that seperate the men from the boys, and I have no doubt that Jackson could dream with the best of them.
I watched him a while more until this like everything else gave way to boredom. It was about that time I noticed his little mouth turned up in a shit eating grin like he was getting laid inside that tiny little peanut head of his. I decided to scream and generally ruin his little fantasy life.
“Yo Jack, you mangey scum, wake up.” He forced one of his heavily sedated eye lids open and cast a wicked I’d kick your ass if I wasn’t drugged up look in my direction. Sensing his consternation with me I squinted long and hard to let him know I knew what he was doing and that I couldn’t be intimidated. Jack decided the stare down wasn’t worth it and closed his eyes and went back to sleep.
Just about this time I awoke from that dream like state that motorists get while rolling down the highway. You know the one where you suddenly shake your head a little and look around trying to figure out where you are and how in the world you didn’t run off the road. Its weird how you can become so engrossed in your own self conscious while your reflexes automatically do those things they’ve been trained to do.
It wasn’t long before we passed a sign that said Salt Lake City 18 miles. Jesus –I thought to myself. We’re finally getting somewhere. The Utah desert, ever so slowly was giving way to the outter fringes of modernization. It was clear now, with the city lights glowing thru the overcast grey of approaching night–that we were almost ready to pull in for the evening before our last assault on the Idaho border tomorrow morning.
Just then, for the first time in 1,200 miles, Dana pulled up beside me in her maroon colored Toyota 4×4. She reached over to the passenger side and rolled down the window. I did the same allowing freezing snow and the howl of the dessert wind to rush in and invade the sanctity of Jack’s and my space. Dana started screaming and prancing back and forth in her seat. I smiled a lot not truly knowing what the hell she was saying. I figured she too had seen the distance sign till we stopped and was showing her excitement for the stop, or at least her discontent for driving more than 12 hours in any one 24 hour period.
As I looked down on her from my quasi semi truck position in life, I cought a bit of her breast flashing me from the low cut tank top she was wearing. She didn’t know I was staring but I was. Its funny but somehow I felt like a peeping tom, and I kind of liked the feeling. Now I see why these truckers are always smiling from high up above whenever they stare down on you in your little car.
There was no doubt in my mind or anyones for that matter that Dana was a beautiful girl. But sometimes its good to get those bursts of sexually erotic energy that focalize down around your private parts. They help to renew those feelings that sometimes fade with time. She was 24 years old with big grey eyes and an enduring love that no one before or since has ever shown towards me. I as you will find out throughout this tale, am not your usual guy. I’m A.C. strange-boy. Unique and not ashamed to show that to the world.
Dana and I met while we were both at U.S.C. I was a senior and she was a sophomore. I was living off campus at a place we just referred to as Scarff St. You will undoubtedly hear that name many more times in the pages to come. My roomates and I were preparing to leave for a party in Bruin-ville or its more commonly reffered to appellation, WestWood– home of the UCLA Bruins.
Before I go any farther I must tell you about my utter distaste for that school. Sure I went to U.S.C and we’re cross-town rivals and everything but it went deeper than that. I think it all stems back to that feminine little bear they call their mascot. Now, Bruin by itself isn’t so bad, but they put a powder puff blue apron on their Bruin, with a big yellow bow on its head. I ask you; how can a bear be tough while its in the kitchen wearing a house coat and cooking noodles for supper.
Anyway, back to the first time I met Dana. There was a knock on the door. I climbed over a keg that had been indiscriminately tossed on the carpet and made my way to the front, making sure to use the turnstile that my roomates somehow had stolen from the Los Angeles Sports Arena. I opened the inner door revealing a heavy black-screen security door. I could make out the image of two females. No threat here I thougt to myself. There illuminated by the red light we had put over our door to give our pad that sultry feel — was one of our fraternity litte sisters. “
“Buffy Baby what’s the haps,” I said as I embraced her. I liked embracing the buffster. She big old boosoms that would squish up all around you when you hugged. Call me demented, but I like big old squishy boobs that wander away from their owner looking to make new friends on their own. Buff told me that she and her friend wanted to party and what better place to come to find that party than over at Scarff Street with us. I agreed emphatically, then pushed the Buffster aside to greet her friend.
“Hi I’m A.C. Fun-guy,” I said while reaching for her soft dainty hand. I love women’s hands almost as much as their breasts. Their hands are small and soft and can amazing things to a man’s anatomy. She coyly said hello telling me her name was Dana. Her hair was much shorter then and her bangs were cut long down over her eyes. She tilted her head forward almost as if to hide behind her golden locks. In some bizarre way I found this totally exciting. Apparently so did my two roomates who decided at various points in the evening to hit on her.
Mike was the first to strike out. He positioned himself in the back of Schultzy’s 1973 maverick sitting right in between both Dana and Buffy. Schultzy and I knew what he was up to so we silently looked at one another and smiled. That’s all it took. No words were spoken, but Schultz and me were on the same page of the play book.
Mike started striking up the usual purile conversation tid-bits to break the ice. So where you from? What grade are you in? What’s your major? etc…. Everyone in the car knew what Mike was doing but being the male pig all males are after a few brews he didn’t care.
Schultzy — ignoring the back seat completely – started talking to me loudly about Mike’s girlfriend Allyse. Hey A.C. is Mike still dating that old chick. Picking up on the plan was certainly no problem for me. You mean that 28 year old, Yeah I think so.
Hey Mike I said as I turned around to wink at Dana, “Aren’t you and Allyse still an item.” Mike coughed and sputtered a little. Even after a few beers he wasn’t loose enough to play this one off smoothly. He stammered a little more as the Maverick’s Stereo accompanied his stupidity with another rendition of the spinners. As if prompted by God; we all started laughing. Even Mike laughed. He laughed because he knew that he was out of the picture. He didn’t stand a chance in hell of scoring with Dana, and in some way it was even a relief. He could now concentrate on the one thing Mike did well; Drinking and making a fool of himself.
That meant it was now up to me and Schultzy. We’d been in this situation before. I usually lost, but I always had fun trying.
We pulled off the Santa Monica freeway at the WestWood exit. Sparks shot up behind the Maverick from the license plate which was held together by a coat hanger from some South Central Los Angeles Dry Cleaners. I think it said Big Bro’s or something like that. Regardless of the proprietor, the lousy thing had become undone. They say that in L.A. a car is a definate reflection on its owner. A truer statement couldn’t be made when it came to Schultzy and his Maverick. It was a faded red with bright streaks of gold rust beaming out from the original paint job. Many of those streaks actually said something thanks to Schultzy’s open policy of letting his friends inscribe their innermost thoughts into the paint job. There were things written on this 4 wheeled death trap like Yaavolt Sgt. Schultz. Delta Tau Delta: rules from the edge. I’ll drink to anything. There were countless other things written, many of which were too crude to actually reveal here. The funny thing about the Maverick and Schultz for that matter is that in another setting — like a bumper sticker these things may have seemed more appropo, but inscribed directly into the car? It makes you wonder about Schultzy and I suppose about us for even maintaing a relationship with this somewhat educated delinquent.
We weaved our way thru the pristine streets of West Wood; every lawn manicured with tweasers. Smooth marble statues of small naked children adorned way too many front porches.
“Where’s the gig?” Schultz asked as he sucked his head back, turtle like into his shoulders as he peered up at all the mansions.
I reached up and grabbed what was supposed to be the interior light from the droopy ceiling of the Maverick. I pulled rather freely on the light stretching red and green electrical wires to their taughtest position, three or four feet in length.
” Awe a little light,” I said matter of factly.
Schultzy pulled the appropriate light switch illuminating the directions I had written on the back of a beer label.
“You go right on WestWood Blvd then its about another 3 blocks. God damn good thing too; I’m tired of sitting already, my butt is getting wet and salty.”
I heard Dana and Buffy laughing at our antics in the back seat. Hey maybe she’s as cool as she is beautiful, I wondered to myself.
We found the party not so much by plan but by accident. We turned a corner and Schultzy had to slam the colum shift on the Maverick into second gear hard to avoid slamming into a bunch of insouciant party goers. Schultzy pulled the wheel hard to the left forcing the maverick up and over an 8 inch high curb. The duct tape and coat hanger frame screamed and crackled as the violent vibration sent a shock wave thru every internal organ in our bodies. The Maverick shuttered a few moments and then stalled quietly with a gasp in the Ivy of a next door neighbors home. Schultzy looked relieved that he would soon be able get out and allow his butt sweat to evaporate.
I tried opening the door, but it wouldn’t budge. “The death trap is stuck again,” I said to Schultzy.
“Use your shoulder penus head!”
Penus head; why penis head? Oh well fuck schultz. He’s deranged anyway. I leaned to his side and then threw my right shoulder into the side of the door. Not into the padded inner cushion of the door but the actual metalic frame of the door itself. Pain shot through my shoulder and down my side. It paused for a second, bending at the waste allowing a long loud moan to escape. The pain shot down into my thigh and stopped. I wanted to do more than just moan. I felt like wailing like a baby emerging from the warmth of the woumb, but instead I maintained my manly dignity. I wanted to impress the girls and crying outside of a major party surely wouldn’t accomplish that.
I looked sharply at Schultzy. He was laughing like he already knew that the door was jammed. I positioned myself up inside the window and then slid out head first. I was just about ready to get my fingertips on the ground when My pants got hung up on the door lock which of course was now just one long stabbing piece of steel looking for flesh to call its own. My pants gave way just around the upper knee. I heard the rip of the material and prayed that my skin had been spared. I was upside down, fumbling with the appearance of cool and now perhaps I was injured again. Fuck it I thought to myself, I’m going for it. Using gravity as my ally, I thrust myself down and felt a sudden rush of relief when I slid out of the window. I stood up and began checking myself for injuries. In the meantime, Buffy made her way towards the passenger door.
Since Buffy was on that side, she was the first back seat passenger with the pleasure of using the window exit. She seemed a little flustered by the task ahead of her. Buffy was a great gal.. Ready to party at the drop of a hat. But she carried a little weight on her short frame and it showed. She tried a unique approach; jetting one leg out of the window first and then crouching over inside the window sill. She started to pull her other leg up under her, but she couldn’t. She was stuck; her head jammed into the top of the Maverick and her butt wedged on the frame of the door. She was hunched over so bad I wasn’t sure she could adequately get oxygen into her lungs. Her cheeks were taking on a robust red like she had been drinking all night. I decided we had to unwedge her from the Maverick.
“Give me a hand Schultzy,” I yelled. Schultz started laughing.
It was obvious that he wasn’t too ready to help out. I looked for Mike but he and Dana were trapped inside the back seat of the Maverick. Prisoners caged in by human butt flesh. In a drunken kind of way I felt like I had to come to the rescue. Not so much for Buff, but more for Dana, my damsel in distress. A perfect way to impress her I thought to myself. After all; I was A.C. knight in shining armor guy.
I ran around the other side of the Maverick and pryed open Schultzy’s driver side-door. A huge bang echoed thru the neighborhood. I shuffled over to poor Buffy and asked her if she was o.k. She was on the verge of passing out.
I decided this meant she needed all the help I could give her. I looked in the back seat at Mike and Dana. They were concealing huge grins on their faces so Buffy wouldn’t notice they were laughing.
I returned the smirk, then readied myself on the drivers side of the maverick. I began slowly rocking back and forth in the front seat. One ……Two……..Three. on three I again used my shoulder as a battering ram and connected dead smack on the side of Buffy’s lower rib cage. There was a Low pitched thud like someone had dropped a plastic laundry basket of clothes on the concrete surface of a parking gargage. Buffy shot out of the window like she was a spit wad in a straw. In the blink of an eye she was gone from sight. All was quiet for a moment. Then like some meniacal killer’s laugh building slowly then becoming more frantic, Shultzy started laughing. Not just the usual Schultzy ho ho ho kind of thing, but a deep belly gutteral laugh that he had little control of. I pushed myself over to the window where Buffy had been and looked down. She was sprawled out on the wet lawn that seperates the street from the sidewalk. She was alive but dazed. She slowly pushed her upper body away from the earth. She had loose wet grass clippings stuck randomly on her face. As she came back to her senses she realized she had grass stuck on her lips and in her mouth. She bagan spitting making sounds a camel might misinterpret as a love call. Schultzy had fallen to the concrete of the sidewalk and was rolling awkwardly about. His howling laughter floated up from the street and richochetted about on the stucco of the building above. This was about all I could take. Buffy — spitting up grass on her hands and knees and Schultzy cackling like a hyena. Pretty soon I felt the giggles coming on myself. The giggles disolved to laughs. I looked in the back and They were also belly-aching with laughter. Even Buff herself began to loose it. She was laying on her back, gazing up at the dense smog of L.A. She was wildly cackling like a chicken as it darts away from the butcher’s knife.
The party was rocking full blast as we climbed the stairs to the penthouse. The three girls who were throwing the bash obviously were living well off of daddy’s money. What a surprise in L.A. right?
I was out in front pushing our group into the party. It was my job to lead them thru all these Bruin swine to the salvation of the keg. Like a blood hound I put my senses to work. Chin up, Nose prominently positioned on my face for any signs of alcohol. I was like a World War II fighter pilot flying blind thru a crowd of impenetrable human flesh. It was dark and foggy. I had only one engine, was low on fuel and had to lead my squadron back to base. I dipped my broad shoulders repetitively bouncing unsuspecting party members everywhere. I was the proverbial bull in the china shop knocking people out of my way as we trudged forward.
The night was warm and clammy. Pollution hung in the air cutting minutes off your life with every breath taken into your lungs. Each time I dipped my shoulder into the small of someone’s back, I could feel the mosisture beading inside their shirts. Just what I need, I thought to myself. I’ll get everyone to the beer safe and sound but my shoulder and forearms will be one gigantic salt lick. Salt from the bodies of people I knew I already didn’t care for. Its just my luck. I’m trying to impress a girl, and barnyard animals will be using me as a congregation point. Casually catching up on farmyard gossip while licking at my underarms. Oh how impressive I’ll look then. A.C. Farm-boy.
Just then I felt the fingers of a woman’s hand thrust themselves into my pants back pocket. I stopped my human mole routine just long enough to see Dana’s glowing face behind me latched on for guidance and direction to the salvation I had promised my flock. She gave me those pearly whites that would eventually be my undoing. She never said a word. She never had to. In that brief moment; She showered me with a sun burst of inaudible signals. The encounter was so brief, I could have clocked its duration wih a stop watch. But in that moment; real time and space disengaged from what is tangible and what is that other dimension that we strive for in our dreams. Her smile gleemed. Her eyes were so grey they blinded me with their pale brilliance.
I was enveloped in her beauty. Trapped in a bubble that isoloated us from the vermon loitering on the roof-top. My mind was like a stationary camera pointed at the Indy 500 track. Cars blurred thru like mardis gras streamers of red, blue and gold. The image was strong even though it was coated by a heavy fog. All I could think of doing was smiling back. I did. She smiled again. I was happy but I also wish I could have done more than just smile. I wanted to be witty like Jay Leno. Or give her some Robin Williams unpredictability. Or maybe some Eddie Murphy cool. Whatever I was looking for never materialized.
I turned back around and with a renewed determination I was dedicated to finding those kegs. I was afterall A.C. navigator-guy. I smashed a few more couples out of the way. Then as if we had been machettying our way thru a dense jungle, the forrage parted revealing the beach; or in this case the kegs. Paydirt I thought to myself.
The night went swimmingly well; almost too well from that point on. While Buffy, Mike and Schultzy hung out in the kitchen doing shots of Kaluaha from a Mrs. ButterWorth container; Dana and me checked each other out. Not in that one night stand kind of way where you over look alot of personality quirks and character flaws as long as the body was good and the face pretty. No it wasn’t that. , It was the kind of look I had never experienced before. You know; The kind of look that your dad tells you he experienced the first time he met mom.
I talked and she laughed. It was great. I could do no wrong. She asked me about how we became the Scarff Street Derelicts and I temporized an anwer as long as I could. Normally, the girls I dated didn’t approve of us derelicts, so we did our best to conceal our true identities. But somehow, Dana seemingly approved. In her own quiet way she seemed to thrive off of the energy the derelicts could generate.
After what seemed like a long time, we went into the kitchen to look for the gang. They weren’t hard to find. We came in from the darkness and waited for our eyes to adjust to the neon glow phosforesence that only rich people kitchens seem to have. There was a lot of people crammed along the sides of the kitchen arching their backs up against the cabinets. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust but it was soon painfully obvious that — as usual — my friends were responsible for the malay I was about to encounter.
Mike was holding buffy’s wrists behind her as Schultzy was using the sink spray gun to blast her in the face. Her full glass of strawberry daquirri was oozing out of her glass all over the sterile white linoleum. Some of the party goers were giggling at the debochery, but others like the owners of the party were not amused. One of those girls was bearing down on the trouble-making trio. Her pasty white face reflecting the blazing sterility of the kitchen’s glow in a myriad of directions. She reached their unmarked battle zone perimeter and stopped abruptly. Her cellulite covered ass jiggled like jello-mold for a beat or two after she stopped. Her screaching voice boomed off the ceiling bouncing around like a super ball on an indiscriminate vacation in hell. People as far away as the kegs threw their hands up over their ears. The band stopped in the middle of their rendition of a Bob Marley and the Wailers tune. Her voice was piercing flesh as she demanded to know what these Ghetto houdlims from USC were doing to her kitchen.
Schultz stopped his water barrage for a moment; got serious, then blurted out: “Fuck you scuzz bitch.” His angry face dissolved into a huge shit eating grin. He outwardly laughed out at his own bumptiousness. Buffy and Mike soon followed. Within seconds, as if they had been waiting for their cues, everyone in the kitchen began laughing. The hostess put both her hands on her hips and left in a huff.
Dana and I walked over to them smiling. Schultzy squirted us with the water and then started shooting everything in sight. No wall, window, or party goer was safe. He was out of control. We knew it, and decided it was time to leave.
“Schultzy, Schultzy,” I yelled at him. “Brother man it is time to depart.” Schultz pondered that thought for a moment while he continued sporadically wetting down the crowd.
“Madame Wongs,” he said in a thick husky voice. I had heard this before, and it wasn’t a good thing.
“Madame Wongs,” Schultzy said, this time with more feeling. I knew that once he got on this subject the parameters for handling him were limited to say the least. You see Madam Wongs was a China Town dance club that Schultzy, for some reason was strongly motivated to visit. We had spent many a desultory night washing away our memories with drinks that came in tall frosty glasses complete with parasols at Madam Wongs.
One evening we were even chosen by the band itself to come up on stage and dance like go-go girls, it would have been embarassing had it not been for the blinding effect of hard liquor.
“Alright Schultzy, if you put down the water cannon then we can go to Madam Wongs.” Like a dog trying to impress its master for a biscuit reward, Schultzy became putty in my hand. Knowing how to handle the Schultz man was something that was not easy to do as you will undoubtedly discover later on.
We made our way down the long stairs to the street, generally cavorting as any inebriated idiots would. Buff decided to take a short cut through this open air parking structure. It was quiet and lit only by a couple of light bulbs hanging from the cement over-hang. a few cars parked in there were nudged up against the back wall where a couple of washers and dryers were stacked. I don’t know why but pretty soon we found ourselves shuffling through other people’s belongings inside of these machines. I too –lost in a crimminal frenzy was tossing clothes around with wreckless abandon. Some were wet, some were fluffy clean and dry. We took lots of silly things. We were drunk, it wasn’t our clothes, they were from UCLA, it didn’t matter. Buffy found a ripped baseball cap that was all blue except for the white front which simply read CAP. It wasn’t that great a score, but somehow it was Buff. We all put on some kind of crazy apparel and started swaying out towards the Maverick. Schultzy had found a cheap woman’s blouse and had wrapped it around his neck. He looked like a homo erotic version of some world war I fly boy movie. It looked good on him for some reason.
We piled into the Maverick and started her up. Mike casually mentioned that it was nearing 1:30 and the bar would be shut down soon. Schultzy got that wild eyed stare he gets when someone challenges him.
“Don’t worry, we’ll make it,” he said. Schultzy pushed in the clutch grabbed the 3 speed column shift lever up by the steering wheel and jammed it hard into first gear. Loud ugly noises churned from under the Mavericks hood. Schultzy sneered like a fox ready to rip a rabbit in half. That was the one amazing thing about Schultzy and his Maverick. Schultzy treated the Maverick rough, there was no doubt about that. On more than one occasion he had taken that bucket of bolts up on the sidewalk outside the Los Angeles Coliseum and run into concrete bus benches at high rates of speed. The front end had tons of battle scars to show for those nights of senseless pillaging. So loud noises coming from under the hood was really no big deal; at least not to Schultzy.
Schultzy gunned the accelerator. Smoke poured out from the Maverick’s rear wheels which barely had tread left on them. We were pushing his 200,000 mile steel belt radials to the limit. We awkwardly fishtailed away from the party into the dark.
Schultzy was definately buzzed, but no more than usual. Unfortuneately we grew up in the pre-just say no era. Driving under the influence was just something that you did. The scary thing was except for my latent concern, the other three in the back didn’t seem overly bothered by the inordinate amount we had all had to drink.
We were winding our way down thru the hills of Brentwood towards the 405 Freeway when a white stretch limo raced up beside us. A group of debutants and their loser dates popped their heads up thru the sun roof and starting screaming and hollering unintelligible jibberish. They were doing something that Angelinos seem to do better than any other group of people. Show off boisterously from their automobiles.
Like myself; Schultzy hated those people. They really weren’t UCLA people or USC people, they were just shit heads who needed to be showed up. These were the kind of people who go out of their way to make sure you know how great they are, how much money they make and how they’re invited to all the “in” parties. Screw those butt licks.
I looked over to Schultzy and he at me. This is something that we did a lot. Non verbal communication on the same hell raising wave length.
I sneered my face and twisted my upper lip. Schultz gave me that crazy stare that spells trouble.
The shit head limo was on the inside and flew by us handling the corners with amazing ease. The same could not be said for the Maverick. Its hard to tell if the 200,000 mile no tread tires were letting us down or if Schultz was letting the booze get the best of him. The Maverick was doing some serious leaning and waying in the turns as we raced our way down the boulevard. I peaked in the back seat. Dana’s eye’s were glowing a blue grey in the darkness of the Maverick. She smiled at me again and shrugged her shoulders slightly. Damn, what a cool chick I thought to myself. Meanwhile Schultzy had closed the gap on the shit head limo. Those affluent pukes were still dancing around taunting us. Schultzy sneered and stepped down on the accelertor. We inched back up even with the shit head limo. Those idiots thought we were playing with them. They didn’t realize we wanted to taste their blood on our lips. We were pirates in a broken down red street schooner. If we could have I would have swung from the Maverick over onto the hood of their limo. I could see it now. My head wrapped in the stolen warm clothes from the Parking garage dryer. My two day growth of barely blond facial fuzz basking in the red and blue lights as I swung over. Stinking a foul pirate beer stench; I would intimidate them into handing over all their valuables. I would stand high above the tuxedo clad fag boys and chastise them with nasty words they only dreamt about saying in public. And then when I single handedly had the situation under control; I’d pull my stolen clothing wrap down over one eye slowly like the evil pirate I was. I would put both my hands on my hips and belly laugh a deep cavernous laugh. Then while the men cowered in the corner of the limo clutching at ritzy bottles of Dom Perrignon. I would drop down thru the sunroof, with a huge pirate saber viced gripped between my teeth. I don’t know where I got this saber, but I’m on a roll now and it doesn’t matter.
“You weak, worthless lacking testosterone losers,” I’d say to them. “I’m A.C. Pirate boy, here to kill and rob and then rape your dates in your warm blood.”
Upon hearing this, The men would surely cower and wimper like newly sheared sheep. Meanwhile the women, now somehow all dressed in ragged clothing that hung suggestively off their shoulders would swoon back and forth ready for a pirate lust session compliments of A.C., buccaneer sex god.
Just as I was preparing to bring my daydream to its much needed apex, red and blue lights bounded about inside the hollow shell of the Maverick. I looked about wondering what was going on. The White shit head limo sped off down the street. Then the loud booming of a microphone accompanied this uncontrolled cacophony. Booming sounds of some mechanized foreign language and bright rainbows of lite battered my senses. The tiny space of the Maverick was jammed full of confusing sensations. I looked at Schultzy, he was glancing up at the rear view mirror and out the side mirror. He clutched the ripped simulated leather of the steering wheel preventing propper blood flow to his fingers. I spun around to check out the back window. A disco ball of spectrum light was in hot persuit of us. Dana, Buffy and Mike were sillouttes in some bad Jimi Hendrix acid trip. What the hell is going on I asked myself. Then over the noise and confusion of light and speaker Buffy shrieked out a horrible sound that no human before or since has made. It was deafening, frightening. Who was this girl and what was she saying. I looked at her again perplexed. She drew in a huge breath and then with everything in her might she screamed; It’s the cops! Then as if on cue in this hollywood bad dream, the mechanized voice, this time much more clear, bellowed out again. Pull over to the curb….NOW!! Suddenly my pirate day dream and all that was good gave way to the harsh reality of the L.A. legal system. We had one of L.A.’s finest right on our ass, and it was overly apparent he was going to get to know all of us much more personally.
Schultzy found a little stretch of road for us to pull over on. The only problem is that this little stretch of road just so happened to be Sunset Blvd. The street that never sleeps. Billboards as big as the sky lined the boulevard, enticing motorists to take their eyes off the road and read about the newest up coming movie blockbusters. The sky at night over hollywood is usually a warm musky orange collar. probably the result of the endless stream of automobiles that run 24 hours a day pouring pollutants into the atmosphere where lights from the city and countless rock clubs give it that stagnant orange haze. The other thing about Sunset is the freak show of humanity that shows up to gawk and be gawked at. Leather clad rockers and punker chicks with purple spiked hair loiter on every available corner. Street walkers, pimps, whores and drug dealers call this street their home. And now to add to the show, we were going to have to deal with the man.
The atmosphere inside the Maverick was of quiet panic. We reaked of alcohol and there was no disguising it now. There was no time to undue all we had done that evening. Our livers and brains were swollen with booze and now it was time to pay the piper.
The officer inched up the drivers side of the Maverick cautiously. From the back window I could see his right hand nestled on his holster and his left hand clenched at a flash light. He eased up to the windows and looked in. Nothing was said. The light like a beacon from hell burned into our retina’s as it sliced thru the stale maverick air. He wore dark glasses and had a thick mustache. Why I wondered to myself do cops always have dark glasses and mustaches. There was no time to even answer my own question.
Schultz broke the silence blurting out, “How the hell are ya officer.” It was right then that I knew we were doomed. Majorly busted. Like a fire breathing dragon, the alcohol vapors lept from his mouth. Dancing on the flash lites beam like a translucent ballet.
The officer paused, stepped back and then asked Schultzy to get out. They walked around to the front of the car where the lights from both the police vehicle and the maverick turned Sunset Blvd into a stage with the spot lights burning bright.
There we were. Inside the maverick watching Schultz take a field sobriety test. It was like we were watching a movie. A movie we were kind of in but also one that we weren’t. We all felt bad for Schultzy, but we were also glad he was the one taking the test and not us. Pretty soon talk inside our rolling screening room was getting pretty lively. At one point I even think I asked Mike for some pop corn. Everyone laughed. By this time a group of homeless people with their refrigerator boxes had gathered by the sidewalk. One middle aged woman to this day still stands out in my mind. She wore a big huge corderoy coat that went down to her shins. She looked enormous, but not because she was fat. More from the numerous layers of clothing she undoubtedly had on. Her shins were filthy, but not just dirty. They almost looked like scaley snake skin where the dirt was actually layered and falling off. Her hair was brown and stiff like brillo. Small twigs and leaves dangled precariously close to her face. She had soft eyes that wedged into this face that was cold and distant. She looked like she could have been a school teacher or a mother serving apple pie to her family on a farm in Kansas. But instead she was here with the rest of the Sunset Boulevard street trash. I couldn’t stop from staring. For some unknown reason she turned her head and gazed directly back at me. Our eyes locked momentarily and I’ll admit I felt a little uncomfortable, but I didn’t want to show her that. After a second that lasted a lifetime, her icy stone face began to transform. It twitched and quivered a bit. Then from somewhere deep within using muscles and emotions she had burried long ago, a slight smile came to her face. It wasn’t much but it was like the sun shining in the middle of a black hole of humanity. I felt all things good in my heart pushing their way up thru my pores. I smiled a huge pearly white smile right back at her. She responded by showing more emotion and suddenly there it was, the huge gaping hole between her front teeth. I loved those teeth. I’ll never forget them, or that moment.
I gazed back over at the movie screen that was the front windshield to see Schultzy wobbling thur a bunch of tests.
“He’s not doing so good,” Mike said rather matter of factly. Then I saw Schultzy put his hands behind his back and the officer slapping on the silver bracelets. Schultzy spun his head over to us and rolled his eyes up into his head. He was going to jail and he was bumming heavilly. The officer opened up the back seat and holding his head with one hand and his cuffs with the other, helped Schultzy into the car.
The officer told us his bail would be $100 dollars and they were taking him to the west L.A. jail. We all looked at one another as if to say whose got $100 dollars to waste on Schultzy. As soon as the officer left we busted out laughing.
I took control behind the wheel. I was a little buzzed but well within the boundries of safe motoring. Now, I’ve been talking at great length about the Maverick; and for good reason. Besides being indestructible it’s also very tough to drive. Since no one else knew how to drive it I got elected by default. The damn thing didn’t even start normally. You had to pump the clutch two or three times while kicking it over, then once it started to catch, you had to jam it hard up into some weird gear. I went thru all the steps getting the engine to cough and spit up blood so to speak. I rammed the column shift upwards as hard as I could. Gears wedged into one another like a racial clash in South Africa. The Maverick lurched like a bucking bronco back and forth gobbling up pavement one moment, then almost churning to a halt the next.
I was passing one bank after another. Like a neon jungle in the night, the day glow symbols of modern banking america were wizzing by. I was in search of a BankAmerica. We all were looking for the versateller, but in a crazy way none of us was all that attentive. It was around 2 in the morning and the air had finally cooled down. We had the windows open and the scents of the city were blowing around us like spirits out dancing on the wind. Dana was now in the front seat and much of my energies were spent making sure she was entertained. I think all of us were treating this episode like an invigorating adventure rather than one of despair. After all it was only Schultzy we were rescuing, and its not like this is the first time we’ve had to bail his sorry ass out of jail.
Finally after several more streets we ran across a BankAmerica. I pulled up right in front in a no parking zone. Dana jumped out to accompany me up to the shiny marble facade that housed the money dispensing unit. I banged out the information the machine asked me for with amazing ease. I don’t know how I ever got any of it right considering I was looking at Dana. All of a sudden I realized that Schultzy’s bail was going to cost me $100 dollars. But my share of the rent was dependent on this $100 dollars. I wavered at the machine a moment. If I pulled this money out now I’d never make rent. But if I didn’t take it out Schultz would rot in jail with the vermon and slime that by now he had already found a great deal in common with.
Dana interrupted my thoughts. “What are you waiting for? The machine’s asking you to verify the amount.”
“Oh yeah.” I said laughing it off. I decided that I’d look pretty bad not wanting to bail my roomate out, and right now all I wanted was to not look bad. I pushed the verifying button and listened as the machine whistled away. It sounded like a hundred hampsters on some hidden wheel were churning away spitting out money in approrpriate denominations. Poor stupid hamsters. They run and run and run; and for what? Only to grow weary and die from cardiac arrest while chasing down hampster pellets tied to a string deceptively nearby.
With the bail money in our pockets all we had to do was go to the police station. A simple task that anyone could handle. But like everything else on this first encounter for Dana and me, that was a new saga in the adventure that would just have to unfold at its own particular speed.
The station was somewhere in the middle of West L.A. It was a rather non descript one story structure. A perfect rectangle with some cheap art deco on the outside designed to make people in the neighborhood forget that the scum of the earth were being shuttled back and forth right there in their own backyards. The lighting was piss poor to say the least. A hazy yellow that barely illuminated the front Precinct sign. In fact except for maybe one or two squad cars scattered about the parking lot, this very easily could have been any late night conveinance store which litter every available corner lot in the city.
Inside looked frighteningly like the front of some generic high school. There was a huge glass box with tons of sports trophies. Black and white photos lined the wall of past police captains and various medal of honor recipients. The floors had a slippery glossy sheen where a middle aged hispanic custodian had just finished mopping. Even though we weren’t in trouble all of us suddenly grew quiet. It was like some weird rule of any police station I’ve ever been in. You don’ t talk above a whisper. I can’t figure out if it’s out of reverance for the incarcerated or so the police can concentrate on their paper shuffling activities. Either way this unwritten law of jail house etiquette was in full effect and we were all tip toeing around whispering. Once again it was my duty to go up to the window and deal with the Man.
I left the sanctity of the group and slowly walked towards the officer seated behind the thick bullet proof glass with the little metal sink drain in the middle. I hadn’t felt drunk for the last several hours, but all of a sudden like someone had opened a flood gate, I felt alcohol rushing to my brain. I stopped for just a moment to regain my composure. Why was this happening now? Now that I had to play reality in front of the law. I shook my head as casually as I could not trying to draw attention to myself. Somehow though I don’t think that was real possible considering that I was the only one standing in the middle of the police station floor slowly tilting his head side to side. I felt a rush of uncomfortableness clog my throat. I coughed a raspy hack that was loud and stridently awkward. I was trying to dislodge the massive ball of flem that had come from my stomach only to lodge in my esophogus, choking the life out of me. Oh great, just what I need. I’ll fall down on the floor and kick around for a while grasping at my neck. I’ll stare up and the room will swirl around as they hover around me wondering why I couldn’t walk and swallow at the same time. The coroners report would read something embarassing like, choked to death on his own stomach bile. How degrading. My folks would have to come up with some sort of fabrication that their country club pals could deal with, like he was stabbed outside the library at USC. They could feighn anger and then say stuff like they weren’t going to leave as much money to the Jason Robards botany school as they had origianlly planned until the campus got better security. At the same time Schultzy would use my death to his advantage also. Even in death we compete. He would come over and put his arm around Dana at the wake. He would say how much he missed me and try and comfort her by going somewhere to drink coffee and talk about life with A.C. Schultzy always was a scum bag to the end. I’m dead and he scores on my eventual dream girl. Well screw Schultzy and the hell with better campus security. I was alive, bile ball clogging my throat and all. I borrowed a sound that my grandfather uses in the bathroom every morning. I scrunched up my toes and then from somwhere near my bowls cleared my throat. The silence that was the established rule was drowned out in a barrage of gurgling turmoil. I felt the bile ball explode into easy to swallow digestible pieces. I was once again free to breathe the sour stank that is the air in an L.A. police station. I turned to look once again at the group. Strangely they were off doing their own things. I had left them on the wooden waiting area bench but now they were up and walking around the place like a field trip to the museum. Never mind them I thought to myself. Back to the business at hand. Bailing Schultz out of the slammer. I refocussed my energy on the officer behind the glass. By now two others had come over to where he was standing. I walked slowly over to their area. I moved deliberately making sure not to wobble. I did my best to grip my toes into the linoleum for added support, but such things are difficult thru high top rubber basketball shoes.
I got there and looked at them. They continued on doing whatever it is that they do back there. I waited. They talked. This is the way it goes with cops. They basically have the final word or in this case no word at all. At least not till they wanted to. I stood there trying to be cool but not arrogant. If you’re too confident then they’ll suspect you of some wrong doing. If you’re too wimpy then they’ll eat you alive. Cops respect toughness sprinkled with respect. After all most cops are simply the guys in the neighborhood who were always in trouble. If it weren’t for the force they probably would be in jail. If you lick a cops butt they’ll find a way to make you wish you hadn’t. With all this in mind I waited. I tried to hear what they were talking about. Their voices were muted as if they were talking inside a fish tank.
After close to a minute, one of the officers looked up at me with a surprised smirk. “Can I help you?” he sputtered at me.
No you fucking idiot I’m standing here as part of my fraternity initiation, I thought to myself. I paused a moment and ruminated on the plausibility of this retort. It just didn’t seem quite right at the time.
“Yes,” I responded rather boringly. “I’m here to bail out Michael Schultz; he was just brought in on a DWI charge.” He stared at me blankly. He shuffled thru some notes on his desk. He turned to his buddies who were eyeing me suspiciously. He asked them if they knew who I was talking about. They huddled together momentarilly and then started laughing. I couldn’t help but be intrigued. Why is it that the police would laugh when I mention the name Michael Schultz. One of the other officers chimed in from the back.
“Oh that guys something else. He’s back there bumming chewing tobbacco off of everyone and making phone calls to all kinds of different woman from numbers he’s reading off of the walls.”
I managed a grin, trying to maintain my equilibrium. I looked on back at the group. They were all over the place reading wanted posters and plaques and just generally being loud and disorderly. I wished I was standing with them rather than over by the police. But when you’re A.C. responsible guy you gotta do what you gotta do. I looked away from the trio and slowly scanned the space between them and me. It seemed like They were a mile away from me; not only in distance but in their carefree attitude. Buffy’s schrill screams filled this uncomfortable void. I glanced over to the other end of the station house; an older disheveled man who was slumped back in one of the metal and plastic chairs opened one eye and bobbled his head forward. He gazed around in a drunken fog trying to establish the origin of this haunting cackle. Buffy screamed something incoherent about raul martinez being wanted for sodomy and counterfitting postage stamps. She howled out in laughter. What kind of person counterfits postage stamps no less is wanted by the FBI for sodomy? What the hell is this world coming to, I thought to myself? I gazed back at the drunk man across the way. He was back to what for him was a much more natural position. Slummped way back, head resting on the back of the chair exposing an adams apple that slowly moved up and down inside his throat as his autonomic nervous system struggled to keep him breathing.
I stood there oblivious to the world for a moment before my hazy day-dream was interrupted by the grating voice of the officer behind the desk.
“Sir. Sir. Sir.” I finally realized he was talking to me. My head was heavy and stiff. I felt like a robot as I slowly swiveled it around to him. I’m sure he could hear the cracking of my neck skin as it stretched from side to side.
as I labored to look normal, I focalized back on him and pushed my eyes as wide open as I could. This served to show I was alert as well as facially ask him what the hell he wanted.
“Sir; It’s going to be a while before we get thru with the paperwork on your friend. You might as well pay his bail now and then sit down and relax.”
I nodded eagerily, glad that he wasn’t too demanding on my response stimuli. I thrust my hand into my front pocket and fished around for the money. I pulled out a wad of green that I think added up to $100.00 dollars. I used a shoulder jerk movement just to get my heavy arm up over the edge of the counter. Like wet fish hitting the market counter, my armed slammed down on the reception counter. My fingers slowly uncurled releasing their death grip on the dollars. gradually color came back into the digets.
The officer shook his head, took the money and then sighed heavily as he had to uncrumple mashed together 20 dollar bills that were litterally dripping with sweat. He scribbled something on a yellow official sheet of paper and then handing it to me said, “We’ll call you when he’s ready. “
“Thanks,” I said, but only a gurgle sound and a little spittle came out of my mouth. I was going to try to be cordial one more time, but then thought better of it, turning away from him totally demorialized. I had tried to be cool in front of the man and I had done very badly. I pulled my legs across the floor. The rubber on My high tops was leaving long scuff marks along the newly waxed floor. Annoying squeaking sounds like a basketball game in a gymnasium, permeated the station house. I went back to where we had been sitting. Mike and Buffy were up cavorting about touching everything. Normally I would have tried to pretend that I didn’t know them but I didn’t have the strength. I got to my chair and fell into it like a ton of bricks. The plastic back was cool and refreshing against my lower back which had an amazing amount of perspiration.
It was then like a refreshing breeze that Dana turned the corner and walked over to me. She sat down and looked deeply into my eyes. I’m sure all she saw was blood shot half open slits. I was trying desperately not to get the spins and loose my cookies right there on the floor. Pretty romantic stuff huh.
It was just one of those moments when it’s all going right for you, even when you’re out of your mind. Dana leaned over and lightly pressed her lips against mine. it was soft and delicate like a feather tickling my skin. I closed my eyes and let the inevitable take place. I put my hand up and caressed the side of her face. Her light kiss became more deliberate and passionate. My eyes were shut tight and electric flashes of blue and white darted haphazardly about in the blackness. I felt tingly and warm. Somewhat relaxed, especially considering our surroundings. My heart began to pound more erratically. I was definately arroused by this blonde beauty, but the alcohol saturating my mind was also battling for a piece of the action. The colors were swishing around inside my head. It looked like the final scene from 2001: A space odyessey where Dave Bowman in his tiny space pod is blazing a trail across the atmospheric threshold of Jupiter. I was cruising at mock speed over mountains of gold and