Authors: Ryan Gattis
So I'm scheming, thinking we could go over and just bash our way into Western Auto cuz they got guns in the back.
Pistolas
. Clips. All that. Why at an auto store? I never wondered that before. I guess just cuz it makes more money than shocks and brake pads. That's that ghetto economy for you. Right when I'm thinking that,
the phone rings. I'm expecting it to be Lil Creeper when I pick up. It's not.
It's Sunny from the gun store on Long Beach. As soon as I hear his voice, I know ethicals are out the window. He says they only got two other guys on shift with him, and they've got the lights off. They're supposed to be protecting the guns, but for a price he'll leave the front door open and we can roll in.
I say, “How much?”
“Uh,” he says and pauses long enough to pull a random number out of his ass. “Three thousand.”
“Sure,” I say. Like this motherfucker is ever getting
that
.
“Cash,” he says.
“What the fuck else am I gonna pay you with? A check?” I say, “Just make sure the front's open, fool.”
Avaro,
I call it. Money-grubbing greed.
Sunny's just looking for a come-up. He's selling his job out, selling out the people he works with. I can't respect that shit. See, what Sunny doesn't know is that he can negotiate on any other day but today. When up's down, I don't got to pay him shit. More important, I get to come back on him for being a
culero
and sleeping with my older sister on prom night '86, and for giving her the clap. Fuck whoever he's homies with. Today, he catches one.
I don't tell him that though. I just hang up the phone and cock my gun. It's one of them old army Colts. It says,
Calibre 45
on the barrel. It also says,
Rimless Smokeless
. I think it used to be somebody's grandpa's but that don't matter. It's mine now. It's been mine for almost a year.
I look at the clock. It's quarter to ten and Creeper still hasn't shown.
Hijo de su chingada madre,
I think. He must be holed up in some motel, having already spent the money I paid him for that gun and less than a full clip of bullets. He put that shit right into veins. Guaranteed.
I'm deciding if I should give him another minute when Payasa
stumbles out of her room, says what's up to Clever while he's finishing up his kit, grabs Apache, whispers some shit to him, and pulls him outside, almost to where the little homies are standing in a circle on the lawn.
I'm not happy to see that, but it's not like I tell her not to. Out the window, I see her and Apache sharing a cigarette. They're getting wet again. Guaranteed.
Every puff of that shit is just running from the real pain. I understand, especially for Ernesto I understand, but I can't recommend it. In my experience, when you do your diligence, and even after, it's best to do it sober. That way, you can face up to that shit you done and own it. That way, it's easier to know the motherfuckers deserved what they got. If Payasa ever asks, I'll tell her. Only then though.
One minute turns into two and still no sign of Creeper. On a day like today I can't spare no homies to go track him down.
So I say, “Fuck it,” and walk outside.
We make our way to the cars in one big pack. The little ones aren't acting cool. They're hyped up like puppies at a birthday party. Barking. Roughhousing. Only Clever, me, and Payasa get in Apache's Cutlass. It makes me miss my car even more. It's prolly still way out in Riverside. Just sitting. If I ever see it again, I'll be pulling it out of impound, most likely. But I'll have to report it stolen first though. Just so it doesn't get tied in with Lil Mosco. But I can't do that until I hear from the big homies. Sure, Mosco didn't come home last night, but that doesn't mean for sure it's done. So I got to play it cool and walk around with this guilt ripping holes in me.
And I'm thinking that's the biggest of my problems until, as we're loading up the cars with soldiers to go right out and loot and do whatever, my dad pulls up in this busted old Datsun. That thing's rusted and gray and paint's peeling back around the headlights. It's
got no hood ornament and only one good headlight. It's just . . . sad, you know?
He's had it since forever, since before my mom died in January of 1985 and my sister went to live with my aunt in '87. And he had it still when he took up with another woman I didn't get along with too good and I guess that was that. I found a place to stay cuz
la clica
wouldn't leave me hanging and that's how I ended up with Toker and Speedy and them first, and then with Payasa, Ernesto, and Lil Mosco later. And all this didn't mean my dad stopped loving me, stopped checking up on me. He was forever worried, forever asking if I was being good and shit like that. When he did, I never lied, but I didn't really tell the truth neither.
And right now, I can see the worry draining off my dad's face through the cracked windshield, like he can't believe what he's seeing. Like, here he was, all concerned about if I'm okay or not, and he gets in this car and drives from Florence to see if I'm still alive and breathing and when he pulls up I'm loading up cars with homeboysânot one of them making any effort to conceal a gun.
My pops, he's not stupid. It clicks for him right then. Me, his son, I'm not the dude to be scared for. I'm the dude to be scared
of
.
His face kind of melts at that, his cheeks droop like he's been holding his breath for miles and he just let his air out, and he looks dead at me with a heavy frown and shakes his head like he's real, real disappointed, and then he throws his shit in reverse, backs up fifteen feet into a T-turn so he can whip around, and when he does, he drives off. Fast. Flashing one good brake light and one bad as he disappears around the corner. That sticks with me. The one busted brake light, shining white around red teeth.
And then he's gone.
First person I share a look with after is Clever. It's a quick nod, but complicated. He knows about my pops and I know about his, the way he jetted out when Clever wasn't even walking yet. I see he gets where I'm coming from, but at the same exact time, he'd do anything for his dad to have cared enough to check on him ever. I
see him thinking disappointment's better than disappearing, so I look away, cuz there's nothing I can do about that.
The other older homies know it isn't their business. But the little homies, the ones that don't know better, say shit like, “Who was that
viejo
?”
“Nobody,” I say and almost mean that shit.
This satisfies the little homies enough for them to finish loading up, sitting cherry, or with their legs dangling out the back of a hatchback when one of them, all riled up, lets out a high, ay-yi-yi type of
grito,
and it sounds like if he had a horse between his legs right then, he would've kicked it to giddy-the-fuck-up.
I didn't believe it until it was real. TV is TV, you never can trust that shit. Except for today. And it's on Atlantic, weaving through light traffic with no cops in sight, that the fever takes hold of us. All of us. It's a sweaty, hot feeling of we-can-do-whatever-the-fuck-we-want. It feels like way too much coffee. It feels likeâ
I'm sitting shotgun and I roll my window down and put my hand on top of the car. I bang my fist on the roof, like
ba-bop, ba-bop, ba-bop
. Like, a rhythm to how fast we're going. Fifty. Fifty-five. Sixty.
Apache is one lead-footed motherfucker. Normally, I'd tell him to slow the hell down, but not today.
Today, there's no speed limits. There's no
any
kind of limits.
“Hey,” Apache says after one too many ba-bops, “that's my
roof,
man.”
I shoot him a shut-the-fuck-up look, and real quick he says, “Sorry.”
I get in his face and shake him. “I'm fucking with you, homes!”
I punch the radio on. I go up the dial and down. Everywhere, it's news, news, news. Reports. People complaining like it's not the greatest day on earth, but like it's a disaster or something. I flip it to AM. There's no oldies, but there's something. Actual music. Sort of.
It's some fucking cheesy rock. The kind
gabachos
call classic. Electric
guitars and clapping sounds. Ba-ba-
bada
-ba, that's what the hook sounds like. This song's called “More Than My Feelings,” or some shit.
Apache recognizes it.
“Man,
fuck
Boston,” he says, making a big fucking frowny face and moving to shut it off, but I shake my head.
“Let that shit run,” I say. I even turn it up just to fuck with him.
Anybody who ever made it out of my neighborhood did it cuz they didn't come out to play. You can't ever explain to those people how good it feels, how
strong
it feels to be with your brothers and do what you want, and a day like today is bigger than you ever dreamed of, a day when you can do anything, but it's all fantasy cuz that kind of shit never happens, until it actually
does
. . .
Fucking electric guitars buzz around me as I reach up as high as I can and try to grab dry air. How it feels cutting around my palm, I try to burn that shit in my memory, how it turns my hand almost cold. I want to remember it forever.
I pull my hand in when we hit Gage though, and the feeling's fading a little cuz it's obvious just by looking around that this is some serious
Mad Max
shit. There's some looting going on, but it's not like on the TV, people running around like crazy, pushing through holes in storefronts like rats. Here, there's no shit that looks like cotton candy in the street, no fires. Smells like smoke though, woody, but also that sharp kind of bitter smell when you burn plastic.
We roll our four-car caravan by Western Auto just to scope it, but they got motherfuckers on the roof with rifles. So I make a decision then and say, fuck
that
.
Apache snaps the wheel around and we're picking up speed again, turning the street into one of them luge courses you see at the fucking Olympics. Albertaville or wherever the fuck it was last. That's us. Except it's four cars together, slipping through traffic, saying
fuck you
to red lights, keeping our heads on swivels to see if any other gang's got their necks out, if they're doing what we're doing too.
As we're passing Mel and Bill's Market we see some white dudes
we never seen before looting up some cases of canned beer, loading them in a truck, so Apache aims us right at them and comes in all hard, slamming the brakes at the last possible second, laying down a rubber trail on the street as we squeal to a stop just inches away from these guys. Damn, do they ever look shocked as fuck. Not near as shocked as when I pull my gun though and Apache backs me.
“This ain't your neighborhood.” I smile cold when I say it. “You better get the fuck out while you still can.”
They do what's good and drop the beer, but I tell them to pick it up and help us load it off their truck and put it into the van we got. So they do. Then we're off and away. Peeling our eyes for the next target.
When we hit a
carnicerÃa
for the fuck of it, somebody blasts the security door at its hinges with a sawed-off and it creaks as the stucco front wall spits little bits of gravel and pebbles like it's bleeding. People never think of how brittle stucco is when they put security doors in. They don't think that all you have to do is break
that,
and then rip the metal security door off. It's easy. After it's done, we kick the door's glass out and go whooping in like Indians in a war party, like we're all in some western.
There's no lights on inside, and the smell of meat that's been sitting awhile punches us in our noses cuz the electricity's been off since maybe late last night or early this morning.
“Bags,” I say as I point at the registers. “All them motherfuckers.”
Little homies grab up plastic bags while me and the older homies jump behind the counter and throw open the clear plastic cases with a
thwack-thwack-thwack
. That's how they sound when they smack the end of their sliders and the sound echoes off glass-doored coolers on the far wall and comes back to me, and for a moment I think of how weird this all is. Nobody around. Nobody to stop us. I try to soak it up, you know?
Now, I had a lot of days in my life wondering where my next meal
was coming from, so this's Christmas and Thanksgiving and New Year's and a birthday to me. And I'm not the only one neither. As we're snatching up pounds and pounds of ground beef, homies are yelling and screaming. We rip short ribs off their racks and laugh. We throw lamb shanks over the counter for the little homies to catch. When one gets dropped and the lil dude looks like he doesn't want to pick it up, I yell out, “That's good food, homes! We'll wash it! Pick that shit
up
.”
He does, and it takes five of us just to cram everything and anything into those white plastic bags: eight whole chickens, sausages still linked together in a line so long you can swing it around your head like a rope, four fat beef tongues, and on and on. We're in and out, hauling as much as we can carry, filling the trunk of Apache's Cutlass to bursting with meat. Jumping on it. Mashing it down so it'll fit, you know? Apache fights it at first, cuz he sees bags ripping. He sees blood dripping through, blood dragging red lines through the dirt on his spare tire and disappearing into the dark blue carpet the trunk's lined with. I tell him we can clean it later. We'll make the little homies do it with a hose and some soap and sponges while we barbecue like a motherfucker, and he's not happy but it shuts him up.
I slam the trunk shut and already I'm thinking of firing a grill up and how good it's gonna feel to feed every last homeboy till he can't walk no more, and just thinking that makes me happier than I been in a long timeâtill I look at Payasa anyway.