Looney Lunes #156

This Just In –

Now, Spelling Bee Kids Will Have To Know Definations
Headline, AP Story

Number 7, please. Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious

Man Punches Himself, Charged With Assault
Headline, Gallup (New Mexico) Independent

Why? Because it feels so good when I stop.

Solid Waste To Be On Table For Discussion
Headline San Marcos (Texas) Daily Record

That’s either a meeting I can miss, or any number that I’ve attended.

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Hugger Orange

“Fuck…” Jackson planted his left foot, palms flat on either side of his gas cap, stepped into the push. “You sure the brake’s off, it’s out of gear?”

Dash leaned against the open driver’s side door, flicked sweat off the end of his nose. “Tasks such as this are why auto-mobiles and I are currently at odds.”

“Fuck.”

“You ’bout in desperate need of a more di-verse and entertaining dialog. ‘Nother half a block, all we need.”

“You said that two, three blocks ago. Why the hell did we go to Venice Beach anyway?”

“I painted you a verbal picture of mustachioed muscle men in mi-nute elastic panties and beautiful women on roller skates in far less. You were overcome with a need to see those wonders for yourself. I was obliged to accompany, you a stranger in a strange land and all.”

“Fuck…”

“Must I admonish you further?”

“Whose idea was Ripple or whatever that was we put in the radiator?”

“The mixture of ‘whatever’ be a varietal blend of leftover fluids found in the Venice trash, and was installed under decree by committee. We come close to makin’ it, though.”

“Said the Titanic to the iceberg.”

“See what you come out with, you think on it?”

***

Jackson backed out of the passenger door of his dead ride with a shopping bag full of six years of console, under seat, trunk and glove box junk. He stepped away a few feet, took it in. All the memories. All the bullshit. There was still a quarter of a tank of gas in it. All he needed was a match.

“Somethin’ on your mind, Casper? I perceive a vibe that bodes ill for this sad piece of industrial sculpture.”

“Maybe we get a keg, throw a block party with a bonfire.”

“Block party in El Lay always a winning proposal. Famous bands and topless women a given. But an auto-motive bonfire spells R-I-O-T to the po-leece. We be fingerprinted and on Channel Seven ‘fore the fire’s out.”

“Fuck.”

“There you go again.”

“I can’t afford to fix it.”

“Don’t want to afford to fix it. Howsome ever,” Dash turned his palm up in a game show model’s ‘here’s your new washer and dryer’ move. “Even in its current immobile state ride still looks cock. If you will allow me to speak on your behalf with a brother I know who specializes in vee-hicular transactions I might persuade him to offer you a modest amount of cash or functional in-kind trade for your lifeless possession.”

“You have a friend who deals in dead cars?”

All kinds of cars. Magic is afoot in East Compton, my brother. Buster put a black Jag-u-ar in one end and a red Lincoln pops out the other. Same may be said of dead or damaged in, alive and well out. Shined all the hell up and runnin’? This’ll be seriously ripe for a low down and payments guaranteed to last longer than Star Trek reruns. Buster will perceive, as I do, that a Messican or pimply-assed kid will think their dick grew three inches they find themselves behind the wheel of this aww-toe.”

“He’ll keep it the same color? I’d hate to —”

“Output color depends entirely on condition and Buster’s means of acquisition. It’s legal and wrinkle free. Only his feelings on Day-Glo Orange come into play.”

Hugger Orange.”

“Nigger, please. A rose by any other name, we understand each other?”

***

Jackson followed Dash down from the wrecker cab in a swirl of east Compton dust. Dash took a fistful of cash from a tall, skinny kid with red eyes and an eighteen inch ‘fro, disappeared through a heavy, steel-clad door. A few long minutes passed and from the minor sea of Quonset huts and rutted gravel a primer coated 1964 Impala SS with shiny bumpers, pimp wheels and zero trim pulled up purring smooth and low like a fat cat in a circle of sunshine. A sweaty, wiry gray-haired black man in grease stained pin-stripe overalls stepped out, leaving a hint of Bay Rum and an old time barbershop in his wake.

“You bein’ the only thing white I see ‘sides the garage door, this’n must be yours.” He stepped around, popped the hood, spit tobacco juice in front of Jackson’s feet. “Supra Sport Shivvies came stock with a 409. Big and dumb as our current crop a heavyweights. I put this new 327 crate motor in yestiddy. Old with no blue smoke keeps the gov’nor happy an the po-leece away. Break ‘er in easy she’ll stay that way. ” He dropped the hood, wiped his hands on the red shop rag hanging from his back pocket, spit again. “Small block’s lighter, lets you keep some rubber on the tires, drives past a gas station ‘casionally. Axe me, rides some better, too, all that weight gone. Had in mind to paint it, but you come along.”

He paused, examined Jackson like a man encountering a disease. “Air conditioner blows cold, no back seat, no radio. No charge for the trunk mount spare cover. It come in from somewhere, don’t fit nothin’ else, tired a walkin’ around it.” He held up the keys, dropped them so quick Jackson almost missed the mid-air save. The old man nodded, spit another stream of tobacco juice. “The Dash be along drekly with paper an plates.”

Jackson watched the man walk away, his bowlegged side to side gait kicked up light puffs of gravel dust, a walk punctuated with an off-beat sway of the shop rag hanging from his pocket and an every fourth step spit. “Nice to meet you, too.”

***

“Needs paint. Legal, mostly. Nothing due, no change, even up.” Dash put his hands on the door sill. “You an Ellis get on?”

“You mean the old guy who spits redneck diarrhea, no. No handshake, no thanks. No take it easy, no fuck off kiss my ass honky punk. Must’ve left all that in the same place as the back seat and radio.”

“No radio?” Dash’s head rolled back. “Muh-ther fuh…” He tossed the plates and registration on the passenger seat, went back through the heavy door, wasn’t gone long, wasn’t happy coming out. He landed in the seat, right leg still out, hand on the door. “Hang left, follow the drive around back. Stop where I tell you.”

Jackson stopped on command, Dash slid out, vanished behind a corrugated metal door, was back in under thirty seconds with a nearly new Delco combo radio and cassette player from a Cadillac. He eased back into the passenger seat, set the radio where the back seat should have been. “Radio’s for the shit paint job. I told the motherfuckers, you know, I be ridin’ in this aw-toe and you were cold as ice. Next thing I’m back, askin’ all them old domino an Jack niggas sittin’ around, you know, what’s their fuckin’ damage, where’s my fuckin’ radio? They tryin’ to fuck a brother ‘cause I brought a deaf dumb and blind cash money client to their criminal empire? Motherfuckers. ‘Take the deal, fool, you an the ghost take a walk’? Fuck they doin’, talkin’ that shit to me? Thinkin’ I didn’t come up in here, don’t know their shit?” He took a breath, smacked the door sill. “Fuck it. You drive, I’ll di-rect. Weekend comin’, college calls on Monday an I need some unwind time. You’ll be droppin’ me down to Lakewood at my little slice of heaven’s place. I’ll draw you a map home from it on the way.”

Jackson drove south out of east Compton, Dash ranted on Buster’s crew like they were his dysfunctional family while he took a BIC Stick and drew a map on a paper napkin that would have done a retentive Renaissance mapmaker proud. He had Jackson roll up slow on a semi-residential, semi-small business street in Lakewood and stop near the middle of the block.

“You get to the crib, call your people. Tell ‘em you’re alive and where you’re at, how wonderful your new friend Dash Man be. ‘Cause if San Andreas opens up an your white ass drops they can tell the bloodhounds start lookin’ for you in Long Beach. They need to find you and this ray-dee-oh on the west side, don’t need nobody sniffin’ around my shit in Compton. Least till Buster’s player’s caught some chill.”

“Anybody. You don’t want anybody, or anyone, sniffin’.”

“You gonna be the grammatically co-reckt English Nazi all the fuckin’ time? I thought you played music or some shit.”

“Habit. Can’t get sloppy. People take you more seriously when you don’t talk like a refugee from a corn field full of single-wides.”

“Your accent don’t clean up soon you’re gonna need all the help you can get you expect to gain some on serious.”

“Doesn’t. Not don’t. Accent doesn’t clean –”

“We have arrived, Jeeves. I doesn’t require your services any longer,” he interlocked his fingers, popped his knuckles. “You straight on how to get to the crib?”

“Yeah. And ‘don’t.’ That one was ‘don’t.’ Like that shit’s bad for your hands, don’t.”

“Get back to me, I ‘don’t’ got room in my head for any of that shit today. You know where the stash is. Blank’s for the drive.” Dash tossed a thin black cigarillo on the empty bucket seat, lit one of his own and walked away. Jackson leaned over to pick it up, looked out the window and damned if they hadn’t pulled up in front of a beauty shop called Little Slice of Heaven.

RANDOM NVDT – Writerly Concerns #19 – Say What?

“Hey!” The middle of the pack, size and age wise, from the table full of after work happy hour females grabbed his arm, turned him slightly. “Yeah, you. Austin.” She flipped his name tag with her left index finger, out and ready to stab the shaggy college boy waiter in the chest. “What was that about, giving us the finger, calling us ‘the mean girls’, huh?”

“Whoa…I didn’t give anybody the finger. You wanted more chips, I pointed with the finger I could use, called Dominguez to set you up.”

“Right.” She twisted his wrist enough to see the pen clasped against his ticket book with his index finger. A small, brown, springy, mustachioed man carrying a tray of full chip baskets, stopped, blocked by the scene. Engraved on his name tag, DOMINGUEZ.

“Señor? Señorita? Con permiso?”

Austin backed out of the woman’s grip, bowed slightly. Dominguez passed sideways between them, dropped the first basket of chips at the women’s table.

Her face took on the look of a squeezed beer can before she brushed off his arm in a feeble attempt to erase some leave behind of embarrassment. “Sorry…”

“No problem.”

She dropped her eyes and hurried back to the table. The woman who had been seated next to her waited for her to drop, furrowed her eyebrows, leaned forward so she could see her friend’s face. “Jeannie? What the hell?”

“Nothing. I…Shit. I thought he gave us the finger, said something, you know…Never mind. We need to tip him like we’re half drunk and think he’s cute.”

You need to tip him like you are drunk and think he’s Brad freakin’ Pitt. Jesus, girl, you coulda gotten us all thrown out.”

Dominguez rounded the corner into the waiter staging area, empty chip basket tray tucked under his arm, paused by Austin.

“’Ey, amigo, the mean girls. They are happy now?”

***

Does everyone see what’s happening here? Noisy probably franchise Mexican restaurant, cocky long haired college boy waiter, table full of after work women in as many sizes as ages? Do you need the decor? Blow by blow, sitting down, history, drink order? I could have had him explain the Doh-meeng- gez/ The Mean Girls, explained the noisy restaurant. Why? A good scene, to me, isn’t about the ambience. People will tell the story. Dump the exposition, get right in the middle of it.

When I first started writing again, call it 2015, I dropped straight into it, whatever the scene was. Right off the bat I got beat up. Where are we? How did we get here? What’s it look like, how does it smell. I went on the scene building quest. I learned that you can dial it up or down, depending on if you think the scene needs it. And if you’re good you can condense a few big sensory things and get on with the story. And if it’s a re-visit, something happening where we’ve been before, (or is generically ubiquitous) just go on in and make yourself at home.  The Hundred Acre Wood is not about the Hundred Acre Wood, you know? We go there and magic happens, we don’t get a thesis on deciduous tree bark.

I noticed in my last story upload that the location and characters were condensed, but it seemed like everyone knew where we were. Saw the people, got the story. I mention that because after several books lately I’m off that big scene building thing. I studied and even the best dystopias, like Vonnegut, are sketched. In a good author’s work people emerge quickly. MacDonald is the master of condensed appearance and behavior if one wants to give out a character’s polaroid. A page and a half of the English countryside, or Los Angeles or New Mexico or the Rocky Mountains or Egypt. Why? “Some people like that.” Good for them. Some people like adverbs and dialog tags and I’m not much for those, either. The point is, write for yourself or you’ll derail yourself. Next time, a funny story about Egypt and the little magic trick of a few foreign language words.

***

In 1970 Elmore Leonard’s agent called him. The conversation went something like this –

“You read The Friends of Eddie Coyle yet?”

“No.”

“You need to.”

That goes for all of us who would write in the less flowery American Noir style. A style which I feel needn’t be limited to crime novels.

Back to the drawing board.

 

Looney Lunes #155

Titles and Headlines

I wonder, when I see things like this, if a LOT of thought went into them, or none. 

First of all, how cumbersome and uncomfortable!

WTF was AARP thinking?

Rather See Than Be One

“Hold up.” Crocker handed me the Prince Albert tobacco tin, reached over to cut up his daughter’s slab of flank steak. “Just got her dinner on the table.”

“You need to eat?”

“I can wait,” Crocker said. The unasked question was did I bring beer. I set the paper bag on the table.

“Miller. Quarts.”

“Man of his word.” He picked up the bag and put it in his fridge. “I said two was fine.”

“My mother says do more for people than they ask.”

“Your dad still around?”

“Yeah.”

“Shame. I was startin’ to like Mom.”

I took in the upstairs apartment, one of 8 in a two story red brick box, in a block of red brick boxes not far from where we worked. Small. Old. Wood floors. Thirties probably, like where I used to have to collect for the paper from old people. Unlike those, that smelled like ancient carpet, dust, mold and pee these smelled like Pine Sol and incense. I wondered if the teenage version of my dad had delivered the lumber. The chrome and Formica kitchen table was by a window, the curtain plain, off white with a wide band of lace holes across the bottom. It was clean, like the rest of the place. Couldn’t have been called a place with “a woman’s touch” but clean. A naked Barbie and some stuffed animals, coloring books, Golden Books scattered around, and a well-loved green dragon on the kitchen table next to a petite, clean little girl with messy blonde hair.

“Shell, this is Harper. We work together.”

“Hi.” Loaded mostly with disinterest and a touch of mild, corner-of-the-eye curiosity. She might as well have said, “So?”

“Shell’s six. She doesn’t talk to strangers. Idn’t that right, Shell?” He rearranged her food with a steak knife, moved the plate in front of her. “Harper’s not a stranger, okay?”

“‘Kay.” She was infinitely more interested in dinner than in me.

Crocker looked back at me, winked. “She figures that, you’ll be stuck reading books about talking racoons and listening to her go on forever.”

“Nunuh,” she said, around a mouthful of dinner.

“Shit.” Crocker put a tired pair of hands on his thighs, got up to answer the knock on the door.

I was 16. Summer job building BIA houses, pre-fab. Aside from the drunk cowboy who drove the big forklift, the office boss and me the rest of the crew of about a dozen were Native American Nam vets from Anadarko. Living loud and large on working man’s wages and making it out of the jungle alive. They arrived in a caravan of three and four to a muscle car every morning. Even a lime green Daytona Charger with the clothesline spoiler. Crocker was from Anadarko as well, the only white eyes. They’d all served at the same time. Crocker had been a conscientious objector, but he had a wife and a baby and wasn’t interested in Canada or shooting one of his toes off so he went along. They made him a medic. Tail end of the Tet offensive, 1968. He got the call to come home late May 1969, after Hamburger Hill with no field hospital and nothing but a bag full of gauze and morphine to use up on over 400 screaming wounded in ten days.

The story I got about him coming home, all jumbled up, was Crocker’s Dad had a farm outside Anadarko. And a crush on his son’s wife. Crocker went to Viet Nam, Gramps’ itch got the better of him. Gramps made his move out in a field one day and Crocker’s wife said hell no and she was going to tell. A shotgun and a tractor got involved. She died, maybe from the shotgun or run over by the tractor, Gramps killed himself, shotgun or tractor rolling over on him, take your pick. It was a convoluted, disjointed telling after a joint at lunch, then dodging heavy machinery in a prefab wall plant while the story was told and absorbed. At 16, it was all over my head. Like Crocker being twenty something, having a kid and living in an old apartment and being cool and kind of Robert Redfordish in a country way, experienced like Hendrix, wise, with a lost, sad look in his eyes sometimes. He took the apartment not to have to commute to Anadarko every day, or drink everyday with the Kiowas, Shell being his priority.

Crocker opened the door, let his neighbor in. A guy closer to his age than mine, going bald early, horn rimmed glasses, thin. A younger, shabby version of Dennis the Menace’s father. He sits in the window chair next to Crocker, across from Shell.

I should say here that Shell was named after her mother, Michelle. She was a baby when Crocker went off to be subjected to the conscientiously objectionable. He came home to the shotgun and tractor story, his crazy mother blaming him and his dead wife for all of it, after saying she and the baby could live with her and horny Gramps, be around family while he was away. All that just before she finished a bottle of vodka and blew her brains out in her kitchen when he was walking out the door. He’d jumped at the prefab job and the opportunity to get the hell out of Anadarko. He never said, but after the shotgun and tractor and Mom story no way he could have stuck around, lived in that.

Crocker pulled a pack of ZigZag whites out of the Prince Albert can. “You bouncin’ on her belly yet?” I knew he was asking about an overbuilt blonde girl who’d picked me up from work a couple of times.

“No. Not her. Not yet.”

“Slow starter?”

“Her brother knocked up a Federal Judge’s daughter. She said it wasn’t much of a party, but the girl told her his dick felt like a telephone pole. First time they did it they got pregnant. So she’s cautious. But a little curious about the telephone pole.”

He stuck the joint he’d rolled one-handed in his mouth, pulled it through his lips. “Not too bright.”

“Her or her brother or the Judge’s daughter?”

“At least the brother. Girls get heated up they aren’t thinking. Bagging the swimmers is our job.” He smiled, small, soft, almost chuckled, tapped my leg. “Rubbers are always a good idea, believe me.” He nodded toward his daughter, “Right, Shell.”

“Nnhhh.” I was starting to worry the kid was nonverbal, but she was doing some damage to her dinner, a heaping plate of mashed potatoes, green beans, beets and the kid-sized flank steak.

“You got a somebody else or three, to relieve the pressure?”

“Yeah.”

“Figured you to be that way. Best to let a first timer pick her moment. She gets it when she really wants it she’ll die with your name on her lips.”

I’m not sure I believed that, but Crocker lit the joint, proceeded to tell me the story of how his ’68 Camaro came to be purple sparkle with the wide racing stripes in silver sparkle. He and some guys were drinking, he was fresh back from the war, being wild.

“Don’t you ever swap out with your copilot?” I must have looked lost. “We were cresting this hill, about 70, gave the wheel to my man, I laid the seat back, threw my legs up, plan is my buddy slides over. We swap out. I’m in the back seat, he’s driving. You never done that?”

“No…I uh…”

“Don’t. It’s fuckin’ stupid.” He let a contained laugh out through a smoky exhale. “We’re halfway through the swap, come flyin’ up over the top like fuckin’ Steve McQueen, and there’s a goddam Fritos truck pokin’ along about halfway down the hill. Flat spotted the tires, my buddy an me both standin’ on the brakes. Didn’t help much. Still don’t know if it was him or the wreck broke my foot.” He took the joint back from his bogarting neighbor, handed it to me. “When they’re done puttin’ my car back together they say it can be whatever color I want. Shell and I were into singin’ that nursery rhyme, about the purple cow? Rather see than be –”

FUCK!” Neighbor screamed, one hand clasped inside the other. Across from him Shell had a severely pissed-off Shirley Temple face, fork in her fist. Crocker turned to check them out.

“Goddamit! She stabbed me! With her fuckin’ fork!”

Crocker gives Shell a dad question mark look. Shell keeps her glare, doesn’t back down.

“Motherfucker was stealing my steak.”

Crocker, back to neighbor. “That right?”

“Well, yeah. A piece. I started for another, and…” Neighbor opens his hand. The one inside is a little swollen and bleeding from what looks like a four toothed snake bite. “You got any bandaids?”

Something happened in Crocker. The Hamburger Hill medic, the blood, the shotgun and the tractor, I didn’t know, but he went cold as ice and thousand-yard stare. He took the neighbor’s hand, twisted it to look. “You’re ain’t hurt for shit, and I’m not dealin’ with it. Need to go on to the house, fix yourself up.” He dropped neighbor’s hand. “Fix yourself some dinner while you’re at it.”

Neighbor looked longingly at Shell’s steak and the dead joint between my thumb and finger, but he didn’t say anything. Shamed by Shell’s unrelenting glare and the icicles he got up, made his exit.

Crocker came back from the stare, checked me to see if I had made any judgements. I hadn’t. I was a little shocked, but the whole scene, like I said, was beyond anything I could understand at the time. I said nothing, offered him the joint. He took it, relaxed back into the chrome and red vinyl kitchen chair, looked at his daughter. He took the fork she’d stabbed the neighbor with, tossed it in the sink behind him, got a fresh one from a drawer. He leaned in toward his daughter, eye to eye, handed her the fresh fork.

“Good girl, Shell. I don’t give a fuck who he is, don’t ever give any man a chance to start any kinda shit with you. Always stand up, defend yourself.” There was a telepathic aspect to their communication. She knew exactly what he was saying, knew exactly what had happened to her mom. Six years old.

“Okay.”  She stabbed a small square of steak. “He’s an asshole.”

“Yes, he is.”

“Will he come back?”

“No. Harper probably will, if that’s okay.”

“He don’t talk much. But I guess it’s okay.”

Crocker let a flash of amusement cross his face. “I didn’t roll this to smoke it by myself.” He re-lit the joint, handed it to me. “Was that beer cold when you bought it?”

 

It would be nice to live in a Norman Rockwell sit com/rom com world where the problems are small and stupid, and the solutions come in under half an hour. Where nine-year-olds don’t shoot each other over dope turf, twelve-year-old prostitutes are an urban legend and pregnant eleven-year-olds are the figment of some pervert’s imagination. Where thirteen-year-old girls don’t get killed in a weed stash-house rip-off. Where middle school girls don’t shout “Bitch! Seriously?” and throw a hospitalization required beat down on their vice principal. Where small town high school football players don’t take steroids and acid and rape and kill a couple of cheerleaders, cut up and burn their bodies. Where the chasm between street people and the yard of the week people wasn’t wide and unfathomable.

But we don’t. So I populate my fiction with those from the perimeter that I have known, broken bread with, overheard, observed. I find them far more interesting to listen to as they develop than finding dialog for stereotypes. To me a black dude who is street wise and on a photography scholarship/intern program from the Smithsonian and his neighbor, the potty mouth “Fuck that” daughter of a hard working single mom, a daughter who gives the dopers in the parking lot behind her apartment crazy nicknames, are all as real as the crabgrass in not the yard of the week. 

Looney Lunes #154

Hollywood Blockbuster – The Death of Logic

If We Exhale More Than We Inhale We Feed The Plants. This Will End World Hunger.
tweet from actor Jaden Smith

So much for Newton’s Third Law.

I love them. Love them. I think the more positive approach you have to smoking, the less harmful it is.
Actress Sienna Miller

All you positivity MEME hounds? That is an example of what happens when the power of positive thinking is in the path of a rolling blackout.

Smoking kills. If you’re killed you’ve lost a very important part of your life.
Brooke Shields

Okay, maybe Brooke was a near death of logic experience.

THG 3 – CH 22 – Shining Example

Mid August 1979 / Long Beach, CA – Jackson makes it to L.A.

“Shit.” Jackson wiped his forehead with a sweaty dollar-at-the-truck-stop bandana, leaned back in the seat, looked through the glass and a chain link fence at the funky old house behind the parking lot. Grass grown up around an unused lawn mower, a swingset frame, chains but no swings and a pair of bicycles. Next door, to Jackson’s right and past its own overgrown yard with several pieces of long ignored playground equipment was an apartment building. An older, two story shotgun style job with parking underneath an overhang down the right side. There were four windows upstairs, the middle two open and occupied. A blonde kid was looking out of the window on the right and a skinny black guy with three-to-four- inch spiky dreads was parked in the left. Jackson hoped his predicament was entertaining them. He opened the door, thought about going into the bar, finding a phone. Why? He didn’t want a beer and who the hell was he going to call in L.A. and tell them about his car that was leaking coolant from the block and overheating?

“You’re not a regular.” From the little girl in the window. Maybe ten, eleven, blondish, needed a hairbrush. “What’s your name?”

“Jackson. That’s all of it, either way. Story if you want it. How ‘bout you?”

“I’m Sky. My mom’s name is Star, but she’s at work.” She looked down, brushed something off her t-shirt. “Yeah, I know, it’s backwards. Mom should be the Sky and I should be her little shiny Star, but Gramma? She screwed me into ‘splaining that one forever by making Mom Star first.” She shook her head like she had water in her ear, messing her hair more. “Mom, too. She could have given me a real name, you know, that wasn’t more hippie junk.” She disappeared, came back with a can of Coke. “Your car broken Mr. Jackson? My mom’s does that sometimes. Smokes and leaks and won’t go nowhere.”

“Anywhere,” Jackson said. “Won’t go anywhere.”

“Fuck that shit, Mr. Jackson. It’s summer.”

The black guy had been watching Jackson, interested, but detached. Like a man would watch a puppet show or a street mime. “Your momma’s gonna have your bee-hind talkin’ to strangers, Sky.”

“Shut up, Dash. He’s white and clean and prolly lost. He’s not fucked up and ain’t got the shakes looking to leech a pipe hit or for a bindle a freak mighta dropped or nothing.”

“Anything,” Jackson said. “Not looking for anything. Don’t you go to school?”

“Out for the summer. I told you. Are you some kind of teacher? With a broke car? I’m not doing no homework in summer, so you can drop that in the Sky don’t give a fuck can down on the corner.”

“No teacher,” from spiky dreads. “He’s got nearly ex-pired Oklahoma license plates, Sky. I’m thinkin’ runaway. Or maybe a dope mule. Okies need their fix same as anybody else.”

“You a dope runner, Mr. Jackson? There’s a lot of that goes on in the parking lot where you’re at.”

“Nope. Not a teacher, not a dope runner.” He climbed out, sat on the fender of his car and laid out his ‘got lost trying to get to USC’ situation through a chain link fence for a ten-year old girl with a thirty-year old mouth and a chilled black dude hanging out the upstairs windows of some apartments that backed up on a dive bar parking lot not far from the Pacific Ocean.

***

“UCLA is closer, yo, than USC. To where we’re at anyway, ” spiky dreads said. “Me? I’m homegrown Trojan. I grab the express on the corner or catch a ride up the 110 or Ocean, the 405 maybe if I have time. Like how you be needin’ to go when that Day-Glo beast breathes its last. Fact is you need to move your aw-toe out of that lot now, while it will co-operate, or they be towin’ it with you inside. Po-leece in Long Beach need their impound money, bartender gets a piece. Out of state makes you a double hit sucker.” He vanished from the window, came back blowing smoke rings. “Homeless, all that hair and talk of music school speaks such that we may have arrived at a mutually beneficial crossroads, so look here, Casper Jack-sown. I got a no-tow parking pass this side the fence ‘cause I have a place here and no ride. You pull Day-Glo around, park in front or down the other side underneath, number 7. Do the walk through the middle, step on up, hang right. Okies an brothers both second class citizens in El Lay. Less you have some southren background problem with black people an shit.” He held up a pink acrylic bong blocked from Sky’s view by his body, raised his eyebrows.

“That’s how Okies got the panhandle. Texas wanted slaves and had to fit below that invisible line where life on the other side was supposed to be different.”

“Why there’s more Messicans than brothers in Texas. Come on around, my pale brother. Step up.”

***

Jackson eyed DaShontè Calhoun’s apartment with a touch of fear. Not physical fear, like he was in imminent danger. More like what was going to crawl out from under the pizza boxes and beer and Coke cans and dirty clothes covering the old wood floor and bite him kind of fear. He handed the bong back across the open counter into the kitchen.

“They call me the Dash.” The bong got dumped, rinse water turned on. “That’s gospel, about your name? Just Jackson? Shit’s some easy that way. I’m not here much, so we won’t be a trouble, bein’ up in our respective shit, follow? I eat, I drop off clothes till I don’t have any then I find me a lady can wash ‘em. Where I am, most times. At a lady’s place, know what I mean? The rate?” Dash wrote a number on a piece of thin, six-pack carton cardboard, set it on the counter.

“Double that is right.” Research before he left Vegas told Jackson he couldn’t touch Dash’s deal anywhere in L.A. “You really need a roommate?”

“No. You do.”

“Truth.” He toed a Dr. Pepper can into a small pile of other cans leaning like a snowdrift across the back of a clothes covered couch, held up the piece of cardboard. “You sure about this?”

“Indeed. Place be subsidized in part by scholarship. Only fair not to jack you, you bein’ my steppin’ stone in the di-rection of slum lord and bein’ your first day in El Lay.” He measured all of Jackson’s mental machinations, let the room breathe. “Well, my brother, are we to set a shining example of racial coexistence for the entire city of lost angels to follow?”

“Okay. Yeah.” Jackson flipped the cardboard at a pizza box. “Hell yeah.” They shook, slapped skin and fist bumped over the counter. “Phone there part of the deal?”

“Outbound. Incoming, too, were I to know the number. You see, that telephone line is liberated from the egregiously totalitarian and unsympathetic communication monopoly. If you were, say, to hold the flashlight long enough for me to use the tools liberated from said monopoly I could obtain that information. Sadly, the last time I was in the telephone box across the street after midnight someone called in a black Peeping Tom. Po-leece be prompt about that sort of thing rather than involve themselves with the drug traffic and gun play in the bar behind us, so I had to make haste back to my, our, abode. Where the storm troopers did eventually knock and inquire of me had I seen any suspicious activity, as they often do of this entire complex.”

“At one in the morning?”

“Thereabouts. The gunfire we mention to them is never a concern. Howsome ever a negro pervert on the loose is not to be taken so lightly.” The wink was stagey. “Show you the bus in the morning. We bump to USC with your big brown envelope, get you signed in and up and every which way they be havin’ you.”