A Few Worthy Options for the Soundtrack to Your Life
By Raymond A. Villareal
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2010 Raymond A. Villareal
rv5555@yahoo.com
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Track 1:
You
YOU ARE a hustler, pimp, Mexican, punk, cholo, banger, THREAT to Homeland Security, a hot FUCK, lover, fighter, bad motherfucker, rough trade, you’re willing to do anything and know just how to do it, make those HATERS mad, you bring DRAMA, come as advertised, bring baggage, don’t trip or slip, never use a rubber, never pull out, come hard. You’re the baddest motherfucker you ever met, so step aside. You feel a riot coming on. And the rest? Goes without you having to say . . .
You can’t remember the exact circumstances but you do remember someone telling you that every Shakespeare tragedy has five acts. Well, let’s just lay it straight and say you’re in Act IV. That’s how bad it is right now. But, all you want to do is kill someone. It’s that fucking simple. You’re bringing the straight dope: take it or leave it. You’ve been fucked over and you’re still pissed off.
And where are your friends tonight?
But just in case you didn’t feel the full picture—try this on.
This is you:
The back of a dirty after-hours club in East Los Angeles. A small room nearest the bathroom where the B-girls bring their tricks. You know the scene.
You lean over and throw brass-knuckled fists right and left on a dread-locked brotha laying on a red pleather couch. He never saw it coming. Blood flies everywhere and he lays there in a pulp of hair and blood. Caught him slippin’. He shoulda had his boys with him all the time. Now he had to pay the price. You grab the money off the table and walk out . . .
In the alley behind a taco shack. A young frosted-spiked-tipped Korean banger in a bright yellow plastic hoodie listening to an iPod, hands you a thick stack of Franklins. You weigh them with a tilt of your hand. He nods his head at you.
It’s you again, huh?\
You crack a grin. Bet you didn’t know I was back like crack baby!
You hand him a freeze dried bag of H . . .
Deal done.
BANG!
You lay on your side—the top of a dirty crooked bed in a small motel room almost devoid of sunlight. But that’s how you like it. Smoke everywhere. 2 naked blasted face busted meth skinny hoes lick coke off your chest. You smile and flex those taut traps and biceps. You’re fucking hard as a rock. You lean over and RAIL a monster line off the ass of the fattest ho. Glorious.
Gimme that pussy . . .
That is you . . . .
And here you are right now. The same man. But how did you let it get to this point? After only forty-eight hours? You thought you would be on top of Hollywood. And where are your friends tonight?
100 years ago you would have been celebrated as a prophet. But today you’re just future earthquake waiting to rip the west coast. So bring your pitchfork cause the coup starts here.
They say you have a $5000 contract on your head—east of I35. Probably as far as Santa Monica, as well. And you’re not even a shot-caller. You’re just a mule and sometime tax collector on hooker infested alleys. Whatever. Should be 50 G’s but they don’t know shit. They don’t know what a hustler with time and an attitude can do on the street.
But right now you’ve squandered that desire for a needle and a blowjob. You stomp your black-booted feet on the corner of some no-name street and Western Avenue across from a taco truck that also sells ice without the tortilla. And you need to buy some shit. Yeah, that’s right—you’re a dealer and you have to buy your own shit. Sounds funny even to you. But that’s the way the street operates. You touch the dope you sling and you’ll be looking for your thumbs in a garbage can behind that grungy safe-house in Torrance.
You spot the HO. Took no more than 30 seconds from the look, to the nod, to the coast clear, to your pants pulled down, to your cock wet with spit and lip gloss. Look, you can enjoy almost anything on the street, but the bitch on your cock is some hooker new to the block so you decide to taste the merch before it gets used up like all the other skanks. She’s using way too much teeth for your taste but you’ve got more pressing concerns. She takes her mouth off your dick long enough to let you know you’ve been a bad boy. And how the fuck does she know that! She claims that she doesn’t want to get shot with your dick in her mouth. Word travels far on the street and you need to handle your business. You tell her that greenlight on your head doesn’t go that far down east Hollywood boulevard so don’t fucking sweat it. Who knows, she might be dumb or high enough to believe it.
But now your body is beginning to betray your better sense. You hold a Bud bottlecap in your palm. Your hand shakes and the cap is so light you’re afraid it might blow away. With the other hand you pop out the small tattered plastic baggie of black tar Harry Jones. Your hips shake without warning, as her tongue hits your spot—that spot. Shit—feels so fucking good. You steady your hands with a deep breath and tap the polvo into the bottlecap. Wishing you had cocaine but only ice. You dust some onto the H for a poor man’s SPEEDBALL. That should give it a kick. You reach into your front pocket and grab your lighter. You wince as she scrapes her teeth on your dick and flick the flame under the cap. You spit into the cap as the tweak bubbles over the flame. You would kill to have another hand to slam that bitch’s mouth all the way down your dick. You love to feel the back of a throat. You sneak a glance down and the clava looks ready all milky white and shit. You slip the lighter back into your front pocket and pull out the needle from the same.
BANG.
FUCK! You look over at a noise and see some plain clothes busters roll up to the taco shack. Where are the fucking look-outs?! Who’s paying these fools? These bangers need to get their head out of their asses. Someone fuckin slippin! Those cops don’t look like regulars and this can’t be good. You need to get the fuck out of here fast but you know damn well you ain’t going nowhere without a NUTT and a high.
You dip the needle into the dirt and unload and bring it back. You can’t see it close enough and you normally need to know if the flakes are inside the syringe. But this ain’t the time to be half-assing this shit. That bitch is working you hard—FUCK—oh she’s a keeper. She got that thing all wet. Actually trying to make it feel good. Damn, you can feel her throat. Shit! You drop the cap but it all went into the needle. You hope. You lift up your sleeve—one eye on the cops rousting the stand and one on this hooker working your dick. You press that vein in the crease of your arm hard. Right in the tattoo of some bitch’s open snatch. You plunge the needle into your arm, as you see the pigs pointing in your direction. It’s on. Got to blow this place and you’re almost there. Almost fucking there. And where are your friends tonight? You feel every nerve jumping out of your skin as that whack taps your veins and shots up your arm. Your throat spasms a bit. You throw the needle down and grab that bitches head. Faster Faster Faster, you fuck her face harder and harder and she’s fucking into it grabbing your ass with both hands and squeezing and digging those nails and you’re almost there—fuck fuck fuck fuck! You’re almost there. Your head feels like it’s gonna blow. And her mouth is so fucking smooth. That’s it. Right there! And you feel every nerve in your fucking body light up like a bunker-busting roman candle, as that crystal slings through every ounce of your blood and the rest of you shoots out.
Oh shit, she swallows it all with a smile and pushes you away. Here it goes again. Like always. You slide against the wall and slip to the hard concrete and everything goes black . . .
-----
You open your eyes and see a blonde looking at you with a smile.
Better wake up.
You nod, as your greasy MOHAWK falls into your eyes. You’re sitting on your ass against a brick wall with your long dick hanging out of your pants. She points behind her and you see the cops walking towards you from across the street.
I’m outta here punk, as she pokes your chest. Pay up, homeboy.
Stay beautiful, with a kiss and a smile, as you jump up, put your cock back inside, flick her a Jackie and bolt like a mofo while the cops point at you and yell. You run down the closest parallel alley off Mariposa Avenue because every hustler knows you don’t park your ride near the joint you’re going to score. You don’t even look behind to see if those scabs are close. Long legs covering all kinds of ground, one block over and you jump on top of your old Motto Guzzi motorcycle and whip it down an adjacent alley—loud as a gun going off. You know a homeboy off Franklin where you can chill, so you cruise through the middle of red-light-stopped cars and race down Hollywood Boulevard. Not looking back.
-----
You’re
a PLAYER.
And girls want to fuck players. Feel me? Let it piss
them off as much as they want, but you know it's completely fucking
true. This is how it goes down. See here, you know that girl your
homeboy likes who is kinda cute in a weird Zooey Deschanel/Kristen
Stewart way, but is totally sweet and he has the biggest crush on
her? The one who keeps going back to guys who treat her wrong for
reasons you don't understand? The one who calls your homeboy up at 1
am to cry about how her boyfriend hasn't called her in 3 days, and no
matter how long he listens to her, she'll never think of him as
anything other than asexual and a true friend? You know, the one who
will curl up next to him on the couch, hug him close, kiss him on the
cheek, maybe a little spooning, and NEVER let him fucking touch her
beyond that?
Yeah, YOU’RE fucking her.
And the hot club girl with the tight body, ghetto ass and blonde hair who won't even look at him when he nods at her and smiles? The one who laughs when he trips in the hallway and drops his shit? The one who comes up and coyly asks for his help with her homework, and then pretends he don't exist once he finishes? The one who asks for him to buy her and her friends drinks at the club then ignores him when a buff hottie walks up?
Yeah, YOU’RE fucking her too. Even harder.
You laugh at the thought as you sit in a chair nearest the door of your homeboy’s place off Franklin and the seedy part of Hollywood. Bitches strutting right and left in this crib. You see your reflection in an old mirror off the hallway: black hair, tweak body, swoll biceps, Mohawk, ink covering arms and built neck, BASTA—show ‘em you’re still down for the ‘hood.
You watch homeboy in the mirror burning a long safety pin with a wooden match flame. Homeboy’s a huge fucking CHOLO with a shaved head and piercings all over his face and a huge Ron Artest Lakers jersey covering his body. He grabs a plastic ink pen from the wobbly table. With his mouth he pulls out the plastic ink from the pen. Snaps a small pocket knife and he cuts the tip off the top of the ink stem and drops the safety pin end into the open ink.
Crusty shout-driven punk plays in the background and the music seems to suit your angry mood. It’s been a long fucking couple of days. You look down and see your hand held on a table by big boi’s forearm. You flex your hand. Homeboy pokes the skin between your thumb and forefinger with the hot needle.
Fuck.
The Big Man don’t even look up.
Don’t move so fucking much.
You nod at him and grimace. Been awhile and your nerves are on fire. The needle scrapes your skin and drops fire under the first layer. You look at the mirror again, as he takes the needle and dips it back into the ink then tap-tapping on your skin one more time. Deeper. Harder. Tap. Tap. On and on . . . One more spot on your hand to cover. Your fleeting dreams of assimilation fading fast . . .
More poking on your skin. Now this shit hurts. You need some dust. You turn away but it feels jagged. And where are your friends tonight . . . Now the music changes and it’s not helping. A hard riff from the punk crunchy song “Tag! You’re God!” shakes your intestines like a fucking dryer. You need more H.
Thugs lurk everywhere in this crib. Staring at you, mad-dogging, dancing, drugging, hustling. You wonder if they know. Maybe the jack move is coming soon. Shoulda brought your boys with you. Fuck it—if this is going down let’s roll that shit now. Good thing you recognize a lot of these homies.
You squint your eyes as Big Man digs into your skin—then wipes the blood away. From there it’s 10 minutes of thrusting and jabbing and digging and wiping your fucking hand like a piece of raw lean beef. You feel the sweat roll down your neck and you take few deep breaths. Big Boy drills your hand a few hundred more times and you drift. You could use more junk right at times like this but you need to be sharp.
The pain stops and you open your eyes. A lot of people have left and that jacks you up more than a crowded room. The homies just always fucking know when to leave before the jacking starts. Is the gun in your bike? A knife in your pocket? Any bottles close that you could break on some fool’s head? But everything seems cool. You take a cheap breath, as the pain from your hand throbs up your heart. And you know it’s more than the wound on your hand that’s causing your heart to ache.
Big man gives you the thug nod, grabs the 2-0, his warm beer and bounces. Doesn’t even clean your fucking hand. No big deal. If homeboy was a bitch you’d knock that ass down and fuck that hole. But you’re in no mood for a squabble with your head trippin’. Thing is you don’t want to go home just yet and hitting the streets isn’t an option without your sawed off shotgun. No matter. A couple of honeys stroll and linger but you dismiss them with a well placed spit on the floor. You got enough bitches on the payroll and none of these hoes match the name of the girl just freshly tattooed on your hand: Audrey.
You step outside and it’s still dark. You don’t even know what time it is—and you really don’t fucking care. Things like that don’t concern a player. You walk over to the side of the house and at least your bike is still there.
You pop the bike and sputter down the road. The ocean wind hasn’t reached inland and your face is smacked by the dry air. The stars gleam like a diamond necklace as you roll along side streets and alleys. Nice and easy. You’re strapped and don’t need to be pulled over tonight. Just the way you look is probable cause for a search. Your bike blazes along the railroad tracks and project homes with corrugated metal roof slats and homeboys sitting on chairs holding 40’s and looking for unfamiliar cars. Just cruise on by and mind your own business. Half an hour later and you roll up to an old one story shack and behind to a small cinder block garage apartment.
You hop off the bike and look around for a moment. All clear.
Door is always open.
Inside the empty kitchen and you don’t hesitate anymore even though it’s only really been 48 hours. You think. What does it matter? You unhook the padlock from the rusted chain on the utility room door. It drops with a loud clang, as you push open the door. The dusty air hits your nose like bad cheese, as you step inside.
You stop.
You place your hands on the old stainless steel large capacity freezer. Bought it at a rundown junkyard in Echo Park from an old Mexican with a glass eye. Used to walk up and down the block with an old cane hollowed out and filled with Johnny Red and a cork stopper. Fucking dude was crazed. He cut you a good deal on the freezer after he handed you a pile of dough for an 8-ball.
Deep breath.
You pull the side door lever hard because the rubber sticks so damn bad. The cool breeze and white mist rise from the open freezer. You gaze as the dim light shines on your face. You’re still a cool motherfucker but your eye trembles a bit as you stare . . . stare at her eyes wide open, icicles and blue. Lips separated. Hair perfect, skin soft, as always. You could almost hear her voice. Your mind is still back there and it hasn’t left and it may never leave—pour your blood over this heart of mine—NO, pour you’re your blood, skin, teeth, hair, bone, and blood over this heart of mine!—and how did she get here? The frozen body and face of: Audrey.
*****
Track 2:
half a girl is better than none
You didn’t know yourself back then. But who could blame you? Your mind lived on meth and sex. Days went by and you could never keep track. Eyes tracked from no sleep—body razed from too much T. Trying to keep some Benjamins and moolah in your pockets was taking 24/7. You met her awhile back—December 30 to be exact—at a show. Whatever. Some local SoCal Misfits wannabe all eye shadow and creepy vocals. Hardly anyone there. A few lurkers with hair hiding their eyes. No mosh to speak of just head bobbers and foot tappers. You should have left after one step. But you didn’t. And you should regret it to this day if you had any good sense left.
You walk around the smelly club nursing a jager and looking for fiends. You’d like to see some blood tonight on your fists. Maybe take a few to give a few. You mad-dog some new faces but no one wants a squabble. Some pussy here and there, but really nothing but old hoes. Mark downs from another era of your life.
Then BANG!
You saw her first slouching against a wall with 2 homegirls you knew from tongues and twats of long ago. Never a good sign but you’ve been in tougher situations.
Beautiful. And you hadn’t used that word to describe a girl since your Aunt showed you an old picture of your mom at an after-hours club dance. But this chick just blew your mind in an instant. You had to be there. Brown hair, shiny and straight. Defined cheeks and nose. That lip which curls up in the right corner. Coffee stained and rail thin—mmmm . . . dark skin and popping ass move to the front of the line. A cocky smile plays on her lips as she ignores the band. She cuts her eyes at you ignoring her friend’s conversation. After so many fuck-ups you should know better, but like the old man said never trust a big butt and a smile.
You roll up without a skipped step. The GAME taking over from that point, sir. She catches you about half-step. On cue, the 2 homegirls’ smiles drop into snarls. They were played once by you and the memory still smarts. Ex girl to the next girl, Whatevs. You ignore the cats, roll up to her and pop out—
Que Paso? You pose the cocky look out at her. Lick your lips.
She smiles, then purses her lips in a semi-smirk. This is your favorite part. So you gonna turn it up to 11 or just stand there and smile?
It’s on now. She’s coming on strong. But you can handle this shit. You bust out the pimp smile and move closer to her face. You had gold grillz back then—sparkled like the sun. Gold is back in town, baby. You know it’s hard to hear in there. We should probably move on to someplace where we can get to know each other. The bitches don’t like it.
The thrashing begins again as Los Illegals hit the stage with a fury. Stripped down three-chord power guitar assault. The noise SLAPS you like an old hoe. Shakes the inside of you body. This isn’t so bad, though. You just keep smiling, as the white noise deafens everyone around you. She stares at you suspiciously, as you move closer to her face to hear her words. But she’s not saying a thing and you can smell the beer and menthol cigarettes from her face. That shit always makes you hard. Your game is pushed to the edge and now you can’t hear anything, feel anything or taste anything . . . yet. You place a hand on her hip and run your breath along her neck. She cuts her eyes at you with a grin.
It’s like this for the next 30. In thrash-music that’s fucking 30 songsand your hand has found a home on that hip and you’re not taking it off anytime soon. Now it’s time to turn it up to 11. It’s on.
You cock a head towards the door as you push on her hip. She grins and shakes her head as she stares at the band. Not giving you a fucking inch. Time to give her the cold air. You let go and walk over to the couch by yourself and take a seat. Legs spread out head bobbing to the grind. She steals about 3 glances your way before she breaks away from the pack of jealous homegirls and walks towards you. Ready for a joyride . . . .
And so it began with the girl you were made to never forget . . .
-----
Someone once said that the best predictor of future behavior is past behavior. If that’s the case, then you’re probably gonna be in a fight tonight. And high.
You stand in the freezer of Big Taco. Best enchiladas verdes this side of the 405. Margaritas with Everclear. And they won’t cut you off after two. Bring a date, brotha. The waiters also sell the best skunk on the West side. But that’s not on your mind. It’s the scary motherfucker standing in front of you.
It’s fucking freezing in here and smoke blows from your mouth. You blow on your hands, as the big banger wearing a beater and khakis in front of you glares like you just kicked his dog.
And where are your friends tonight?
This is the man. Cholo, a high ranking Eme soldier (not yet a shot-caller but he’s on his way), big with a fat bald head and scraggly beard. Covered in neck ink representing his crew. He breathes heavily. Spit flies, as he talks. And good with a knife, you hear.
You been spreadin’ lots a dinero, my man. Been selling out of your area, what I hear. That’s a lot of money floating out there, hear.
You just shrug—work that poker face. Don’t let on to anything. Been a pretty fucked up night, so far, ese.
Cholo spits again.
Wait—you been throwing shade to the boss right and left—
Cholo steps up closer.
Don’t worry, big boy—I almost got the dinero. You point a finger and glare back at him. Where’s your sawed-off when you need it?
Cholo clenches his fists—you musta thought my Porsche was a Civic. That rooster supposed to throw that fucking fight. Shit’s piling end on end—the drugs, the fight—it all addin up to you, slick. Someone gotta pay. And that someone is you, homeboy.
You grin at him. I know, but he wouldn’t listen. I mean, these gangster roosters don’t listen to anyone. Don’t you hate when that happens?
Wouldn’t listen? That pretty funny. He spits closer to you.
This is getting hotter. He’s got a mind of his own. Ask him you pussy. Ask him! He knows something. Ask him! Did you hurt my girl?
That stops him in his tracks for a moment. What?
You heard me.
‘Fuck you talking about? You high again, mofo? Stick to the fuckin business we got on hand here. Cholo growls, as he slips a huge Black Buck KNIFE out of his back pocket. Well, that didn’t take long . . .
Should I put this in my diary?
Cholo spits.
You spit back. You want a piece of this shit! You just know this shit is going down now—tonight. You shift to a defensive stance, arms up.
You gonna pay for something tonight, ese— Cholo steps up and swings that fucking blade at you like a damn warrior.
You jump back like a wet cat and step further to the rear of the freezer. Fists up and ready. Cholo slobbers and grunts, as he moves forward on squat legs. That knife slicing the air and looking for blood. You look around and see it. The answer to your prayers—directly from God himself. A large frozen tube of CHORIZO! Cholo lunges—
You grab the chorizo and swing the fuck out of it like A-Roid with a baseball bat in the bottom of the 9th with 3 men on, right towards the fat head of Cholo, as the knife comes straight for your neck—
Something has to get there first . . .
WHACK!
You follow through with the swing—hips turned, arms extended—just like they taught you in little league. Across the head with a loud SMACK, Cholo and the knife drop like rocks. You flip the chorizo like Barry Bonds after a 450 feet home run and pose. Blood splatters the walls and pours from his head like a river. Everywhere . . .
-----
A skinny Chicano in a Social D t-shirt and Chucks stands in front of you—in the very same freezer. His name is Guero. You know him and what he’s about . . .
This is Guero.
You see a crowded bar. All bikers and manual laborers just sitting, nursing beers and watching—waiting for something, anything to go down. A big blonde muscle-diesel bouncer watches the scene from next to the bar. Guero sits in a fold-out chair in the middle of the crowded strip club—all red light and smoke—loud dance music and bikers. 2 strippers grind on him, each on a leg—like a cheap first date without the meth. They must smell the money in his pockets cause he sure don’t look the part. His hand rubs the blonde stripper’s leg—starting on the wet thigh . . . higher . . . higher . . . up into the hot damp snatch.
BANG!
The brickhouse bouncer jumps in, grabs Guero by the collar of the shirt, lifts him like a grocery sack and throws him from the chair. Drinks and strippers go flying off and in the air. The bikers just look on with disinterest—not enough drama to get up from the seat this early. Guero lands on his ass and jumps back up in a sec. You see him grab a Miller Lite bottle, jump in the air and CRACK the bottle on the boy’s head.
The muscle boy drops like a fucking rock. Guero kisses a stripper, slaps her hard in the butt and hauls ass . . .
This is Guero.
BACK TO THE FREEZER.
What the fuck are we doing in here? Guero rubs his hands together and stamps his feet.
Fucking cold, isn’t it? You grin at him. You wetbacks aren’t used to this, right.
No shit—we’re in a freezer bitch. Hurry up with whatever this shit is before I freeze my ass off.
You walk over to the barrel labeled “queso” and lift the lid. You cock your head at Guero. He walks over and leans his head over the barrel and stares inside. His eyes open wide—eyebrows raised.
Oh FUCK! He steps back for a moment then looks inside the barrel again. Then he looks back at you. Fuck!
You said it. You shrug and close the lid.
Guero points at the lid and stabs his finger in the air. That’s Cholo! He glances at you again—that is fucking Cholo in there! Motherfucker!
No shit.
You kill him?
No I was looking for cheese in here and there he was—what do you know. Fuck it. ‘Course I did. Didn’t have a fucking choice. He was out for blood like a mofo. You know his rep. Me or him brotha—can’t fucking lay down on that. You pace around the freezer—a ball of nerves.
Well . . . thanks for showing me this homeboy. I could have gone a lifetime without knowing this shit. Guero slaps the wall hard. I guess we both on the hook now fucker.
You grin. Well, thought you might want to share in the good news—I know you into him for 3 large.
I could deal with the 3 large, motherfucker. Not this.
Look, no sense in Monday morning this shit. Bottom line now. TCOB—take care of business. Now, I can’t keep the body here. You know that.
Anyone sees you with that body, ese, and you fucked. Forget about jail—you won’t make it to the front door. WE won’t make it. Believe that. That fucker had his hand everywhere on the street. He kicks at the barrel and grimaces.
Anyways, I gotta fucking leave it here for now. Gotta go to work and sling for that dough. We’ll figure it out later.
What the fuck is that about? Supposed to make me feel good? I don’t feel any better about it. He shakes his head. Fuck it. Okay just fuck it. Wellllll . . . what about tonight?
Nothing’s changed. Tonight we fight.
-----
You heard the old man say onetime—you don’t need a weatherman to tell you which way the wind blows—and he was right. Those winds are blowing through, you feel the chill and know something’s about to go down soon.
El Gallo de Oro sits at the end of Market Street about 200 feet from the bridge crossing the Los Angeles sewer named the l.a. river. You know there’s an oxymoron in there somewhere . . . An old two-story building with a large basement. The small cantina in the back stays open 24 hours—and so is the gambling den in the basement. Entrance in the back alley of course. Spotters on the roof—you know the scene. The restaurant in the front? Open 24/7 and serving whatever you may need at the moment.
You first walked into this fucking shithole a 15 year old 90 pound punk looking to bus tables and hustle for some clothes and dough to get the hoes. You did your work, kept your mouth shut and your eyes down—and they noticed. And before you knew it you were a mule. Hustling smack from safe house to block to corner. Fighting with dealers and users for price and cash—every motherfucker trying to take advantage of a young buck and test your will to survive on the street. You took your shots and put down some homeboys on your own. Did enough to earn your rep through those 22 square blocks.
But where are your homeboys tonight?
Now here you stand looking at the busy dining room. You’re wearing the waiter uniform consisting of white shirt and black pants. One hand in your pocket, the other holding a cigarette. Your gaze scans the entire dining room. You see the Veteranos, Carnals, LT’s; all here mingling with a crowd of patrons, firme hinas, homeboys and wannabes. Lurkers and other neighborhood types. No one really comes in here without a reason or without knowing what this joint is all about. But here they are—all cutting their eyes, keeping their guard up ‘cause anything could go down at any time.
Noise surrounds you’re fucking head—and you love it. It smoothes you out. Music, voices, machines, plates, footsteps, clatter. The restaurant throbs in full hype mode. Hoes strutting their hooch-wear and thugs drinking with eyes creeping and cutting to the entrance every few seconds. Those old wetbacks by themselves at the bar nursing a beer or rum. You know the ones. Old, wiry, hard wrinkled sand-blasted faces and they always have a blade or pistol tucked in their old boots. Always on guard. Those motherfuckers never caught slippin. You knew one—an old motherfucker from Sinaloa, Mexico—must have been 75 if he was a day. Sitting at the bar drinking a beer. Gets up to go to the bathroom. In the hallway between the men’s and women’s room he gets jumped by a couple of wetback thugs from across—something about a debt not paid or a woman touched the wrong way—who knows what the fuck got buried in the clouds of revenge. Point is, this fucker must have had eyes in the back of his pock-marked head, cause he took the blade out of his belt buckle in seconds flat and slit the necks of those poor fuckers before either of them fools could flip their switchblades open. Next thing you know, the old bastard goes to finish his piss then leaves. Cold blooded. You always keep your eye on those fuckers.
In the corner of the room nearest the bathrooms, an old gangster fiddles with his wallet in a fucking hurry. An old fat Mexican in a straw hat, dirty black pants and a worn thread-bare guayabera plays a scruffed piano accordion in the corner, but the white noise sucks up all the air and the accordion wails in silence.
You walk in and stroll straight to the corner. You know where. But not too fast—just stroll along marking everyone you pass—you’re in no fucking hurry. It’s all game. Not looking at anything in particular. You reach the corner booth and sit in a wicker chair placed in front of the large corner table.
And where are your boys tonight?
They are all here. Not your friends but . . . And the shit is in the corner. Vicente—the fucking Boss. Sitting in his usual corner booth. The red velvet booth with the red light above and the bodyguards lurking beside. He’s a big fucking dark MEXICAN with a thick salted beard, open collar on a starched white dress shirt, black suit and thick GOLD fucking gun shoved in his waist. You can just feel the hate come off him. All the crew are here and you know—you just fucking know that one of them is responsible. And you’ll deal with it sooner than later.
Vicente has been the regional boss for 3 years now. He was due and there are still whispers about how he moved up in the ranks. Papa, the boss before him, went to a monthly cartel meeting in Tijuana and never came back. Some say he was using more than selling or he got caught up in the lifestyle and was spending too much time partying and acting all Hollywood. Does it even matter who put the light on him?
Vicente was born in Los Angeles but his family moved to Tijuana when he was a boy, so he knew all the players growing up and he knew the culture and the language. Came back to l.a. when his family moved back and he jumped in the 13th street homies when he was eleven. Rumor is that he took the blows of 5 men when he was jumped in the gang and stayed on his feet through the whole trimming. By the time he was in high school, or at least high school age, he was slinging a key a week on Hollywood and Sunset. Got a rep for cutting the hands off of busters who came up short with the take. Believe it, the shit was down to the penny after a couple of lost hands. Next thing you know he’s a lieutenant then a carnal and now a boss. And behind him a trail of bodies and body parts.
Three Dos Equis and a shit load of empty shot glasses and wrinkled limes lie on the table next to a ¾ bottle of Patron. A large plate of rich brown gravy enchiladas with rice and refried beans sits on the table in front of you.
But you are far from fucking hungry. You’re never hungry when you’re waiting for something. Waiting to do something.
Vicente sits in the corner of the booth. Slouched back on the red vinyl seat that wraps around the corner booth. A thick gold chain with a large medallion of La Virgen de Guadalupe hangs from his neck and open collar and flickers bright with the lights.
Nothing is spoken for a moment. You listen to the accordion and the conversation. The seemingly infinite crash of noise in this small joint just rolls over you like a wave, as you stare straight ahead.
Be cool. Be fucking cool. You feel your foot tapping which might belie the grand statements of who’s gonna get done first, running through your head. A deep breath blocks it out for awhile.
Vicente runs a stubby calloused finger along his bushy moustache. He reaches into his jacket pocket—of course you tense like mofo and the blood rushes to your head and good thing you’re strapped but fuck you don’t want to start blasting at this point—and he pulls out a ratty leather bag with his initials embossed in gold leaf.
Vicente opens the pouch and pulls out a pinch of REAL LIVE fucking dried Coca leaves. Fucking drug of choice for the rich, connected and famous. Man you’d like a taste of that right now. The pungent scent cuts through the smoke and hits you like a baseball bat. You pull on the bottle of beer in front of you. It’s long since luke-warm but you don’t care.
You might as well start it up—
You cough. Okay, so—
Vicente raises his hand and his voice. You know you fucked up, ese.
You look up. You notice some of the patrons look over—it’s not every day that Vicente raises his voice and they can feel trouble in their bones. Everyone looking for the exits. But that’s never been you—for better or worse. Never been you. You stare straight at him—clear your throat. Well, not to put it in a different—
Vicente waves his ring-covered hand at you and stuffs more leaves into his mouth. Spit dribbles across his moustache and down his chin. I want to know what happened to Cholo.
You lean forward in your chair to make the point. How would I know? I hear here’s taken off or some shit. Probably a bitch or ho—always is you know.
That boy never calls in sick. He’s on call twenty-four and seven. And I know for a fact you into him pretty heavy—like 3 G’s heavy, son. He spits on the table and you think the enchiladas don’t look so good anymore.
You shrug. Look, I’m in heavy to a lot of cholos. And they all want their share—I’m paying taxes on shit also. So what? Anyways, I got less important things to do—
Vicente drags a beer—all down in one. He points a finger at you. You best consider stepping back a bit from the edge.
I mean, c’mon. Would I dare kill Cholo? You think I got that in me?! You look around you but no one is speaking up to back you. Who would be dumb enough? You think maybe you should have said that aloud.
I hear you’ll do anything.
Maybe once, shit, but not that.
Vicente reaches over and grabs an enchilada from your plate with his bare hands. He stuffs it whole into his mouth. You didn’t want that anyway.
He smacks loudly a few times and downs the enchilada like nothing. We’ll leave that for another day, believe me. Okay—no more bullshit, ese. I’m dying to fucking kill someone. Believe me. Bottom fucking line. He taps his fingers on the table for a moment and stares at you. You hear bout the big boss?
You nod your head just a bit. The music and voices are getting louder and the crowd feels jumpy. You can sense the shit coming down and you don’t know which way to go.
Yeah, word travels fucking fast, hear. Motherfucker was taken out. So this is the business. There are rules in this game. The game of becoming the boss. There will be an election. And I mean to win that fucking election. Or I’ll fill the streets with blood.
So I need a sacrifice. I need fucking blood. By November first.
You lean forward—in the noise you’re not too sure what you just heard. A sacrifice?
Vicente nods his head and takes a shot of Patron. Exactly.
Like what? I mean, for who?
Santo Jesus Malverde.
You smile. The patron Saint of drug dealers. This is getting better and better.
Vicente smiles, all gold teeth, and crooked cracked lips. You hope to never see that smile again. How many dead people have seen that smile before some shots are popped off? He slips more leaves into his mouth. There’s a shrine to him in Tijuana. I need the shit you’re going to get me. Everyone will know I’m for real, if they don’t know by now. He laughs. They gonna know that I can make the blood flow like the blood of Christ on every head in town. For real. I want it before the Cartel chooses the next Jefe.
You nod and pour yourself a shot.
And here’s what you’re going to do for me . . .
The music rolls over you as you listen to this madman weave a tale. . .
Once more . . .
I’m down.
Vicente smirks. There’s that fucking smile again. Must be some kind of record to see it twice in a day. Well . . . I’ll wager you’ve never heard this one before . . .
*****
Track 3:
How to Start a Coup
You poke your head outside and see the sun falling slowly and you wonder if it will ever be dark—this day has been forever. You’re feeling out of sorts today—not the comedown from a week of tweak from meth, just simply out of it. Like your mind is off track and clicking or slipping or something. You never really took much from school—typical inner-city school—the teachers didn’t give a fuck and passed you every year until you dropped. You learned more from your mother before she passed—went away. She used to read you this book when you were 7 or 8 or so—this “not really a children’s book” but not for adults either—kinda like a comic book for teens. There was a whole series of them she bought at a garage sale—God knows why. Each dealt with some period of history—like the civil war, Vikings and all other kind of crazy shit. Like these moments in history but not really actual history. Anyway, you keep thinking about her favorite book—which in turn became your favorite book for no other reason than she used to read it to you and with you constantly. The one on Greek mythology. Man you could dig those homeboys like nothing. They were like fucking raw. Anyway, it was a picture-book of the Odyssey and you think it’s when you first fell in love. Her name was Circe and she was like this goddess of magic or a nymph or something exotic like that. And in the pictures she was this achingly beautiful brunette dressed in this sheer sheet with milky-white skin and curly hair and red thick lips. She lived in this mansion and she would trick men and trip them out with potions just to get her way. And you remember loving it and fearing it at the same time. It was like every adventure you wanted to be part of and thinking of how it would test you and knowing you could get over and rise to the top.
And for some fucking reason this has been on your mind all day and you don’t know why but there has to be a reason. Maybe you’re thinking of your mother or all the fucking bitches who have TRIED to turn you out or play you for the chump. But you’re always one step ahead and if you’re not you’ll get there soon enough.
You pop your head back in—not concerned about when it will be night anymore. Everything will come soon enough. So you stand inside of a gang tagged cinderblock and stucco building in an industrial area of Echo Park. Mister Peepers XXX Video Store. You “work” here on Tuesdays and Fridays for 3 hours at night to help sell porn and sling dope. Extra money and even you need to make that green in this economy. Everyone looking for a fix and most of them will cruise by here knowing they can find something. These are the people who maybe don’t want to have to go to a club or the corner to score their H or meth or any other kind of dope—so they come here—a comfortable place to score.
You stand behind the small wooden counter but not behind the register. Baseball bat under the counter just in case you need to chase some creepers away, but you’ve never had to use it. You look out at the empty store, as a gangbang DVD plays on background monitors—all moaning and fucking sounds. You consider changing flicks—too many streaked bleach-blonde old lady skanks in this one. But you’re too fucking lazy to really care and you don’t feel a hard-on coming any time soon. And anyway, the moans sound almost real in this one.
The hair on the back of your neck stands up for a brief moment, like you’ve seen this scene before, as you mad-dog a guy and a chick that just walked into the store and are now chat-roaming the aisles. Well dressed and clean cut in a Studio City or Burbank kind of way. A little too put together to be producers. Out of place in this hard joint. Marks? Too easy to tell. Not cops, that’s for sure. Looking to score? Edgy, sense of entitlement and aggressive? Check. Probably agents. Maybe, but cats like that don’t have to leave the Westside to get a fix.
One, a curly headed chick in a smart black cocktail dress. The other, a tall lanky but muscular fag. Flaming. You could tell from here. Fuck, you could tell from outer space. You can hear him talking loud from the far aisle—Prada purses literally falling out of his lisping mouth. You might tell him to turn down the fucking flame before he burns down the whole building.
Let’s check this out—could be money involved. You walk down 2 aisles and listen . . .
You hear the tall one call the girl Audrey. Audrey. You feel the sweat boil up through your torso. Oh isn’t that just fucking great. How many girls in this fucking town share that name? Only the ones you meet, apparently. Fuck it, who cares . . .
The gay guy stops her in the corner with his arm. You see him smile broadly.
Hollywood Squares 2012!!
Audrey shakes her head with a smile. No no no no no. Not even today, my dear. We’re busy, Danny! We have to find the gifts!
One round! He bends at the waist to beg with hands clasped.
Audrey shakes her head. I have to find a gift and plan the party. She slaps him away.
Danny places his hands on his hips and looks disappointed. Who is it for anyway? You could at least tell me that.
You see Audrey smile. It’s for Jake and Laura.
Danny screams! No one really notices, but the flame just went up times a thousand.
They’re ACTORS, honey! It will be nothing but Agents, Producers and Actors there. Oh dear. Better make sure there’s a LOT of coke. And probably TINA should make a visit, as well. And you better have some botox ready.
Audrey frowns. Botox? Are you kidding? These people do not need anymore. You squeeze all their faces out and you’d have enough botulism to poison an Indian village.
Danny shakes his head. True. You just know they will all visit the Dermatologist before the party. That party is gonna look like a remake of Vincent Price’s House of Wax
So what are you getting here anyway, Audrey?
I have no idea. I need some funny gifts. So what’s the hot gift this year? Audrey flips through a row of Blowjob movies.
Danny thinks for a moment. African orphan babies? Herpes? Sex tapes?
I’m afraid that might take too long.
You watch them stroll down the middle aisle—lube and whips section. They both turn to glance at each other, as the curly-headed girl grabs the buff boi.
Oh and by the way mr. assistant, you were very very late for work this morning. I really can’t cover you again.
I had a long date. Danny grins and cocks his head to the side.
Another one?
I give good head.
Audrey stops and just stares at him. She points a finger. You know, I’d call you a slut but you already seem so self-aware.
The dude points at her and jumps up and down. Hollywood Squares 2012!! Let’s begin!!
No! This again? She turns away.
Yes!
No!
Yes.
Audrey grins at him for a moment and shakes her head. Matt LeBlanc.
Ah-ha. Not bad. Danny stares at her for a moment. Matthew Perry.
Audrey brushes him off with a wave of her hand. So obvious. You might as well just say the whole cast of “Friends.” George Clooney.
Danny puts his hand over his mouth. Ouch! Was that really necessary? Okay, okay . . . Kevin Costner!
Audrey shakes her head. Look this is Hollywood Squares 2012 not 2010!
Good point.
I win! Audrey raises her hands in the air with a smile. She jumps up and down a couple of times.
You continue to stare at them—waiting for the time to make your move.
Danny stares at her. Seriously.
What? Audrey looks back in exasperation. Can we get this over with—this place is so skeezy.
A tight grin appears on Danny’s face. Let’s pretend we’re a Zach Braff movie!
Audrey waves her hands. Not now! We need to find some party favors here.
Danny shrugs. Sure whatever you say. He jumps right in front of her. Okay, I'll be the male lead-- the quirky somewhat quiet but self-confident Zach character who's "on the edge of thirty" (he adds the air quotations) and just trying to "figure it all out." Even though I'm obviously early forties. Oh and my female co-star will be stunning because, well, I'm the epitome of masculine beauty myself which is why I cast myself as the male lead.
Audrey glares at him. Okay, I'll be the soundtrack made up of entirely of unknown hipster and emo bands/singers in a bid to make Zach look cooler and more cutting edge than he is.
Danny nods his head. Not bad, but I'll be the awkward pauses in the poorly lit scenes intended to show Zach's disgust and or confusion at the fact "nobody gets it but me.”
Audrey clenches her fists and face. Damn that was good. But . . . I'll be Zach's sneakers, baggy jeans, saggy t-shirt and drab hoodie showing the audience he's just a 30-something hipster, even though he looks early 40's.
Good one, but I'll be Zach's intentionally mussed hair, giving Zach that slacker/hipster looks he's oh so "famous" for.
Perfect, but I'm the scooter vespa Zach rides around on while the quirky indie band music plays in the background.
Danny puts his hands on his hips. Fine, I'll be Zach's rumored tiny penis.
Audrey laughs. Not so rumored if you really want to know . . .
Danny howls and claps his hands like a monkey with cymbals.
You decide it’s the right time to move in . . .
So what do you need?
Audrey and Danny turn around and stare. Up and down x-ray stare. You’ve seen that stare from so many hoes and hoochies—what is it the attitude or the swagger? Either way it always works on em. So you return the favor. Flex, with a sneer.
Audrey steps forward. You find out later that the first thing she wants to do when she meets someone is to smell them. Something about growing up and smelling her father’s cologne when he would bend down to kiss her goodnight before he left her and her mother for some Topanga Canyon Avon salesgirl who swooped in one evening and took him away to San Diego and a condo on the beach which Audrey never got to visit. How do you get over that? Not in a lifetime. So she would smell everyone growing up trying to find that cologne of his or the perfume of hers on someone, anyone—leaning in or with her nose in the sir just trying to catch a scent. Later, it just manifested itself as another way to judge people—tart, tacky, shady, funky—everyone had a peculiar smell and were immediately judged and categorized to her in a convenient package. Put in a simple box like her father and that whore—forever judged. But now standing here right in front of you she just smiles—must like your smell.
Her lips part for a moment before she speaks. Something for a bachelorette party.
Nothing for yourself?
Audrey smiles with bright West Hollywood veneers. Got everything I need.
You already got it all, right? Okay—bachelorette party. Let’s see. I got this covered. You pull out a small pink dildo from a shelf. They say: this. I say: black mamba. You pull out a HUGE black dildo.
Audrey’s eyes open wide. Her mouth forms an “oh.” Danny salivates and smirks. You call it Black Mamba, I call that a Saturday night.
You ignore him. Now. They say: spank. I say: riding crop! You pull out a long riding crop.
I suppose—
You raise a finger. They say: be gentle. I say: be fierce. You pull out a pair of nipple clamps. What do you think? You down?
Audrey just stares at him. I think I can’t even distinguish a come-on from good conversation.
-----
The register hangs open as you pack a bag of “items” for Audrey. Danny hangs back, hands on his hips. A couple of old pervs in track suits stare at the video screen. Hands in their pockets free-balling like mad, faces red and breathing heavy from exertion. Leering towards the “buddy booths” in the back of the store waiting and searching for some action. You hope those queers start that shit—you’re still looking for a squabble. You stare back at Danny with a grin and a nod. Even he knows what’s up.
How much of this is for you, Mariposa?
Danny rolls his eyes. Very funny, punk boy. I get the real thing whenever I want it.
You grin wider. John Travolta.
What? Danny looks surprised.
You say it slower. John Travolta.
Danny raises his hands. What ever does that mean?
You grin. Hollywood Squares 2012.
Danny breaks out in a big closed-mouth smile. He nods his head in respect. Not bad, punk boy, not bad. . . .
-----
You walk outside with them scratching your chin and eyeing Audrey’s ghetto ass. She pivots around and stops, as Danny walks to the Mercedes.
Audrey looks at you and the shop—all dicks and pussy and ass. So why here?
Here? Why not? This is bliss for me.
Well, what I mean is that you seem to have it together in a weird way—at least by Hollywood standards—why a porn shop?
Fooled you. You pop out a Cig and light it up with your chrome lighter. A deep drag and you keep the smoke in as long as you can. I wanted to make pornos but there’s nowhere to fuck anymore.
Really? I find plenty of places. You should try harder.
You take another deep drag. Look, it’s the only place where I can indulge my hobbies. Well, at least some of them.