The phone rings.
– Hello. Yes? Hello.
– Cindy.
– Yes. Yes, what is it, what?
– Cin, it’s Amy.
– Amy. What? Amy, Bob’s.
She remembers what Amy’s job is.
– Amy, why are you calling?
– It’s OK, honey, it’s OK. They’re here at the hospital, but they’re OK.
– Oh, oh.
– Sweety, listen to me, don’t jump in a car. Wait for.
– Are they, what’s wrong with?
– Honey, listen, don’t drive yourself. You have no idea how many parents kill themselves rushing to the hospital. Get a neighbor to. Cin? Are you there? Cindy?
The phone dangles from its cord. Cindy Whelan is already outside getting into her car.
Bob knows the cop.
The cop that comes to the emergency room to file a report when he shows up with four beaten boys, Bob’s ridden in the back of his car. Old timer. One of the ones who knew him when.
– What’s the word, Bob?
– Same shit, different generation.
– What’d they get into?
– My oldest, George, tells me they scored some acid from some guys that were hanging around the bowling alley.
– Acid dealers are over at the Doughnut Wheel.
– Older guys, from over the hill, they all had Raiders gear.
– Black guys.
– Yeah.
– Probably from Alameda.
– Don’t know.
– So?
Bob takes a sip from his coffee cup and looks down the hall to see if his sister is coming back with any news. Hector’s mom and little sister are still sitting across the room, heads bowed, rosary beads passing through their fingers. No sign of the kid’s dad or brothers.
– George said it was just plain blotter paper, no acid on it. They got pissed. Rode around looking for the guys’ car and found them getting drunk in May Nissen Park. Started talking shit and saying they wanted their money back.
– The Cheney kid, right? Fucker’s got a mouth on him.
– I don’t know.
– Yeah, I’ve had him in the car. He likes to mouth off.
– Well, whatever it was, these dealers beat the hell out of them.
– And you?
– George called from a pay phone and I went and got them and brought them here.
– They didn’t call us.
– In a fight with some guys that ripped them off on a drug deal, they didn’t call the cops.
– Uh huh. OK.
Bob looks at him.
– So you gonna go find the guys or what?
The cop underlines something on his notepad.
Bob remembers how the fucker put a hand on the back of his neck and slammed his head against the door as he put him in the back of the car the last time he was ever cuffed. How he laughed about it.
– Tell you, Bob, I’ll head over to the park, take a look around, try to get over there before it gets too crowded, but what the fuck do you expect me to find? Think some coons from Alameda are gonna hang around after they did something like that to some white kids and one of our Mexicans?
Bob stands up.
– That’s bullshit, man. Did you see my kids?
– Easy, Bob.
– They. George’s hand is all fucked up. Andy.
He looks in his coffee cup.
– He’s a mess. He. Fucking do something.
The cop closes his notebook.
– Bob, I appreciate your kids getting hurt. I can only imagine. But, honestly, you should not be acting all outraged citizen with me.
– What the hell is that?
– Just saying, if you had boys that weren’t out scoring acid in parking lots at two in the morning you wouldn’t have a problem like this.
– Don’t fucking.
– Can it, Bob. You use that kind of language again, I don’t care what’s up with your family, I’m gonna remind you what it’s like to get booked.
He taps his index finger on Bob’s chest.
– Want to take a ride? Try on some bracelets again? One of those orange jumpsuits? It’s the weekend. Take you in now, no one gonna see you till Monday. Don’t got no friends at the station anymore, Bob. Those days are over. Your money’s no good over there now.
He shakes his head.
– Reformed punk or not, you’re still a punk. You got punk kids that hang out with punk friends and what they got was in the cards for a long time. So you just calm down and take a seat so you can be sure to be here if they need you. Yeah?
Bob looks down, takes a seat.
– Sure. Sorry.
– Yeah.
He tugs at his belt, shifts his holster.
– It’s a busy morning. There’s stuff going on. Got half the force and emergency services at that fire over by Junction. Another fucking crank lab. Town this size, we got two crank labs going at the same time. Damn drug war here. Me, I say we got guys like you to thank for that. So, when I get the chance, I’ll take a look at May Nissen. When the kids are feeling a little better, someone’ll get descriptions of the black guys and their car. And then we’ll decide if we’re gonna do anything about your kids being out after curfew looking to score. OK?
– Sure.
– Best to the family, Bob. They’re in my prayers.
Bob watches him leave, remembering the times they shook hands, the folded bills passing between their palms, and then goes to find George to tell him again what to say.
That night, in the ICU, he has to stop walking when he comes in and sees Andy, his head and face buried in bandages, his mom sitting next to him. He has to stop and remind himself where he is. When it is.
He remembers the way it was before. The bags of Colombian Gold shoved inside plaster lawn gnomes and jockeys and Christs, coming across the border at Tijuana, driving nonstop back up here, swapping shifts at the wheel with Jeff, chewing whites and drinking warm beer and shots of mescal the whole way. Dumping the shit at Geezer’s, the fat boy weighing and bagging and pinching off shit on the side that they never even fucked with him about because there was so much goddamn money.
The parties.
People cramming the house, spilling into the yard and the street, the cops closing their fists around the hundreds he slipped them and closing off the block with sawhorses. Football games at midnight in the middle of the street, high as hell. Cindy on the lawn, dropping the strap of her halter to nurse George while she tried to help Amy deal with her latest loser boyfriend. Cindy, just the best looking lady on the scene, baby or no baby. The best woman in town, and his pick of any others he wanted.
Always action at the house.
People coming by, scoring dime bags and quarters, shooting the shit as they rolled up a joint to smoke before they hit the road. Cash piling up. Until you spent it. Just blowing it like the fucking wind.
And the fights.
Guys saying they got shorted, getting in your face, learning the lesson that you don’t talk to Bob Whelan that way. Not in his house. Not nowhere. Dealers from the central valley trying to bring their Mexican Brown in from Tracy. Busting in the front door of their pad and running riot, swinging the bat, busting the place to shit, setting it all on fire and watching them run.
The changes.
Geezer showing them numbers and talking about smack and coke and speed. Talking about profit margins. Like it was supposed to be a business. Like it was supposed to be something where you punch a clock. Like he loved it for more than the fun and the freedom and the fights. Like he loved anything more than getting fucked up and fucking and blood on his knuckles.
And then the Angels.
Seeing them down at the Rodeo Club. Dealing their shit in the lot. Eyeballing him and Jeff and Geez. The Angels letting them know they knew whose town it was, and they didn’t give a fuck. Sending a message about changing times.
And then showing the Angels they were wrong. Giving that parking lot a coat of red paint.
And Andy.
Walking into that hospital room the same night, seeing that thing they took out of his wife. And realizing he did love something more than all that other shit.
Fucking family man.
Who could have seen that coming?
The ride out to Oakland with Jeff and Geezer.
Carrying the bloody colors he’d stripped from the Angels after he beat them down. After Jeff dragged him off and kept him from killing them all. Walking into their clubhouse and laying the colors at the feet of their president. Telling them he was done. The town was theirs. Telling them they’d never hear his name again. Taking the beating their warlord put on him in retribution. What it took from him, what it took to keep from rising up each time he was knocked down, what it took to keep from doing what came so natural. What it took to kill that thing inside.
And how killing it hasn’t protected anyone.
He stands in the doorway now and she turns and looks at him.
He remembers his wife by the side of the incubator. How she turned and looked at him then. What she told him he needed to do to keep her. How he turned and walked out of the room and did it.
She doesn’t tell him what he has to do this time. He’s already on his way.
The double is almost a triple by the time Amy heads for home.
She stops at the AM/PM on the corner of Rincon and Sunset and grabs a couple packs of cigarettes, a two liter of Diet Pepsi, and four Cocktail in a Can 7 amp;7s. Except they call them 77’s on the can because of lawsuits and shit.
Some asshole has blocked half her driveway with his Seville and she has to drive over the corner of the lawn to park her car. Saturday night and there’s no curb space on the whole block because somebody’s having a lawn party a few houses down. She leans against the fender of her Mustang and listens to “Total Eclipse of the Heart” coming from the stereo they’ve got set up on the porch over there. She thinks about joining the party. Couple of her customers live down there. She can see a few Harleys at the curb. But then she gets another whiff of herself.
Shower.
Nothing before a shower. And once she has a shower she won’t be going anywhere but her chair and she won’t be doing anything but drinking a couple 77’s and dropping a lude and crashing.
She takes another look at the Seville, almost rakes her key across the door to teach the asshole a lesson, but doesn’t have the energy to get that angry.
She’s been angry all day. Angry and scared.
Poor Andy.
He had the look. When they called her down to Emergency and she saw him on the gurney, thought that was it. But that was just the start. Bob grabbing her and telling her to keep an eye on George and Hector and Paul, not to let them talk to anyone. Bob, up to something, sure as shit. And that can’t be anything but bad news.
Having to sit with Cindy while he dealt with the cop. The doctor explaining to her what a burr hole is and how they were going to have to drill a few in Andy’s skull if they were going to have any chance of taking the pressure off his brain. Got to give it to the girl, she took it. Signed the form just like that and cried her tears and went to see how they were doing with George’s stitches and his thumb.
She unlocks the front door, blocking it with her foot so the cat can’t get out, dumps her purse and the AM/PM bag on the couch and goes down the hall dropping her clothes and the baggies of pills on the floor behind her. In the shower, she finds some dry specks of blood on her forearm and scrubs them away. She toys with the loofah but doesn’t have the energy to use it. Shampooing takes it all out of her.
Out of the shower, she grabs an ankle length red cotton nightgown from the back of the door and drops it over her body and folds her hair inside a towel turban. She looks at the AC, but the heat is finally breaking so she leaves it off and goes around opening windows and the sliding glass door, pulling the screen door closed so the cat stays in. A couple oscillating fans get the air moving around.
She passes through the kitchen long enough to open a can of cat food and fill a glass with ice. The cat runs in and starts eating. She scratches it behind the ears with her bare toes, then goes and grabs her grocery bag off the floor, hits the play button on her turntable, and settles into the basket chair.
She closes her eyes and listens to the music.
Joni Mitchell always works. Hardly ever take Blue off the turntable unless there’s company.
Her eyes still closed, she reaches inside the bag and takes out one of the 77’s, opens it and pours it in the cold glass. She takes a sip. The cat lands in her lap and nuzzles till it finds its spot. She keeps her eyes closed, too tired to lift her lids.
Those kids.
What the hell did those kids get into? What kind of shit did they fall into for Bob to be lying to a cop? Jesus, he gets caught in a lie to a cop, he’ll never get right again.
Those kids.
Doctors won’t know what the deal with Andy is for at least a couple days. If the sweetheart makes it he may never be a super genius again. George should be OK, but he was as freaked as she’s ever seen anyone, until they stuck a needle in his arm and settled him down. ER doctors took one look at Hector’s face and started calling around to USF and Stanford, looking for a plastic surgeon who could do the stitching without turning him into a freak. And Paul. Just sitting there, staring at the wall, not talking to anyone except when they asked him where his dad was and he said he didn’t want to see his dad. No problem there, the man still hadn’t showed up by the time she left.
Whole town coming apart at the seams today. Boys beat, mutilated. Bob up to some shit. Fire on the edge of town, some drug thing gone wrong. Reporters from the Tribune and the Times and even the Oakland papers coming around when the bodies came in. Asking questions about the local dealers. Shit. It’s like signs and portents. Everything telling her it’s time to cut her losses and get the hell out of the game. Sell off the shit she brought out tonight and just wash her hands. No reason she can’t make do on her salary. The Mustang is paid for. The time share she can unload.
The cat jumps down from her lap.
She realizes she can’t feel the breeze from the fans. She opens her eyes.
Geezer points the kitchen knife at her.
– Fans all you got, you got no AC?
Her drink spills in her lap.
– I’m not dealing crank, Geezer. I told Jeff. I don’t know who you’ve been talking with.
Geezer laughs.
– Jeff. Yeah, Jeff. Forgot about him. Funny.
– I told him.
– Amy, you remember when I came over? Made the special trip over here to talk to you. Remember?
She doesn’t say anything.
– That guy you had hanging around, your boyfriend or whatever, the one with the lip on him, had so much to say. What was his name?
Amy wonders if her cat ran away when Geezer came in through the screen door.
– Eddie.
Geezer shifts the knife in his hand.
– Yeah, Eddie. His nipples ever grow back?
– I. I never sold any meth. Ever. I do my thing.
– What’s that look like when it heals, a man with no nipples? Hey, could you have sewed them back on if I hadn’t dropped ’em down the garbage disposal?
– Never, Geezer. Not a single gram. I swear. I don’t even do the stuff myself. I don’t even like selling my pills to your customers.
– Where’s your money, bitch?
– I don’t.
He takes a step closer.
– This the same knife I used on him? This the same…word? Goddamn it! A thing. A tool. The word for a tool.
– I.
– Don’t fuck with me. The fucking word?
– Cleaver?
– No, not a specific fucking tool. The word for tool, a thing you can use, a fancier way of saying it.
– I.
He stomps, walks in a circle, face reddening.
– Goddamn spics! Goddamn kids! Goddamn word!
– Kids.
He stops.
– Got it! Implement. Is this the same implement I used to cut that guy’s nipples off with?
– Kids?
He comes closer, waving the knife.
– No! Don’t pull that shit. That fucking, kids, what kids? crap. Fucker, that fucker your nephew tried that shit. I know, I know. I don’t need to be told, I know. You, you shit where I eat, that’s what you did. You and your fucking brother. I’m all fucked up, and if I’m all fucked up, everybody’s fucked up. Money. Money now. Money now and I won’t cut off as much. And where’s the AC? Is everybody in this town a…word? Damn! Damn. Lizards and snakes? Fucking things that are cold blooded and like the heat? What are they!? What the fuck are they!?
– Reptiles, Geezer.
Geezer licks his lips and turns his head and looks at Bob.
– I keep getting snuck up on today.
Bob nods.
– I know how you feel.
Geezer sees what Bob’s holding, he drops the knife.
– You know what makes me laugh the most, Bob?
– What’s that?
– They kept telling me, Loller and your kids, they kept saying you had nothing to do with it. Loller telling me I’m paranoid. There’s no conspiracy, Geezer. They’re just fucking kids. Like I’m an idiot. But, and I’ll give it to you, Bob, I never saw it coming. I mean, when it was in front of my face, I got it. But I never saw it coming.
– That right?
– Never. But now, now, I see everything, and what I’m thinking is, you’re gonna need help. Dealing with Oakland. Making it right. And I know how to deal with those guys. And you’ll need an extra hand, with Loller not around. ’Cause it’s a mess right now, but I see where you were going with it, what you were aiming for, and I can help you to put it together so it can still work.
– Geezer.
– Bob.
– You got no clue what you’re talking about.
Geezer wipes some sweat from his upper lip.
– Oh.
– My boy, my oldest, the one that isn’t in a coma right now, when he mentioned a stupid fat sonofabitch, I didn’t bother to ask for a name. Know why?
– Not really.
– Because you’re so stupid and greedy and predictable and low. If I’d thought about it for half a second, I’d even have figured you for coming over here. As it is, I just feel lucky I needed to talk to my sister. You cool, Ames?
– Uh huh.
Geezer blinks as some sweat rolls into the corner of his eye.
– You know, Bob, things may not be what you think they are. You know your son there was running for your sister here? You know that?
Bob shakes his head.
– I did not know that.
– All I’m saying is, so you’re not looking to get back in the business, no second thoughts, but this one here? She’s got something cooking. And your kids, and I don’t mean to say anything bad about them, but maybe you don’t know everything they got going on for themselves.
Bob hefts the sawed off bat with the galvanized nails pounded through its head.
– Remember?
– Uh huh.
– I keep it in the toolbox on the truck. Sometimes a job site gets robbed, copper piping and PVC and whatever, the contractor might ask a couple of the guys to sleep over at the site and keep an eye on things. So I got this in the toolbox. Not that I’ve ever done more than show it to a couple kids tried to jack some insulation.
He tosses the bat lightly, spinning the handle.
– All that stuff, my sister and my kids, I don’t care right now. All I care about, the only thing on my mind, is if you’ve talked to anyone. Does Oakland have any idea my kids were mixed up in this shit? My sister? Have they heard my name, Geezer?
Geezer raises both his hands.
– Bob, they have not. I am deep in shit, last thing I wanted to do was bring up your name. See them go on a rampage. I didn’t tell them anything except I was taking care of the problem.
Bob looks at the bat, lowers it, looks at the fat man, the man who was a friend.
– What a Goddamn mess, Geez. My kids are in a mess. And I don’t want any more. I want my kids safe. That’s all I ever wanted. I never lied about that. I just wanted my kids safe and a normal life.
– Sure, Bob. I mean.
– Shut up.
– OK.
– So I want this to end. Now. But if I kill you here in my sister’s house, it’s gonna cause more problems and, Jesus, I have no idea how the hell we’d move your body, you fat son of a bitch.
– Yeah, that’s true.
– So get out.
Bob moves to the side, clearing the way to the door.
– Go on, Geez, get out, leave town, go away, and never, never say my name to anyone. Go on.
Geezer nods, claps his hands twice and nods his head again and makes for the door and as soon as he’s taken a single step past him Bob raises the bat and swings it and embeds the nails in the back of his neck and hits him over and over while his little sister curls in her chair and hides her face.
When he’s done he goes out to the truck and gets some tools. Grateful for the things his father taught him how to do on the ranch. Like how to dress and butcher a steer, when the occasion rises.
They tell George he can go home on Sunday.
He tells his mom he’ll stay and keep her company with Andy, but she says that as soon as his dad gets back she wants him to go home and get some rest.
And the truth is, sitting in the ICU with Andy is fucked up. Not just because they don’t know if he’s ever gonna wake up or what he might be like if he does, but because looking at him makes him think about the house and what happened inside. And thinking about his little brother doing those things makes him have to get up and go to the drinking fountain again and sip some water.
He could go see Hector, but Hector’s mostly too doped to talk because they have his face all sewn back together. Say he’s gonna have scars no matter what. Say he’s gonna need crutches because of the way his leg was cut. Say he may need a cane for his whole life.
Paul’s gone.
Came to George’s ward late last night and stuck his head inside the sheet wrapped around his bed. Said not to jerk off in there because everyone else on the ward would hear it. Told him that when Andy and Hector wake up to tell them they’re fags. Said his dad is dead. They identified his body in his car in a wreck off Collier Canyon Road. Said they found some stuff, some pictures and stuff at his house and some things, and they were gonna take him somewhere to talk to the cops or something but that it’s all bullshit and he’ll see him later. He cried the whole time, but he talked like he wasn’t crying at all. And then a chick cop stuck her head in and took him away.
So on Sunday George waits in the ICU until his dad shows up, comes in and takes his mom in his arms.
George watches as she presses her lips against his dad’s lips and whispers as they kiss and pulls her face from his and takes his hands and touches some scratches on the backs of his hands and pulls them to her eyes and wipes her tears across them. Then she pulls him across the room to Andy’s bedside. His dad looks at Andy and then looks at George and tilts his head at the door.
His mom grabs him on his way out and hugs him and he hugs her, his cast clunking into her back.
Outside they get in the truck.
– You want anything before we go home?
– No.
– Stop at the store and pick something up if you want.
– No.
– Cops want to talk to you some more?
– Yeah.
– When?
– Said at the station tomorrow.
– I’ll take you over.
– OK.
– Know what to say?
– I know.
– Don’t mouth off to them.
– I know.
– If someone saw you guys go in the house, if they bring up the house, ask you about anything but the black guys and what happened with them, don’t say anything at all.
– I know.
– They mention any of that stuff.
– I know, Dad. You’re not the only one ever talked to the cops before.
Bob pulls the truck over, puts it in park and looks at him.
– Something you want to say?
George looks out the windshield at the sunny day. He puts his hand in front of the AC vent and feels the cool air.
– No.
– Now’s the time. You don’t say it now, you never say it. After this, whatever happened in the past is in the past. After this, what happened last night is what we say happened.
George thinks about who Geezer said his dad was, and about who he is.
He turns and looks at him.
– Let’s go home, OK?
Bob puts the truck in first.
– Home it is.
At home George goes straight upstairs to his room and takes off the stupid OP shorts and the crap “First Blood” T his mom got him from the gift shop because his clothes were trashed and she hadn’t brought any for him to wear home. He gets out some cutoffs and his B.O.C. shirt and puts them on and sits on the side of the bed and looks at the floor and starts thinking about the inside of the sketchy house again and gets up and walks around the room until he hears something banging in the backyard.
He stands at the window and watches his dad.
He’s already tilled the yard and tamped the dirt and rolled sheets of heavy plastic over it. Now he’s going around with a mallet and a handful of stakes, pounding them through to the ground, dimpling the plastic with them so it won’t peel up later.
He watches.
When the stakes are all in and he’s walked over the whole yard and looked at the ground to make sure it’s even and flat and nothing bulges from underneath, Bob Whelan goes to the front of the house for a shovel and the wheelbarrow that are in the garage.
He parks the barrow next to the pile of rocks and starts shoveling.
George comes out of the house and gets another shovel from the garage. He tries a couple grips until he finds one that hurts a little less and will let him work with one thumb and half his right hand in a cast.
He starts shoveling rocks.
– When’d you do the rototiller?
Bob dumps a shovel load of rocks in the wheelbarrow.
– First thing, sunrise.
– Neighbors must have loved that.
– Job needed to get done.
– What’s that smell?
– Lye.
– That’s like acid or something, isn’t it?
– Put it down so weeds won’t grow and punch holes in the plastic.
George stops, tries a different grip, goes back to shoveling.
Bob points at his hands.
– You should wear some gloves.
– Won’t fit over the cast.
– On your good hand.
– I’m fine.
– Gonna get blisters.
– I’ll live.
George shovels, awkward by his father’s side, working hard to bury what needs to be hid, even if he doesn’t know it’s there.
Paul gets there first.
He stands in front of the benches, away from the Mexican family with their twined cardboard boxes, and shoves his hands deep in his pockets, scanning the sidewalk for a butt.
– Hey.
He looks up as George and Hector cross the street.
– Got a smoke?
George pushes his bike, going slowly so Hector, walking with his cane, can keep up. He leans the bike against one of the benches, drops Hector’s backpack next to Paul’s duffel bag and takes a fresh pack of Marlboros from the breast pocket of his Levi’s jacket.
– Here. For the ride.
Paul catches the box, slaps it into his palm a couple times and peels the cellophane.
– A going away present, you shouldn’t have. Fag.
He pulls one out and offers it to Hector.
– You allowed to smoke, Quasimodo?
Hector smacks him in the shin with his cane.
– Fuck you.
Paul gestures with the cigarette.
– Seriously, aren’t you supposed to avoid it? Isn’t there a risk of infection with all that shit?
Hector snaps his new silver teeth.
– Shit’s close enough to healed, just give me the fucking smoke.
Paul hands him the cigarette and lights a match.
– Careful you don’t burn your face, might end up uglier than you are.
Hector leans close to the match and lights his cigarette, the scars on his face livid.
– Least my scars came from a fight and not from picking zits.
Paul tosses the spent match.
– My scars came from your mom’s pussy hairs grinding in my face.
George picks at a loose thread sticking from the Scorpions patch on his shoulder.
– You guys are such a cute couple. You guys should skip LA and go to SF. Go to the Castro. I hear there are some cool bars in the Castro for guys like you.
Paul flips him off.
– I’ll go down there and tell all your boyfriends you’ll be in soon.
They smoke.
Hector looks at the family on the bench, catches the little boy staring at his face. He sticks his tongue out at the boy and the boy laughs and sticks out his tongue. His mother catches him and tugs his hair and whispers in his ear and he starts to cry.
Hector looks down the avenue.
– What time?
Paul pulls the schedule from his back pocket and runs his finger down it.
– Two thirty seven.
George kicks a rock into the street.
– Any trouble getting out of the home?
– Hells no. Fucking place. All the kids are juvies or head cases. Think the staff’d be more careful about who can go where and shit. Just raised my hand in group therapy and said I needed to piss and went and got my bag and jumped out the window.
George blows some smoke.
– Group therapy.
– Group bullshit. The counselors think they know shit. But they don’t. They keep saying about how you need to talk about shit. I keep saying, talk about what? Talk about what a dick my dad was and how happy I am he’s dead? Fuck that. They don’t know shit.
– My folks still want you to stay with us.
– That’s never gonna happen, dude. Counselors say for my own good I need a controlled environment. Just means they want me to say things they want to hear that make them feel better about shit before they let me live where I want to live.
– So say it.
– Fuck no. You say it. I stay, I’ll just be sitting around that place till I’m eighteen and they have to leave me alone. Why do that there? Won’t change what I do in the spring. Still gonna join up on my birthday.
– Not without a diploma.
– Fuck that. Don’t need to be a high school grad to enlist. Just have to pass the GED. They’ll sign me and let me take the test a couple months later.
Hector shakes a finger.
– Don’t forget to study.
– Who studies for the GED? I’m not a retard.
He pitches his butt into the gutter.
– ’Sides, gotta look after you, cripple.
Hector sees the bus come into view several stoplights down.
– Then get my bag, bitch.
George picks up both bags and brings them to the curb and dumps them at Paul’s feet.
Hector raps the tip of his cane against the pavement.
– What’s up with Andy?
– Home. Doing school stuff.
– Still not going to classes?
– No. Says he can finish quicker if he does the work on his own. Little fucker’s gonna be done with the whole year by January the way he’s going.
Hector checks the bus’s progress.
– Cool.
Paul picks up his bag and hefts it onto his shoulder.
– He know where he’s gonna go?
– No. Wants to work with me and my dad once he’s done. Until the fall. Then he’ll go to college wherever.
– He fuck up my bike yet?
– Not yet.
– He will.
– Probably.
– You tell him we’re going?
– No. I’ll tell him later. He just would have wanted to come down here. Probably try and sneak into your bag.
– Yeah, my nut bag.
The bus pulls up and squeals and hisses and stops and the door opens.
George reaches in his pocket and pulls out some cash and holds it out.
– Here.
Paul looks at it.
– What the fuck is that?
– Some money.
– Don’t want your money.
– It’s cool. I’m making plenty on weekends. This is what’s left from, you know, what Jeff gave us.
Paul picks up Hector’s backpack.
– Don’t want it.
Hector grabs the money.
– Thanks, man. Guitar money.
They move back as an old couple is helped out of the bus by the driver.
Paul watches the money go into Hector’s pocket.
– He remember anything yet?
George shakes his head.
Hector touches a scar that cuts across his upper and lower lips.
Paul spits.
– Good.
The Mexican family stands by as the driver stows their boxes in the luggage bay and then they file onto the bus.
The driver looks at the three of them.
– That all your bags?
Paul nods.
– Yeah.
– Want them down here or with you?
– We’ll keep ’em with us.
The driver slams the bay door closed and straightens and stretches his lower back.
– All aboard, then.
Hector puts his arms around George.
– Be cool, man. See my mom, tell her I’ll write her a card. Tell her I’m just tired of being in this town. Not gonna die here. Tell her I’m cool. Same for my sister.
– Yeah. Sure.
Paul kicks Hector’s cane.
– You wanna start getting on now, crip? Gonna take you like an hour.
Hector lets go of George and hooks a thumb at Paul.
– Sure you don’t want to come? Just so I got company besides dickhead?
George shrugs.
– Nah. Stay here. Do my thing. Graduate and all that shit.
– Cool.
Paul holds a bag in either hand.
– Don’t think I’m putting these down to hug you, fag.
George puts his hands in his pockets.
– Dude, I’m not hugging your runaway ass.
Paul grins.
– Runaway. Man. Why’d I wait?
Hector pokes him with the cane.
– Dude, let’s jet.
Paul steps up onto the bus.
– Tell Andy he can keep my bike. Tell him not to fuck it up or I’ll come back and kick his ass.
The door sighs closed and the bus pulls away, Paul and Hector sticking their hands out the window and flipping George off as it turns onto North L and disappears.
He rides by the school and watches as classes get out. A chick he knows bums a smoke off him and asks why he hasn’t called since the party last week and he says he’s been busy and tells her he’ll maybe call her this weekend and he rides off.
There’s no cars in the driveway at home, too early for his folks to be back from work. Paul’s old bike is in the garage. He rides in circles out front and looks at Andy’s bedroom window and thinks about going in and telling him about Paul and Hector. But then he’ll have to hang around with him. And that’s not what he wants to do right now.
Right now the sketchy house is in his head.
And he doesn’t want to see his brother.
He rides back toward the school, looking for that chick.