Freaks and Revelations (18 page)

“What happened?” I ask.

“Nothing. It’s okay.” She pushes my hand away when I try to turn her toward me. “Let’s just go.”

Jack starts to pull off, but I stop him. “Your mom home?”

Rosie shakes her head no.

“I’m fine, let’s go, let’s just go.”

Maybe this is it, what I’ve been feeling. Frank chooses just that second to peek out through the curtains. I don’t say another word. I get out and go to the door. I hear him put the chain lock on, but this is a cheap apartment. One big kick and whole thing busts open.

“I told you, didn’t I?”

“Doug, look—”

“You think I’m stupid?”

He doesn’t get another word out. I pop him, just once, right in the center of his nose—HARD. I hear the sucker break. I shake my hand out. Rosie’s smiling when I get back in the car.

I feel my old self returning. That woman was an omen, and a reminder—a good one. Things are going to change for the better. One last check in the bathroom mirror. Yep. I look good tonight. Really good. It’s Thursday, and Thursdays are never slow, so I won’t get bored.

Tonight could be the night.

It’s already starting to feel different.

Tonight could be when I finally meet that someone who’s going to make a difference. Slender, not too tall, not too old, and good-looking. Definitely good-looking, in a rugged kind of way. He’ll have dark hair and beautiful eyes, like mine, except maybe brown or blue. He’ll like Coco too. He’ll be the one to see who I really am.

Wasted Youth, Black Flag, the Stains, and MAD Society, with eight-year-old singer “Stevie,” are at the Polish Hall. We’re rocking the place when the cops show up and warn us they might have to shut it down. Greg Ginn takes the mic.

“All right, people, let’s be
reasonable
and show L.A.’s
FINEST
we’re just here to play. We’re here to
play
. Always just
here-to-play
. You with me?” Any more sarcasm and even the walls would get it.

A roar goes up. The crowd approves. The cops stay cool. We stay cool. They don’t move too fast, we don’t go overboard on anybody. It’s a sweet kind of tension, like right before you come.

Then a little Punk girl gets pushed into a cop, who looks like a kid himself. A scared kid. He shoves her off of him. Hard. Says:
get your funky ass off me, bitch
. She pops him, square in the nose. It starts to bleed. Rosie and I hoot. His partner whirls and smacks the girl with his nightstick. Her boyfriend punches him.

That’s it. We’re off. All of us.

Bottles, rocks, anything we can find goes flying through the air. Everybody cuts loose. We hit cops, we hit each other, some guy jumps on the stage and flings himself on top of the crowd. He falls through to the ground and a cop gets him good with his stick. All hell’s breaking out and I’m right in the thick of it. Taking hits from all sides and giving back even more.

Heaven.

Then the cops chuck tear gas inside and all bets are off. I get it directly in one eye. I can’t see, my nose runs, my lungs are on fire. All around, people drop to the floor—throwing up, coughing, screaming about their eyes. No choice but
get out
. We elbow through the doorway and into a corridor of cops, a fucking wall of blue uniforms and night sticks. Cattle herded down a chute. A Punk who’s fallen reaches up to grab me. I keep hold of Rosie with one hand and punch him with the other, to make him let go.

Now Rosie’s leading me, I can’t keep my eyes open. We make it to Jack’s car and tumble into the backseat.

“You okay, Dougie?” Rosie asks, trying to peer into my eye. I nod. Shit, yeah, I’m okay. I got this bitter taste going down my throat from the gas, or maybe from the Black Beauties we snorted earlier, but I’m amped and racing. Wanting more. Every nerve’s on edge.

We hit Sunset. Some bitch in the front seat lights one of those stupid clove cigarettes. Now I really want to hit somebody. I hate that smell. Another girl, Chloe, wears that cinnamony patchouli hippie crap. I hate that too. I roll down the window, take a huge swallow from the bottle of peppermint schnapps I found tucked under the seat. Rosie leans on my arm. I start to be able to open my eyes.

It’s a Thursday; the street’s packed with tourists and locals, Punks, jocks, stoners, hippies, lots of hookers. Girl hookers. They strut back and forth with their little tight skirts and big asses hanging out. They make faces at us. Especially the black ones. One girl flips her skirt up at us.

“S my D, bitch, S my D!” Jack yells.

Chloe’s saved three big bags of french fries with ketchup and relish on them. She leans across me and Rosie to throw it at the hooker on the corner when we stop at the light. She misses. I grab one and hit the bitch dead on. Everybody laughs and the hooker cops an attitude. Takes a step, like she’s so black and tough, she can actually do something. Jack hits the brakes.

Rosie’s all over it. “Got something to say, bitch?”

She flips us off and me and Rosie start toward her, fast. She turns on her stupid high heels and runs toward the hookers across the street. I chuck the last bag of fries—bull’s-eye! Two cars behind us, some Punks from the concert honk their horns and yell. Me and Rosie climb back in the car, share the schnapps, settle back in the seat. I still want more.

So Wonder-Guy Sugar Daddy doesn’t show up that night, but it’s okay, because I don’t get arrested either. In fact, I make a few bucks and nothing bad happens and I actually have a real cutie tell me he wants to see me again. I meet up with Timmy at Astro Burger around two.

“Let’s go across the street,” he says. “I’m craving Oki Dogs.” Jesse and Coco catch up with us as we’re crossing. I smile to myself. You have to keep perspective, that’s all it takes. Coco drops his arm around me, gives me a kiss on the cheek.

“My treat,” he whispers.

“You want some shit?” the counter guy says. He always says that. “I make you some good shit!”

I order one, Coco gets two, and we settle into the little room to eat. The first time I saw an Oki Dog, I thought it was gross. I mean, two hot dogs slopped with chili and pastrami, wrapped together in a tortilla? Ew. Now I love them. I take my first bite and realize I haven’t eaten since the afternoon. I polish it off, lean back, hands behind my head, legs stretched and crossed in front of me.

“Who’s got quarters?” Jesse asks, hanging on to Timmy. Coco hands over a couple and the two of them go to play Pac-Man. We settle on the bench in the little arcade area.

“What are you smiling about?” Coco asks.

“I’m happy.” This is my family now. What more could I want?

Jack pulls into the parking lot across from Oki Dogs. A beat-up green Volkswagen bumps us from behind, people pile out, some guy catapults himself on top of our car and slides to the ground. Another guy comes over and kicks him. They get into it. I light a cigarette.

“Well, shit,” Jack mutters. “Look at that.” He points across the street to Oki Dogs. “Look where all the faggots are.”

The tussling stops and people stand up to check it out. Nobody in Astro Burger tonight. That would be okay; we don’t bother the whores there. But Oki Dogs belongs to us. Our tribe. Our streets. Our way.

A black Corvair swerves in, more Punks pile out. My tribe gathers.

“Faggot whores,” Jack whispers.

I feel myself swelling.

“Let’s get ’em.” Voices in the crowd. “Let’s kill the faggots.” “Tonight the faggots die.”

“Kill the faggots!” I say. It goes to a chant. The light’s red, we cross anyway. Our boots rock the street.

Kill the faggots.

My heart skips a beat; I open my eyes.

“So this guy,” Coco’s saying, his mouth full, “looks so much like my Uncle Jeffie I think my mom’s got to be in the backseat and—”

“Kill the faggots!”

We all freeze. Pac-Man beeps on his own. I drop my legs and stand to see Mohawks and leather jackets crossing the street, marching toward us. An army in silhouette, at least a hundred of them. My legs tremble. Laser beams shoot from their eyes, slice through night.