But it does.
NOT GETTING EXCITED ABOUT WRITING POETRY
I MEET HIM OUT IN FRONT OF SCHOOL AFTER THE BELL RINGS.
None of his cholo friends are there.
No Carlos.
We start walking without a word between us. I’m freaking out on the inside, and I try to convince myself that I can back out later.
Could I back out?
What would he do if I did?
Okay, maybe I can’t back out, but frankly, after what I’ve seen from Luis in class, I figure he won’t have the guts to go through with this either.
Luis’s apartment is a hike from Puget High School.
We walk up the hill a few blocks through the quiet, woodsy neighborhood that abruptly erupts into sleazy Pac Highway. Past a casino, a junkyard, an adult video shop, a drugstore, a 7-Eleven, a Taco Bell, and some old motels. We turn up the hill, east to the Viking Glen.
The Viking Glen is a typical boxy, gloomy beige, run-down apartment complex. We make our way around a plastic kids’ slide, a couple bikes with training wheels, a Little Mermaid wading pool full of dirty rainwater.
It gives me the creeps.
I can’t believe I’m here.
Luis walks up to a first-floor apartment, pulls out a key, and opens the door. He motions for me to head in.
Is it a trap?
I prepare myself for the worst.
The outside of the Viking Glen is a dump. But Luis’s mom—or whoever—has this little apartment looking pretty nice. There’s a big, gray, comfy-looking couch and a landscape painting of Mount Rainier hanging on the cream-colored wall, a full dining room table, and some bar stools at the counter.
Luis walks into the kitchen and sticks his head inside the fridge.
“Want something to drink?”
“Sure,” I say.
“Beer?” he says. “Split a forty?”
Look, I’m no square, all right? But I don’t drink alcohol. I’ve heard too many stories about my dad back in the day. So that’s the deal with that. But now I’ve got a gangster offering me a beer. How do you not accept beer from a gangster? I mean, come on.… So I say, “All right.”
Luis looks back in the fridge. “Oops, no forties, man. Clean out. And as far as beers go, we only got root,” he says pointing at a can.
Luis tosses it to me. I feel like a dumbass.
He grabs a couple mugs and says, “I’ll work on those forties for next time.” He’s smirking at me just like that time I called Cassidy a bitch.
He must have caught me looking the place over, because he starts explaining things.
“I live here with my mom. She’s at work at the airport till midnight. Sometimes she works graveyard and she’s there all night. My brother stays here sometimes, but he lives over in Burien. What about you?”
“Oh, yeah. I, uh, live with my grandparents off 216th, toward the bottom of the hill.”
“How’s that?” He says it like he’s actually interested.
“It’s all right. They’re okay. Old. Really, really old.”
“They know you’re here? You wanna call them or something?”
“I guess I’d better.”
Luis hands me the phone and I make the call.
“Grandma?”
“Sam, thank the good Lord! I just got back from shopping. I checked your room. You weren’t back home yet. You weren’t in bed. I looked all over the house. Sam, where the devil are you?”
“I’m at a kid’s house doing a project for school. I’ll be home in a couple hours.”
There’s silence on the other end.
Then, “Sam, that’s great! Schoolwork on a Friday night! What’s the project? Who’s your friend—”
“Bye!” I slam the phone down.
Are you kidding me with the questions?
Luis has our “beers” on the little kitchen table next to a yellow notepad and pen.
And he sits there like we’re gonna use them.
He’s already written a title on the page. Sam and Luis: The Explosive Epic Bust-Out Spectacular!
“Serious?” I ask, trying not to laugh.
“Yeah.”
“Look, I have no idea—”
“I don’t either,” Luis says. “I just wanna do this.”
I’m panicking. I don’t wanna piss him off, but the word slips out: “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Nothing,” I say.
“What?” he says.
“Why you wanna do this?”
Luis looks at me like he wants to say something, but the words are stuck in him.
He looks down at the floor.
Up at the ceiling.
Takes a gulp of root beer.
Then he goes off.
“What if I go through life and I never say what I gotta say? Sure, Cassidy’s a pain in the ass, but she wants to know what we got to say, and she’s giving us a chance to say it, so what the hell? You only live once. Right?”
“I guess so.”
He just sits there totally serious. Thinking.
I’m wondering what in the hell is going on. I’m wondering if I got anything I wanna say. We slurp our root beers without saying anything for what seems like forever. Then, out of nowhere, Luis starts tossing out lines, clearly expecting me to fire back.
“We’re Luis and Sam and we’re giving a shout-out … Sam?”
“What?”
I crunch the empty root beer can in my hands. I hate this whole thing. But I make the decision to think of something. I figure I don’t have a choice. And there’s no way I can say anything dumber than what Luis is coming up with.
“We’re Luis and Sam, laying low all the time … Sam?”
“Um … uh … Gimme a sec here.”
“We’re Luis and Sam, and you don’t know us … Sam?”
Ah, fuck … I’m thinking … I’m thinking.…
“I’m Luis. He’s Sam. Something about something. No plans…”
Jesus! This kid is a freaking robot of talking. I try to block his words so I can think. I squeeze out “And … we … we’re sick of listening to you all, so we’re bustin’ this rhyme.”
“What? That doesn’t go with no plans.”
“I’m still on We’re Luis and Sam, layin’ low all the time. I’m sorry. I’m slow.”
He immediately starts writing. “We’re Luis and Sam, layin’ low all the time/Now we’re sick of listening, so we’re bustin’ this rhyme!”
“With words sublime, just in time—”
“Sublime. That’s cool,” Luis says. “Sublime.”
I don’t even know what sublime means.
He comes back with “To wake you up and blow your mind. Yes!” He’s scribbling and going, “Okay, okay,” and I’m thinking, This guy is crazy, but all of a sudden, I realize I’m laughing.
I’m laughing.
We write crap like that, bouncing back and forth for a while. It’s mostly posing, stupid, silly stuff, but we end up with a poem. And together, we read it back:
We’re comin’ atcha with fast-flyin’ words
No lyin’ you can’t catch ’em ’cuz they’re all a blur
So sit back, relax and wait your turn
Listen to Luis and Sam for a chance to learn
Yeah, we got words stored up for all you fools
They’re flying atcha, no holds barred, no rules
Now that we’ve started, we can’t take ’em back
We’re a full-on slam, massive blast attack!
We look at each other like that was ridiculous.
But cool.
There’s a shout from the living room.
HOME EARLY
“LEW-EE-EES! I’m ho-ome!”
“It’s my mom. She’s home early. Please don’t judge me based on anything she says.”
She pokes her head into Luis’s room. “Hey, guys. You look hungry.” She looks at me and says, “I’m Leticia. You hungry, Sam?”
She knows my name.
; I look to Luis, not knowing if I should tell the truth or politely say, I’m fine, we just had a snack.
He turns to me and says, “Well?”
And she says, “Burgers?”
“Okay.”
We get back to work—behind a closed door now—until Luis’s mom calls us to dinner.
We have a seat at the table. I wait to dig in, wondering if we have to say grace.
No grace.
There are three big burgers on plates and all the fixings and some salad and glasses of water. Leticia hands me the plate and says, “Go for it, Sam.”
I go for it.
Then Leticia launches in with the questions. “So, how’s the project?”
I say, “Fine.”
Luis says, “Good.”
“What’s the topic?”
I say nothing.
Luis says, “We’re still in the planning stages, Ma. We don’t want to blow the whole thing by talking about it too much.”
“Ay, tú,” she says, reaching over and messing with his hair.
Then she turns on me. “So, Sam. Samuel? Or Sam?”
“Sam’s fine.”
“How are your parents doing?”
“I live with my grandparents, actually. They’re fine.”
“That’s good.”
“Are they working?”
“They retired from Boeing a couple years ago.”
“Ah. What did they do there?”
“Put 737s together.”
“Uh-huh. What team were they on?”
I look at her blankly.
She comes back with “Welding, interiors, paint, wings, engine? There’s a lot to putting a jet together.”
“I’m not sure.”
“You should ask them sometime.”
“Yeah.” I feel like a dumbass for never having asked them what they did at Boeing for forty years of their life.
Leticia finally turns to Luis, but all she does is ask him to pass the salad dressing. “What are your interests, Sam?”
“Huh?” I know what she means, but I have to buy some time.
“What do you like to do for fun? What are you into?”
There is silence while I wonder why I’m freaking out about answering questions from a woman I don’t even know.
They’re waiting for an answer, so I say, “Music.”
“Playing music? Writing? What kind of music?”
I decide I’m gonna say it. If she makes fun of me, I’ll tell her it was a joke and say I really wanna be a software developer. “I’m into rock music. Bands from the late eighties and early nineties. Nirvana. The Melvins. Mudhoney, Soundgarden. I wanna play bass and write songs. I used to write lyrics, but not so much anymore. And I don’t know how to play bass yet … but I’m thinking about starting that stuff up sometime.”
Dead silence.
No response.
I’m an idiot.
Because grunge is dead.
And, come on! Who would ever honestly give a rat’s ass about a random teenager spouting off about his stupid dreams? As I think it, I mentally air-quote the word dreams. Because not air-quoting means you’re the kind of loser who goes around saying the word dreams seriously—like you believe in unicorns and fairies and rainbows.
Leticia slaps the table and says, “Go for it. It’s never too late to get started on a song. And I’m sure there’s a decent bass on Craigslist.” She looks up and waves her arm. “I can just see you up on that stage, Sam.” She turns to Luis. “Wouldn’t that be great?” She looks right at me and says, “Do it, Sam. Do it.”
I nod at her, like I’m totally going to get started on that. But inside, my guts are turning over because I can’t believe this conversation is happening.
“You’ve got a passion,” she says. “You should go for it. That’s what I tell Luis.”
“Ah, Ma, don’t—”
“I tell him to figure out what he wants to do. As long as it’s constructive, I’ll back him one hundred percent. Isn’t that right, Luis?”
I realize this discussion is partly about me and a lot about Luis.
“Sam, maybe some of your initiative will rub off on my flojo son.”
“Flojo?” I ask.
“Lazy,” she says making a face and poking him in the gut.
Somehow Leticia can get on Luis’s case without seeming like a total B. I mean he doesn’t seem thrilled with it, but he’s not pissed off, either.
We finish up and take the dishes to the kitchen. Luis starts washing, so I dry. When we’re done, I tell Luis I better head home.
He says, “Yeah, okay,” and reaches in his pocket and whips out his phone. “You got a cell?”
“Yeah. No. Yeah, I mean.” The truth is, Ginny and Bill gave me one for my birthday last year, but after a while of carrying it around and having it never ring and me never calling anyone, I started leaving it at home.
“If we’re going to be meeting up and doing this thing, we need to be in touch, so…”
“I’ve got one. But I left it at home.”
“You got to carry the thing around, otherwise why bother, right?”
I give him my number. He dials it and waits for the message to pick up. My message is embarrassing. I remember rerecording it a million times and never being satisfied. I can hear my muffled voice against Luis’s ear. He doesn’t react to how stupid it is, though. He snaps his phone shut and just like that, I’ve got a gangbanger’s digits locked in.
“There it is. You’ve got my number, and I’ll be calling yours, so don’t forget to carry that celly, yo!”
We say good-bye, with plans to meet tomorrow morning.
I say good-bye to Leticia. She tells me I’m welcome anytime.
MUST BE NICE
ON THE WALK HOME, I think about what it’d be like to have a mom there for you. To razz you about your life. To give you a hard time. To cook you burgers. To be there. If not every night, then some nights. And on nights when she’s not there, you still know she’s thinking about your dreams.
HELLO, SAM
I GET HOME AND GO STRAIGHT TO BED.
But I can’t sleep.
I don’t know.… This stupid funk has been weighing me down for a while, so hanging out and writing some silly lines with Luis is the most fun I’ve had in a long time.
I’m awake in bed, staring into the shadows. Thinking about how I used to do this. I used to write stuff. I used to write lyrics in my notebook all the time.
Why did I stop?
I want the morning to come so we can get back at it.
I try to lock my eyelids and count some sheep.
I’m too amped up.
So I slip out of bed and walk into the living room and find myself standing outside Gilbert’s cage. I watch him for a while. Watch him breathing, his black beak buried in his feathers as his little chest goes up and down with each breath.
Without thinking, I lean into the cage … and I start talking to Gilbert. I whisper, “Hello, Sam. Hello, Sam. Hello, Sam.” In the friendliest voice I can manage.
Over and over.
Hello, Sam. Hello, Sam.
It’s worth a shot.
Over and over, until I can’t stay awake.
WAFFLES
IT’S SATURDAY. I got my phone in my pocket and I’m running for the door, trying to slip out like always.
But Ginny’s standing at the stove.
In my way.
She’s got one hand on a hip, a spatula waving in the other. Her bluish-white hair wrapped in pink curlers to match her pink sweatsuit.
She’s damned perky at seven in the morning.
“Waffles?”
The knee-jerk no is about to hit my lips. Then I think about eating dinner with Luis and his mom. And I can’t say no to Ginny.
So I sit.
In a second, she’s got a hot waffle on my plate. The waffle is great but Ginny’s smiling and bouncing around in her squeaky tennis shoes, asking all these questions about my new friend.
&nb
sp; “It’s just a project for school,” I say. “No big deal.”
That gets her even more excited.
“A project? Really? That’s wonderful, Samuel! Tell me all about it!”
I can’t stand all the positivity, so I bolt. I jump up and set my dish in the sink. “Thanks for the waffle.”
I head out. But I don’t get anywhere.
I gotta go back inside.
I gotta not be an ass.
I poke my head in. Ginny says, “You back for lunch?”
“Yeah,” I say. “We put in a good five seconds of work and now I’m starving. You got a sandwich?”
“I got a knuckle sandwich, sonny.”
“No thanks. How about another waffle?”
“There you’re in luck.”
I grab my dish out of the sink and by the time I’m sitting at the table, Ginny’s got another waffle ready to go. She takes a seat and I ask her the question.
“What did you and Grandpa Bill do at Boeing?”
“Where did that come from?”
“Just curious, I guess.”
“And did you want to know if I was single when I started out on the assembly line?”
“What?”
“Because I was. And I was a real looker back then.”
“Okay, but what did you do?”
“I would let these couple of curls dangle down below the bill of my hardhat, and your grandfather, a strapping young buck working the crane, would see me walk in every day. He could view the whole factory from up on his perch. He kept an eye on me for months before he had the guts to ask me out for lunch. But he did it. He finally asked me out.”
After a while, she explains that she used to check welds and rivets where the sections of the airplane’s body—the fuselage—came together. It was her job to make sure that the welders didn’t miss any spots and the riveters didn’t screw up any rivets. Bill was the one moving those massive fuselage parts around the factory so folks could put them together. That was pretty much what they did for about forty years of their working lives. That and apparently flirt enough to make everyone in the Renton Boeing plant sick to their stomachs.
“I gotta get going now. Thanks.”
“No problem. Thanks for the chat.”
SUN BREAK
I START MY HIKE UP THE HILL TOWARD PAC HIGHWAY … in the sun.
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