Sacred City

by Theodore C. Van Alst

  But this week there was no test. And I was broke.

  That meant it was time to drift west, head out to those sleepier neighborhoods, the ones where they kept their returnable bottles on the back porch. All you had to do was cut school and start walking toward where people worked all day. Those grey-enameled backstairs on every three flat on the North Side of Chicago were goldmines of pop bottles back in the day. We’d grab up a grocery cart and head down the alleys, scoping out people’s stashes. We didn’t really have to worry about cops or truant officers out this way. Man, we pulled all kinds of shit out this way. I remember this one time when

  me and Frankie and Jimmy3 were down on Clark Street on a Thursday night, broke as fuck and just wanting to get high or something, anything. It was deep summer, you know, when it’s like eighty-eight degrees at midnight, so muggy all the streetlights have rainbows around them and it’s hard to hear the bus coming down the street. People talk when they walk by, but it sounds like they have scarves wrapped around their faces and the words they’re saying aren’t for you anyway, and they act like you aren’t even there while they secretly hope they’re escaping your gaze. I couldn’t take it anymore, and Jimmy and Frankie were bored, talking shit, kicking at garbage cans and looking deep in at store windows. I figured we should do something.

  “Hey. Let’s get the fuck out of here,” I said. “Go west.”

  “Yeah, sure, Teddy. What do you want to do?” Frankie asked.

  “I don’t know, man. Just not this.”

  “I hear you, Folks,” Jimmy mumbled. “Let’s fucking go, bro.”

  “Aight, let’s do it, Folks,” I agreed.

  “Coo’,” Frankie smiled, and we headed out.

  We walked on, shirtless, through alleys nominally known, baggies clinging in the heat and humidity, sharing the last of a 40 ounce Mickey’s Malt Liquor, stopping to tag SCR / Simon City Royals with a big black Magnum marker wherever it would fit—glass grocery-store window, car hood, newspaper box, or house front door, it didn’t matter. We turned off the main street after a while, walking into the neighborhood. Frankie spoke up after we went a block or so.

  “Let’s do it, Folks.”

  “Do what?” I asked.

  “Yeah, what, Folks?” Jimmy added in.

  “This crib, Folks,” Frankie pointed.

  “What?” I said, eyes flicking to each window, looking for lights and Beware of Dog signs, then back to the streetlights and the silent rows of town homes.

  “This crib,” he repeated.

  “What you want to do?” Jimmy asked.

  “I’m going in.” Frankie’s eyes lit up and he grinned big.

  “Nah, man. Let’s do a grocery store or something.” With one eye I could see the blue light from a TV through one of the windows. With the other, I could see Frankie digging in his pants.

  “Just got this, homes. Checkitout.” Frankie held up a little chrome .25 for us to see.

  “You ain’t even,” I said. “Not for a burglary.”

  “Well, we’ll see if he’s gonna make it a burglary or a home invasion.”

  “Damn, homes. Why you tryna make it a felony—”

  “I ain’t tryna make it shit, bro. That’s up to him.”

  Jimmy laughed, still high as a kite on those dummy sticks he liked, said, “I’ll go.”

  “Nah,” Frankie shook his head. “I’ll be right out.”

  Cicadas droned. It was foggier out this way, wetter. They had trees and shit.

  “Aight, Folks. What you want us to do?” I said.

  “Just keep a eye out, bro. I’ll be right back.” Frankie walked off.

  I side-eyed him a little as he went in through the back door and wondered if he had only seen in the papers about us getting a reputation for home invasions and then decided he was the one making that rep when he came out five minutes later with a VCR and a pickle jar full of change and I remembered he couldn’t read.

  “Shit, homes,” I laughed. What else could I do?

  Jimmy laughed too. “Gimme that change, bro,” he said.

  “Fuck you, man. I did all the work,” Frankie crabbed.

  “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” I said.

  We cruised up the nearest alley behind the Centrella, cut right through the next street and into its alley then headed farther west. I took a leak, and Jimmy tagged the shit out of a garage. They had those out this way. So much empty canvas . . .

  “Leave it, homes,” Frankie hissed at him.

  “What, bro?” Jimmy said.

  “Let’s go.” Frankie waved his hand.

  I wondered what was next. His ardently criminal mind, once engaged, was extremely capable.

  “I want to do that one laundromat,” he continued.

  “Which one?” I asked.

  “You know, the one on Touhy Ave.”

  “Shit. It’s right on the main street, bro.”

  “What are you, some kind of pussy? I thought you were our warlord,” Frankie shot back.

  “I am, bitch. I’m also in charge of keeping your ass out of jail,” I said.

  “We ain’t going to no jail out here, Midget,” he laughed. “They don’t even have cops out this way,” he added.

  “You’re right about that, homes,” I agreed.

  “Let’s do it,” Jimmy perked up.

  “Alright.” I looked up and down the street toward Touhy. All quiet. “Let’s do it,” I said.

  “Hit it, Folks,” Frankie nodded, and off we went.

  It was mid-late summer, four o’clock in the morning, seventy-two degrees with 95 percent humidity and no breeze. We made our way down the alley west of Western Avenue off Touhy, part of Chicago that’s ethnic and suburban at the same time, city but not city. Places still leave their early-morning bakery out on the street and don’t worry about thieving. Quiet and foggy in all kinds of ways. We headed west, bad intentions and unsure hearts committed to things we shouldn’t but have no say in, really, our fates predetermined by structures beyond our control. We vaguely knew this, and still decided to have a good time.

  We rolled up on the back side of the laundromat on the avenue. We were apprehensive but giddy without even knowing why. BAM, we kicked in the back door. Blue from the streetlights out front glowed across the counters, and we scrambled like we’d never done this before, but Frankie found the cashbox like he had a map. Sixteen pounds of quarters, dimes, and nickels in a little laundry bag, plus a stack of bills for the next day’s bank. We got our asses out of Dodge and down Rockwell toward Indian Boundary Park. Once we were deep inside and near the big pond, we divvied it up. I got around fifty-six dollars, thought about the trade of three to five for that one, marveled at the depth of cheapness I’d just accepted for the value of my life. At precisely 4:45 a.m., I wondered who in the hell will accept nickels and quarters by the ounce for payment.

  At 4:46 I decided

  I don’t give a fuck.

  Money is money. I’m super sick of class shit I’m not even aware of yet.

  Just so you know, it’s super satisfying to order ham and eggs and pancakes and pay for all that noise with nickels. It just is. You tip out in bills but give the owners nickels. Fuck ’em. It’s for all those times they wouldn’t wait on you, stared you down, made you feel like shit in your own country, your own hood, your own rez. Yeah. Fuck you, grown-ups. Eat shit.

  Have a nice day, assholes. Tonight’s the night he comes home.

  10.WHEN TWO TRIBES GO TO WAR

  Hahahahaha!

  —JIMMY3

  “Hey Teddy,” Jimmy2 says. “Did you go see Frankie in Joliet?”

  “Yeah. Last week. Where the fuck you been?” We’re sitting on the couch in his ma and stepdad’s apartment off Damen Avenue near Fargo, North Side Chicago. I like this place okay, I guess. I got a real thing with other people’s houses, their blue-velour couches and the sad seashells full of hand soaps you’re not allowed to use, ditto the weird things they call “hand towels.” But they both work, are nev
er home, and have an air conditioner. Today at ten in the morning it’s already hot as shit outside.

  “Well I know you seen him, man. I’m just trying to make conversation.”

  I wasn’t really in the mood for small talk. People were getting on my nerves, and I was spending way too much time in my head. Example, I woke up this morning with an itch on my soul, and all I can think about is how we all die slow, but some of us just enjoy it more than others. What the fuck is that. I’m a kid, man. I hate having to start drinking when the sun is just coming over the roof line. It fucks with my light and mood all day. I’m still trying to work through how I’m still young enough that I can consume, rather than be consumed by, love. Or some bullshit like that. Death can wait.

  “Make conversation? You been watching soap operas with Lena again, ain’t it?”

  “No. I was just—”

  “Bullshit, man. But it’s okay—”

  “No, for real.”

  “Fine, man. What the fuck do I care? Let’s converse, then.”

  “Fuck you, Teddy. You’re such an asshole.”

  “Yeah, I know,” I say. “I’m trying to make it my trademark.”

  He sulks. Goes into his bedroom and comes back with his boombox. Puts on Tom Petty.

  “Are you kidding me with that shit? I fuckin’ hate Tom Petty.”

  “Fuck you. This is a great album.”

  “No it isn’t. He sucks. His voice sounds like Bob Dylan trying to fuck a duck.”

  “Fine. What do you want to hear?”

  “The Clash.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yeah. Put it on.”

  “Okay.”

  Jeezus. Was that so hard I think? We listen to London Calling.

  I’m just pissy, so I say,

  “Wanna hear a Frankie story?”

  “Sure,” Jimmy2 says. “Tell me a fuckin’ story then,” and he pops the tape out.

  “Alright. Where’s your brother’s bong?”

  “He’ll kill us,” Jimmy2 says.

  “Nah, man. It’ll be alright—”

  “Fuck that, Teddy man. He’ll be pissed off.”

  “It’s under the couch, ain’t it? Get it out.” I reach under the cream-colored couch with the rust and black floral pattern, past some old popcorn, a dildo I think, a pair of shorts, and some cheerios. Ah, there it is. A purpley-colored graphic. Nice.

  “Put some water in this. Or apple juice. You got any apple juice?”

  “Nah. How about V8?”

  “What the fuck. It’s about the flavor, not the fact it’s juice.”

  “Oh. Okay. I think we got grape juice.”

  “Better water it down then,” I say. “That’s gonna be too strong.”

  “Okay,” he says. “I’ll be right back.”

  He stomps off toward the kitchen. I look at the giant console TV. Whaddup, Bob Barker, my Rosebud pal, Sicangu Lakota gameshow host? The clicker is right there, but man I love The Price is Right. It’s the one game with the yodeling and shit right now though, so I get up and turn the sound down.

  Jimmy2 comes back with the bong all freshened up, purple juice sloshing in the even more purple acrylic. I pull out a tiny twist of weed in some saran wrap.

  “Let me see that,” I say.

  “Here.” He hands me the bong.

  I pinch into the bowl, dump the shake out into my hand, and pack the rest. I’m not a huge fan of weed, but some days . . .

  “Here,” I say. “Your crib, your hit. You can do the first one.”

  He pulls out a lighter and hits the bowl. A seed pops and the ember lands in his hair.

  I laugh. “Your hair is on fire, man.”

  “What the fuck!?” he slaps at the top of his head, smoke rolling out of his mouth while he starts coughing. Well he’s gonna be blowed, I think, smile.

  “Let me see that,” I say, pull out my own lighter and brick a huge hit, pulling the carb when the tube is pure white. I hold it so long hardly any smoke comes out at all. I throw my head back and let a few whisps leak up.

  Jimmy2 scrapes away at the bowl, pulls another hit.

  Before we know it, it’s the Showcase Showdown. Ceramic Dalmatians and a K-Car. Hahaha. Who would want this shit?

  “You know what?” I say.

  “No. What?” Jimmy2 asks.

  Frankie had no idea how far they’d gone. But as he looked through the passenger window, that one part of his mind that had some order to it counted the telephone poles, kept a running total. He asked it how many poles and told it to keep up. Cause once he knew, all he had to do was look up the standard distance between rural telephone poles and then knock out a little multiplication, one of the few parts of the GED math section he could pass, but since he kept flunking the rest he stopped taking it, even when it meant he had to finish out a six-month stay in his local level 3 working in the kitchen. Probably about three hundred feet apart out here in the sticks, he figured. If he doubled that, it would at least tell him about how far away they were from the last shithole town that didn’t even have a liquor store to rob. Goddamn Baptists. He counted for a while, looking out at the marching red cedar poles, and beyond them the windmills like giants doing lazy toe touches, the endless plains calling to him. They swayed and whispered to roll down the window, look deep into the distance across the far field, the sun gold-redding his face, the sky lit from within, its own soul of bright just above the ridgeline, halfway to the top of this most perfect picture ever, and he reached out to it, beyond the door, and he grabbed wind by the armfuls, trying to take its cleanse home with him.

  Home wasn’t anywhere for right now, probably the three weeks in the front passenger side of this ’74 Monte Carlo the longest he had lived anywhere in a long time. Him and Jimmy had bought it on a lot in Altus, Oklahoma, at some dumpy dealership on Main Street. He had used the car lot’s shitter in a yellow brick outbuilding that introduced him to those little black scorpions that were always almost as angry as his ma. He laughed big and loud like a donkey when one of them kept trying to kill him through his heavy work boots until he just stepped on it, but still. Jesus Christ. What a fucking plague.

  The maroon two-door heap of shit had a leaky radiator, so they had to do a lot of jerking the wheel from side to side to slosh the water around while driving and dumping pepper packs in it from truck stops and gas stations and refills from the sides of deserted-looking house spigots to keep it from overheating, and it cost them four hundred bucks and a bag of ditchweed the redneck salesman insisted they had because of their long hair and whatnot and he was right but still anyway, and it had the 454 V-8 Turbo-Jet Hydra-Fucking-Matic so he wouldn’t have given a shit if he had to lean out the window and blow on the motor wherever they went. They bought it. It was time to leave town anyway. They’d been here about a week, and that was eight days too long by his reckoning. It was early May, and there’d been a snowstorm; hail the size of golf balls; two tornados; and three days of a hundred degrees with two hundred percent humidity. No fucking wonder they gave this place to us Indians, he thought.

  Besides, they were cashy, had about nine hundred dollars and a bottle of what looked like Lemon 714s they took off some crew-cutted shitbird they met at the VFW who dealt crappy meth and even dirtier coke to the airmen from the base. He was all talking about being a King, an LK, Peoples out here in the middle of nowhere’s asshole. Had a stick-and-poke jailhouse crown on his forearm. Frankie aimed to cut that fucker out of there at some point. King Killer, Queen Thriller. Royal Love, peckerwood.

  This drive was getting to be a real drag. He’d never been so hungry. What the fuck. And there was never anywhere to eat out here. He missed those Whataburger places, and Blake’s felt a million miles away. He thought maybe they were in Kansas by now, maybe Nebraska, but it could’ve been South Dakota for all he knew. They were headed north, but his geography skills were way worse than his half-ass math chops.

  Jimmy wasn’t saying much. He was kind of pussing out after they rolled that deale
r. What was his name, the skinny-ass motherfucker? Cheech, Chuy, nah, Chuckie. He wore baggies like they did, a white dago tee, black suede rocker-bottom shoes. He had a weird crew-cut thing going, but whatever, when in Rome they guessed. Since Frankie was Native and Jimmy was black, they told this Chuckie fuck they were UnKnowns (the only other mixed set besides Royals) from up in Chicago when they met him at the VFW. Frankie and Jimmy had walked into the men’s room, checking the place out. Chuckie had just sold a light quarter to some E-3 looking kid (mustache, no beard) for forty bucks. Jesus. What a racket. Frankie thought if he could stand the hell-on-earth weather and the dogshit food he’d make a pile of dough here, but there was no way he could stomach the trade.

  They looked at him and said,

  Hey, what’s up, man? Starting at his hands and looking up and down for tattoos, seeing a crown on his left arm.

  Ain’t nothin’, the scrawny dealer said.

  What you ride, man? Frankie said.

  King Love, homes. Five poppin’ six droppin’, the Corona talked shit.

  Hmmm, Jimmy said.

  UK all the way, Frankie said.

  We’re UnKnowns, bro. Halsted and Wrightwood, he finished.

  Montrose and Hazel Kings, Chuckie said.

  Alright peoples, Jimmy said.

  They said

  I’m Jimmy

  and

  I’m Frankie.

  Cool,

  I’m Chuckie, the Latin King said.