Freaks and Revelations

by Davida Wills Hurwin

  My war.

  My tribe.

  All my people feel the same.

  Rosie, Jack, people we don’t even know yet. We beat up hippies, jocks, stoners, other Punks. Anyone who looks at us funny. The police. It doesn’t matter. They’re all the same. They’re not people, not when we’re doing it. Most of the time, we got nothing against them personally.

  We just need it.

  It’s part of life. So we do it.

  Violence is now my best drug.

  I won’t lie.

  I am a total addict.

  March 27, 1980

  THE DAY OF

  LOS ANGELES COUNTY

  I’m awake but not here yet, not quite. I reach for my Listerine and rinse out, spit over against the wall, then yawn. Sun’s up, full and bright. My eyes feel like sand’s been poured in; my head throbs.

  It’s got to be past noon, but probably not by much. My elbow aches and my right hand burns pins and needles—I slept on it. I rub it and stretch, notice a little tribe of ants around a dead grasshopper. I yawn and watch for a while; they demolish the body piece by piece and haul it back to their little hill. They march in two straight lines, one coming, one going. I put a pebble in the way; they don’t miss a step, just circle around it and keep on.

  Go, ants.

  A phone rings from one of the apartments next door. “Hola?” says a woman’s voice. She chuckles deep in her throat and launches into gossip—all in Spanish but I can still tell. The guy from one building over lugs a smelly brown garbage bag down the alley. He doesn’t see me through the fence; I’m tucked into the corner, out of his direct line of sight. He picks his nose and eats it—he always does, and I always gag, and then he empties his garbage.

  This time of day, the park sucks. Too many people, too many eyes, nothing to do. I roll my shoulders and move my head from side to side, reach into my back pocket to see what’s left from last night. I smile, remembering how funny Coco was. He was high on Tina and kept me laughing the entire night. It’s working out with us, I know it. Even though we don’t actually talk about it, I think probably we’ll try to find a place soon, especially if we can find some older guys to go in on it. Yawning, I stretch both arms out and check around to see who’s up. I wonder if I should wash first or head down to McDonald’s. I’m not that hungry so maybe washing’s good. The Listerine didn’t help—I don’t like the taste in my mouth.

  Then I see her—a black-haired woman walking across the basketball court straight toward me. She has her hand up to her forehead to shield her eyes from the sun, so I can’t see her face. I don’t have to. I know the walk. I catch the energy, like a jolt of electricity. I even recognize the blouse.

  It’s my mother. She’s found me.

  Should I run? I’m already reaching back for my stuff, I could pack up in a sec and be out around the corner, go find Coco, hide out until—

  NO.

  That’s not how she’s walking. She’s not angry, she’s looking. She’s smiling! What’s going on? Why is she here? Could it be she changed her mind?

  That’s stupid.

  Is it?

  Why would I care?

  Because she’s my mother and I love her.

  Grow up.

  I can’t help it.

  Without taking my eyes off her, I reach for my mirror, digging down inside my backpack where I keep it wrapped in paper towels from the gas station. Quick check—I’m a mess! My hair sticks out on one side, and lies flat on the other; it’s stiff from too much gel, a day past washing. There’s a smudge on my forehead and waffle marks on one cheek from sleeping against my backpack. Shit. My mother will not like this.

  A dab of spit takes care of the smudge. I find my comb and do the best I can to look like I have a hairdo. How did she know I was here? Maternal instinct? That makes me laugh. Who cares how she knew? She’s here.

  I don’t understand why I’m so happy.

  I should be pissed off.

  She came to find me.

  Maybe something bad happened.

  Then she wouldn’t be smiling.

  She’s looking around for me.

  Why does this feel so good?

  She stops at the fence that separates the basketball court from the playground. She glances to the side, not toward me but at the metal picnic tables. A small girl squeals and runs past her, another right behind, playing tag. She follows their path, then goes back to her search.

  Just a sec, Mom, I want to yell.

  I dig in my backpack for a clean T-shirt and slip it on, stuffing my dirty one down into the front pouch.

  My heart’s going to pound right out of my chest. I do a final check and stand up. I nod, like someone’s spoken to me, blink against the sun, and emerge from my nook. Should I bring my backpack? If I’m going home, will I need it? I opt for bring. I leave my blanket, figuring I’ll toss it through the fence later, or just leave it for the next kid who needs a corner in the park to sleep. But how will I let Coco know that I’ve gone?

  I wonder how she got here. Did she drive? Is Marianne with her, waiting in the car? Or maybe my dad? I suddenly feel like crying, which would be dumb since I’m totally happy. My mother finally understands. In the back of my mind, I always knew she would. You don’t just stop loving your son, no matter what. She’s probably been looking for me since before I left the city.

  It just took all this time—

  She turns toward me, takes a step, and lifts her hand to wave. I lift mine to wave back. She drops the other hand from her forehead, and two little boys scamper out from the park building. She crouches down and opens her arms. They run in for a hug, laughing and talking, then speed off for the jungle gym. A man follows the boys and she stands to hug him.

  “Look at me, Mommy, look at me!” the big boy yells, hanging upside down from the bar.

  I keep waving.

  I pretend there’s a friend calling me.

  I shake my head back and forth, like my friend has asked a question and I have to say no. I keep the smile because, what else is there to do? My insides are crumbling, and my face twitches, weirdly, like I’ve been shocked by electrical wires. I think of the ants and how they kept moving. I call up my mother’s real face, the one she showed me the last time we were together—mean and old and ugly.

  I take a breath. Turn, walk the few steps back. My body seems wrapped in cloth, even my face now, like a shroud. I’m aware of every inch of skin. I roll up my blanket and shove it through the metal gate, under the ivy. I munch on the muffin Coco gave me last night, slightly worse for the squishing it got inside my backpack. I change back to the dirty shirt; I’ll dress up later when I go to work. I decide I’ll get food first, and find Coco; we can go play somewhere or maybe just sit and hug and talk. Until right this second, I didn’t realize how hungry I am. A strawberry shake sounds pretty damn good. I sling the backpack over my shoulder and strut out across the playground.

  On the tip-top of the structure, the little boys pretend to be flying a plane.

  “Pilot to co-pilot,” the bigger one says to the smaller. The woman laughs with them. The man sees me and moves to stand between his kids and where I’ll pass.

  I want to scream at him—Don’t worry! I’m fourteen, I can’t hurt you, what’s your problem—instead I keep my eyes level and on the street ahead. When the woman follows her husband’s gaze, I can’t help myself. For a quick second, I look directly at her. Her smile changes to a scowl. Her eyes get wary, scared, like a dog who’s going to be struck. I was wrong. She doesn’t even resemble my mother, except of course for the black hair and that expression, the one that accuses me of being something horrible.

  I flip her off and laugh as her face turns red.

  The sun makes me blink. I shade my eyes. My stomach growls. Maybe I’ll get a Big Mac with that shake.

  You know who your friends are by who sticks around when the going gets tough. It’s a jungle now, no two ways about that. L.A.’s no place for the weak-minded and being Punk carries
a significant responsibility. It doesn’t fucking matter how much we fight each other—whether we come from the Inland Empire or fucking Orange County. What matters is that we stick up for ourselves.

  Always.

  Regardless.

  The outside world pokes a nose in, that nose is gonna get broke.

  I feel the vibe before I get out of the house that afternoon. Something’s up, out there in the world, coming at me, fast. I just don’t know what. I keep an eye on my dad when he drives up from work. Not because he scares me anymore, just this other sense of things. On my way down to meet Jack, I keep looking over my shoulder. What the fuck, huh? Too much coke last night? Who knows. But I’m not ignoring it. Gotta keep on your toes. You never know when something’s gonna bite.

  Around four, I head up to the gas station on Santa Monica and Highland and lounge along the wall to wait for some paying customer to get the key to the bathroom. They’ve recently put in locks and you have to get the key from the skinny Arab at the cash register. Who takes great pleasure in never giving it to one of us.

  It doesn’t take long.

  A dad brings his little boy in; I get the look, I shrug it off. Who cares? What do they know about anything anyway? When they come out, I slip in, lock the door, strip down and give myself a good wash. The water’s freezing but it feels like heaven to have my hair clean. I still don’t wear underwear; I doubt if I’d like it now. I roll up my jeans and T-shirt and pack them away.

  I blot myself dry with paper towels, style my hair with soap gel and the hand dryer, take a piss, and slip into my evening attire. My pants are tight. My butt looks good. With my boots, I stand long and lean, like a pencil. I figure I must be almost five-five now. And last, but not least, I unbutton my shirt a bit. I think how Coco likes to put his cheek on my chest.

  It’s hard to see myself clearly. The mirror isn’t glass, it’s metal and pretty scratched up. Still and all—not too bad. Not too bad at all. I smile, drop my head down in that flirty way I do, practice peering up from underneath my eyelashes. Good butt, great lashes, long and thick, and of course—my beautiful eyes. People still tell me I’ve got beautiful eyes.

  At least my mother gave me something.

  Jack feels it too, I can tell. He’s edgy. Not that he’s ever calm, but now he can’t stay still. Keeps flipping through tapes, can’t settle in to one. We stop at Rosie’s. Her eyes are smudged when she gets in the car.

  “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.