Santa Cruz Noir

by Susie Bright

  “Dear Lord, please. I’ll do anything. I’ll be a better person. Just heal Lisa.”

  A crow cawed again, and miraculously, Lisa’s eyes fluttered open.

  “Oh my gosh, are you okay?”

  “What happened?” Lisa squinted and frowned, pulling herself up by her elbows.

  No, can it really be true? Has she forgotten?

  “You slipped and hit your head. Maybe it’s the altitude. I think it got to you.” She helped Lisa to her feet.

  “That was really weird.”

  “What do you remember?”

  “Just that we were walking up the hill.” Lisa’s eyes got big. “I wanted to tell you something.”

  “Not now,” Karen said. “Later tonight, okay?”

  Lisa reluctantly nodded, and although a bit wobbly, she took the lead again. Walking behind her, Karen said silently: Thank you, Jesus.

  * * *

  “Let’s pray for Lisa,” Wendy instructed, as the paramedics strapped Lisa onto a gurney.

  The Lukewarms had arrived and were sobbing, their noses red like cartoon bunnies. They all smelled death in the room.

  All arms were extended toward Lisa’s body. Karen didn’t want to. Stupid poison-oak boy, with his pink legs, stood right next to her. Jacob on her other side. His whole body, especially his hands, seemed to be shaking, but no one else noticed.

  What was that on her sleeve? The striped beetle again. Karen wanted to scream, but she didn’t. Instead she swallowed her cry, closed her eyes, and extended her arm.

  PART II

  The Lineup

  WHEELS OF JUSTICE

  by Jon Bailiff

  Steamer Lane

  The wheels of justice grind exceedingly fine,

  like the waves of the ocean grind the sands of time.

  I’m not the kind of guy who goes around with wild, violent fantasies, like I got some shooter game playin’ in my head. So this or that guy’s got some beef. So what? I’m not out for confrontation.

  But I’ve doled out plenty. ’Cause what are you gonna do? Nothing? Fuck that!

  I’ll be the first to admit I’ve had some issues here and there. Major issues with the Santa Cruz PD. Always fuckin’ with me. Like true-blue dickheads—like I’m the loser! But that ain’t me. Drunk and disorderly? Okay. Domestics? Maybe. But that assault charge? Total fuckin’ bullshit. It’s called self-defense!

  I don’t look for trouble. But if some goddamn faggot, pardon my lack of political correctness, and fuck you very much, tries some shit out on me? Well, okay. Trouble’s in trouble now!

  I surf Steamer Lane. It’s my home break—not yours. You’re not Westside Santa Cruz born and raised. Steamer’s is not for you. Go back to the Valley, or Cowell’s, or even Pacifica. We will not be tolerating any university inclusivity-diversity bullshit from outsider kooks, queers, and mud people. Stay behind the railing and watch.

  So yeah, that incident at Steamer’s. Don’t act like you don’t know. Everybody saw that shit. It was all over the Sentinel. Of course, those assholes got it fuckin’ backward, ’cause I was totally in the right. You know I was.

  Little-known fact: West Cliff, Lighthouse Field, even the Lane—after dark, it’s a major gay cruise. Oh yeah. Don’t believe me, fuckhead? Check Grindr. There’s so much fuckin’ action. You’ll be gettin’ it wet in MINUTES. It’s truly disgusting.

  So it’s bar time and I’m all fucked up. I’m in the Carp lot, leaning on the railing, chilling, just checking out the swell for a dawn patrol. Minding my own business. This fat fuck comes wiggling up and sort of leans against the rail—and I know what’s going down. I know before he even opens his pussy mouth. I am instantly pissed! Just instantly mortally pissed! I say, “Eat shit, you fuckin’ faggot!”

  I let him know who’s the boss out here—which is what you have to do in such situations. And yeah, maybe I did get a little too “defensive” on the guy. Grindr-ass motherfucker. He had it coming.

  Anyway. The cops somehow manage to come to the conclusion that it was all me! I was amazed that guy could even ID me. It was pitch black. So I told the judge how it went down. That I was in fear for my life, what with how dangerous it is out there, so late at night.

  He’s like, “What were you doing out there at that hour?”

  “Just doing a surf check, Your Honor.”

  But him and the DA didn’t get it. It was that ugly-ass faggot that made me go off! I had no choice. Am I right? You know I am.

  They said I went over the line, as far as self-defense.

  I was like, Fuck him! He deserves worse!

  It was touch and go, they said. “The guy almost didn’t make it. But he’s gonna be okay.”

  I thought, Oh really? Too bad. I shoulda put that faggot in a wheelchair.

  Thought it. But I’m not stupid. I didn’t say it. Queers can be cops, or even judges now. They’re everywhere.

  My trial was a joke. No one was on my side. No one but Ashley the bitch, my ex-GF. The DA wanted assault with intent. But I got away with aggravated assault, due to my saying I was “feeling very threatened, Your Honor, and it was not my intention.” Fuck ’em.

  I’ll tell you this for free—County is a bitch. Nothing to do. Nada. And what is doubly fucked-up is that, when the surf is going off, you can hear it in the lockup, late at night, when all the losers are asleep and it’s halfway quiet. Those big breakers out there goin’ boom . . . boom . . . boom. Makes me feel so far down.

  Did I mention there wasn’t shit-all to do in lockup? I tried not to go nuts. Some guys seem like they can just read through anything—sit there, nose in a book, all day, all night. Sometimes I kinda wish I’d given school a little more effort, back in the day. Looking back on it, I just . . . couldn’t. Couldn’t concentrate, you know? Couldn’t focus my mind. Even if I tried to really put something in my head, I’d hear my old man yelling. If I even looked at him wrong—bam! He’d start kickin’ the crap out of me. Yeah, but that motherfucker sure didn’t like being reminded of the shit he did like me for. He took what he wanted. Fucked for life. That’s me.

  What I hate about County is dudes surrounding me, all day, every day, with their endless bullshit. Couldn’t sleep with all those brown faggoty motherfuckers waiting for me to let my guard down. But I wasn’t looking for trouble. I got twenty-four to thirty-six months. And with time off for being a good little bitch. I was out in thirty.

  * * *

  Yeah! I’m out, I’m headed to the Lane. Gotta get back in the lineup. It’s all I’ve been dreamin’ of for two and a half years. So fuckin’ stoked.

  But I get no priority. The boys are about as welcoming as a twenty-mile-per-hour on-shore south. What the fuck? Everybody lookin’ at me all stink-eye. They don’t know shit!

  Plus—it seems like I was gone for all of five minutes, and my home break’s all crowded with geezers, kooks, hippies, and bunches of chicks and faggots from up on the hill. UCSC cunts and their girlfriends think they have some kind of Pussy College hall pass to surf here. Like the Lane is just for anyone now.

  Well, it fuckin’ isn’t. The Lane is not for you. Not for your girlfriend, not your boyfriend, not any of your friends. No way will this stand. No fuckin’ way!

  This scene has me so fuckin’ aggro. I’m too amped—just sitting in my truck tryin’ not to go all school-shooter on these assholes. When I’m like this, crank can sometimes calm me down. Hit that pipa, burn a blunt, get some brews flowing, and whoa! I am better, motherfucker! Screw that punk-ass parole officer. I’m out and I’ll do what I please.

  Oh yeah. That’s better. That’s more like it. Now I’m feelin’ it. My dick is hard as a rock! I’m thinkin’ about Ashley and how she gives me head exactly when I say to. And that’s fine, as far as it goes. But I keep seein’ that little chica maricon in County the whole time. Pumpin’ like a big fresh south. Goddamn! I’m so ripped!

  I snap out of it and—fuck me—outside is going off. The inside is loaded with kooks. The boys are all over first peak. S
chracking! Monster sets from a huge south are rolling through, with super-long lulls and a takeoff so narrow you gotta be the earliest, charging-est, deep-throatin’-est motherfucker, or fuck you, you are not getting’ anything. This shit is gnarly. This shit is mine!

  Don’t remember suiting up. Don’t even remember paddling out. Just seems like I’m suddenly in the thick of it, raging. Yellin’ at every kook I see. “Fuck you, faggots!” Paddling in front of all the Barneys and thinkin’, Make room for me, boys; priority is mine!

  But goddamn! I’m too amped! Pulse pounding. Can’t chill. Timing is off. The extra fifty I gained in jail, on top of my crank-’n’-beer cocktail, is messing me up, slowin’ me down.

  “My wave, fuckhead! My wave!” But my fat-fucker pop-up is too slow—too late. No way am I gonna make it. I can feel my extra body weight dragging me down as I pearl my board and eat it, right into the bowl. Then I get sucked back up the face, feel the sick moment of weightlessness, then—over the falls, right onto the deck of my best board. Under water screaming, “FUCK!” It’s a major hold-down. Hitting bottom. Rag-dolled to shit. Donuts all the way.

  I finally pop up on the inside, puking seawater. I paddle the bottom half of my board back in and smash the shit out of it on the railing. All eyes on me in the lot, as the assholes bear witness to the sketchiest, gnarliest, most-fucked sesh of all time. I go to get in my truck and—of course—the keys are still in the ignition. The door is locked.

  My fist goes right through the window. Don’t even feel it. Like a GoPro slow-mo. Don’t remember driving home. Next thing I remember, I’m rammin’ that piece-of-shit truck right up onto the lawn at the bitch’s apartment. My goddamn hand is achin’ now, bleeding like a motherfucker! WHATEV!

  Fuckin’ stairs. Dizzy. Leaning on Ashley’s doorbell and screaming bloody murder for her to LET ME IN, GODDAMNIT! The neighbors all peekin’ out, like a bunch of little bitches. Let ’em look. Fuck ’em. I need a shower, a blunt, a bump, and a brew! Gotta get my hand under control too. Blood’s all over the place.

  Finally she opens up. Fuck. Ashley freaks: “What the fuck happened to you?”

  “Goddamn bitch, let me in!” Man, she pisses me off.

  In the shower and I’m almost passing out. I hear Ashley talking to somebody. What the fuck? I told her to never answer the door if I’m here.

  I yell, “Who the fuck is it?” No answer. My hand is still bleeding and I gotta deal with that. I wrap my knuckles in a towel and lean out the door to get the bitch’s attention.

  I can hear her now. She’s yelling out by the front door. Fuck. The cops. Why are they here? She’s sayin’, “Don’t come in! I’m fine! He’s got a problem with you guys, you know that. Please!”

  The cops are yappin’, “Coming in, got a call, saw the blood, probable cause, prior domestic.” Yada, yada. Goddamn neighbors. All their bullshit! So yeah, the cops have been here before. They got me then, but not again. No fuckin’ way!

  I go to grab my aluminum bat from high school. It feels like one of those giant medieval swords in my bloody hand. Those motherfuckers are gonna get the fuck out of here in a hurry. I haven’t done anything! They got no fuckin’ right coming into my house. Who do they think they are?

  “Motherfuckers!” I’m charging, rushing into the front room. I swing and swing and swing. “GET THE FUCK OUT!” Boom.

  Screaming. I hear screaming. I can’t hear me. I’m burning. My whole body’s on fire. On the floor, buck naked. It’s not me screaming. Ashley, far away. Can’t move. Smells like gunshots and like . . . shit. Can’t get up. Can’t feel anything but burning.

  “Why did you have to come in?” she says. “You didn’t have to shoot him! He didn’t do anything!”

  * * *

  Five bullets fired. All hits. One lodged in my spine. T7. Sure, I got a lawyer. Fucker never calls anymore. Fuck him. Neither does Ashley. She didn’t want to wipe my shit—left me when I was down.

  Legless, dickless, soulless motherfucker I am now, everyone just looks—then looks away. Fuck you, for lookin’ at me like some asshole crip. I blame you motherfuckers for all this shit. Westside forever, you fucks.

  Now I’m just rolling. Rolling with the punches. Grinding up to Emeline Street and County Health. Then down to Pacific Avenue to hustle change. Back to the shelter. From the shelter back to Emeline. My chair’s gonna need new wheels from all this grinding. All this goddamn grinding.

  MISCHA AND THE SEAL

  by Liza Monroy

  Cowell’s

  Every so often the rage creeps up, cresting like waves during a storm. I plan my revenge when I see him there, on the beach or walking down the steps with his board tucked beneath his arm. My eyes lose track of him, even his silver shock of hair, in that neoprene soup. I see clearly underwater, all those legs in all those black suits, false skins trying to look like mine, all the same out here on their little planks. If I could get to him, if I could be sure it was him, I would shred him.

  * * *

  Mischa moved to Santa Cruz as a graduate student in marine biology. Since she preferred being around seals and otters to other people, it was the logical choice. Over time, though, as with everything she attempted, her focus scattered. She couldn’t get it back. She dropped out and lived in her rented shack off the side of a surf shop. Her waitressing tips were enough to cover rent. She ate kitchen scraps and remnants of food on plates she collected. People were so wasteful. Mischa never left a trace.

  The guy at the surf shop loaned her a board, blue and made of foam. She spent every day at sea, in the gentle waves at Cowell’s Beach. Even when it was flat as a pane of glass, she went. Every day she basked in the ocean, so close to the sea lions, seals, and otters. She didn’t want to study them, it turned out, she wanted to be among them. With her black eyes and skin so pale it took on a grayish tint in the water, it was like she’d been born one. Mischa could think of nothing she wanted, only things she didn’t: she didn’t want her once-promising marine biology career, she didn’t want any of her former boyfriends—her mother was right, they’d all been losers—and lastly, she didn’t want her mother, who had disappeared after taking too long of a swim.

  * * *

  On Mischa’s mother’s final visit, she’d entered a repetitive loop of conversation blaming Santa Cruz for her daughter’s loss of ambition. The small seaside city was a land of lotus-eaters and it sucked her in. The place was an opiate. The Mediterranean weather, perpetual sunshine, glare of light on the bay beneath the cliffs. How did anyone ever get anything done here, or leave to go anywhere else?

  Her mother had been staying at the Dream Inn, the fanciest hotel in Santa Cruz, and its only tall building. It was trying to be sleek in a city that felt more as if it had been built into its surroundings. Unlike most of the city, the Dream Inn had been interior-designed—its retro furnishings and the font for the logo of its sign more a tribute to a 1950s motel in Palm Springs or LA than anything in Santa Cruz, save for the surfboards hanging from the ceiling in the lounge.

  Mischa went to the hotel every day even though she knew it was going to get worse the longer her mother stayed—the delusions, the nagging. They lay in chaise longues, sipping mai tais and bronzing in the sun. As her mother grilled her on all her wrong choices, Mischa stared out into the bay, tuning her out.

  She saw a seal just beyond the surf break. That seal doesn’t give a fuck that you failed, she thought.

  On the morning of her mother’s last day, she stopped by her daughter’s shack and pulled one of the ubiquitous blue-and-white-striped Dream Inn towels from her St. Tropez beach bag. “I got you this,” she said, dropping the towel on Mischa’s futon.

  “You stole a towel from the hotel?”

  “So you can still go, even after I leave.”

  “But you stole.”

  “Anything to get you out of sitting in this crappy shack and doing nothing but surfing all day and serving drunk people burgers all night. Go sit up there instead, think about what you’re doing a
nd what you really came here to do.” Her mother looked down. “I don’t know why I even bother. It’s not like you listen.”

  Mischa considered returning the towel, but she really did like it there, the pool deck hovering over the beach like some cruise ship from space coming in for a landing in the snug little cove beneath the cliffs.

  Mischa and her mother walked to the ocean to go for the last swim of her mother’s visit. Mischa watched her mother’s form from a distance. So many sea lions and seals streaming through the gray flatness. When Mischa looked back she realized she’d lost track of her—what she thought was her mother’s bobbing head turned out to be a nearby seal. She scanned the ocean, growing panicked. Her mother had been a distance swimmer once. She was nowhere to be seen.

  * * *

  A rip current must have pulled her far under, sending her out to sea, the rescuers said. The search was called off, her body never found.

  The towel attained sentimental value as the last thing her mother gave her. Mischa used it to pass into the pool area at the Dream Inn. She drank two mimosas and pretended she was someone else. She made small talk with tourists, changing her story for every different person—she was a professional horseback rider from Kentucky, a Parisian pastry chef, a musician from Nashville. Forgetting herself more and more.

  The more Mischa used the towel, the less guilty she felt about having it. She wandered up and down the hallways of the Dream Inn imagining herself some kind of a living ghost, invisible, stealing the little shampoos from the housekeeping carts by the handful. When she made eye contact with the housekeepers working in rooms with doors left ajar, Mischa smiled, offering a little wave, the stolen towel draped over her wrist.

  One day, she made her way down to the pool. As usual, she slipped past the guard—no one seemed to be expecting someone with a stolen towel to come in, or if they did, their sympathy for someone who needed to do such a thing outweighed their desire to enforce hotel policy—ordered a mai tai, and spread the towel over one of the choice chaise longues facing Cowell’s. She lay there until the sun began to dip across the cliffs.