More and more often I was disqualified from fighting competitions for being too aggressive, and, although it frustrated me, I still received praise for my skill as a fighter. That year I won the Hapkido Middleweight Championship, and I was regularly invited to attend Black Belt seminars where techniques and the evolution of the art were discussed. I often demonstrated my technique and its effectiveness against traditional Hapkido styles at those events, but I never revealed that everything I did was fueled by anabolic steroids.
After being kicked out of Heights Lutheran, my mother went on and on about how it would look, and how she worked so hard to give me the type of home and opportunities most people only dreamed of. It was only school, and I didn’t like being there anyway. Most days, I’d check in at school and then leave or go surfing early in the morning and not bother to go back. It all seemed like a waste of time to me. I couldn’t sit still in class and nothing interested me. The final straw had been when a guy named Stuart told the principal I took a small stereo—which I hadn’t. I punched him in the face and that earned me a ticket out of Heights Lutheran forever.
The following week my mother enrolled me in La Puente High School, and that marked the beginning of my criminal career. La Puente High was full of gang members, and I knew a lot of them from the neighborhood as well as from my days at Sparks Elementary. The only difference was I wasn’t a scared little boy anymore. Instead, if anyone attempted to pick on me or beat me up, I’d make them sorry the thought ever crossed their minds.
Of course, the reputation I’d so carefully groomed at Heights Lutheran hadn’t reached La Puente, but it didn’t take long.
For the most part I stayed to myself, but others usually were drawn to me because of my looks. As much as I tried to avoid people, nothing worked short of pushing someone away physically. I settled into school and, although I didn’t particularly like being there, I went to class and tried to remain invisible.
During my third week at La Puente High I saw the basketball coach posting try-out posters, and as I read it he asked if I’d be going out for the team. I said I was seriously considering it.
“Good. I’m Coach Pilcher, the varsity team coach. You play?”
“I played shooting guard for Heights Lutheran’s varsity team.”
“Did you log time?”
“I was their starting guard.”
“Well then, I’ll see you at practice Monday. It’s good meeting you.”
“Same here, coach. I’m Bill.”
He shook my hand and I walked away feeling better about the school, and I thought maybe I could make it work.
The following Monday I was in the gym before practice because I didn’t have a class. I was shooting around when other members of the varsity team arrived, and soon a half-court three-on-three pickup game started. We played to thirty-six and during the game I noticed the coach watching. As soon as most of the guys who were trying out were there, Coach Pilcher put us through a series of ball-skill sequences, including dribbling, passing, and shooting. He then separated us by position and had us play each other one-on-one. I did well, but not great. I won four of five games, even though I hadn’t practiced in a few months.
After a few practices, the coach cut a number of people who would not make the team. He sent others to the junior varsity team.
To that point, I had done well and logged time with the team. The previous year’s starting guard had graduated and the position needed to be filled. I seemed to have the job locked in.
Another week passed and Coach Pilcher set his rotation for games.
I was the starting guard along with a fast point guard named Kenny. At the end of the week I came to practice with the rest of the team and was warming up when the coach called me into his office. I quickly ran to his office expecting to talk about game situations, but as soon as I walked into his office and looked at his face, I knew something was wrong.
“What’s up, coach?”
“Sit down, Bill.”
I sat, but I knew it wouldn’t be good.
“Your counselor came to see me this morning. She pointed out that because you attended another high school and played ball for them, you’re not eligible to play here until next season.”
“Coach, that was a private school. It doesn’t count. This is a public school.”
“I’m sorry, son. I’ve argued with her, but there’s nothing I or anyone can do.”
I couldn’t believe it.
“This is bullshit. There has to be a way around it. Just tell me. I’ll do it.”
“Believe me, I’ve tried. I’ve called the district offices and it’s in black and white. You can’t play.”
A hole formed in the pit of my stomach. I didn’t want anyone to see how it affected me, so I left and went to my counselor’s office hoping something could be done to fix it. There had to be a way, but her answer was the same as the coach. I couldn’t play.
I didn’t go back to school that day. Instead I went to the beach and walked along the shore, not really doing anything except allowing my mind to wander. I didn’t want to admit it, but I really wanted to be on the team. It would have given me a sense of belonging and a reason to make school a part of my life.
I blamed everything on my parents, specifically my mother. If it weren’t for her self-serving reasons for making me attend a private school, I would have attended La Puente or Los Altos High and I would be able to play.
The thoughts fueled my anger as I drove to Go-Go’s house, where we smoked pot and hung out the rest of the night.
I thought the anger would go away, but it didn’t. On Monday when I entered the school parking lot, Kenny and another basketball player named Terry walked up as I parked my car. I realized how badly I wanted to be on the team. I was good enough, but because of some stupid red tape I wasn’t allowed to play.
“Hey man, we heard what happened. Fuck, we needed you. Without you we’re not going anywhere,” said Kenny.
“You guys will do great. I don’t even know what to say. I’m so pissed I could scream.”
“Hey, why don’t you practice with us before and after team practice so you’re ready to go if things change, or next season,” said Terry.
“Nah, that would only piss me off more and nothing’s going to change. I’m fucked for the season.”
We shook hands and I walked off. If I hadn’t allowed my anger to rule my actions and thoughts, I would have taken up Terry and Kenny’s offer, but I didn’t. Instead, I never played again and my resentment grew.
I attended the rest of my classes that day, then went to the weight room to lift some weights and cool off. After lifting for a few minutes, I stopped. I couldn’t focus. All I could think of was the team and how much I wanted to play, and it made me want to punch a wall. I showered and went to the parking lot to put my things in my car and go home when I noticed a beautiful black ’56 oval window ragtop Volkswagen pulling into the parking lot a few spaces down from me. It was lowered to the ground with Porsche alloys and a high-performance engine.
The guy driving was Hispanic, tall, hair cut short and styled, and he was dressed to the nines. I had seen him and some of his friends around school but never really paid much attention to them. His car had my attention, but he somehow just fit in it and looked the part. He got out and stood next to the car, with the stereo playing a type of Euro-disco. I continued to admire the car and took note of how much it looked like a show car. Everything was perfect. The paint, chrome, and wheels alone must have cost a fortune. It was a clean-ass California Volkswagen.
As he stood there, two Mexican gang members approached. They were Cholos, members of a street gang and the type of idiots I dealt with on a daily basis when I had attended Sparks Elementary. It was guys like that who always picked on me and bullied me when I was younger.
They heard the music the guy was playing and went to investigate. Seeing the car, and the guy who stood next to it, they saw an opportunity to mess with someone who looked like he would
n’t fight back. I sat in my car and watched. The two guys came up to the car and remarked about the stereo and how clean the ride was. Then one of the guys stuck his head in the car and turned up the stereo. Instead of the music becoming distorted, its rich bass pumped up to a heartthumping sound, which meant his system was probably worth more than my entire car.
As soon as the stereo was turned up, the car’s owner opened the driver’s side door and turned it off, then put his keys in his pocket.
“Hey ese, turn it back on. What the fuck?” one of the Cholos yelled.
It was then I noticed who had yelled and why he seemed familiar. He took off his shades to approach the car’s owner, and that’s when I recognized him and his brother. It had been years since I’d seen Robert and Ernie Hernandez. The last time was the day they’d hit me in the head with a rock, taken my money, chain, and cross, and left me on the street bloodied and hurt.
My father fought their father that day, and I got my chain and cross back, but as I looked at them and remembered what they had done to me, my hand went to the same chain and cross I still wore. The hurt of that day came rushing back and a storm of rage overwhelmed me. I got out of my car and Ernie turned to me. He didn’t recognize me. How could he? I looked nothing like the kid he and his brother had constantly bullied. He turned his attention back to what his brother was doing and forgot me. By then his brother had changed from just being curious about the car to being a thug. He pushed the driver up against his car and demanded the keys.
The guy was scared and Robert saw it, so he pressed him. He knew he’d get his way.
I went and stood next to Ernie. He seemed startled I’d appeared next to him, but he covered it well.
“What the fuck you looking at, ese?” he said.
“You and your punk brother still playing tough guys, huh?”
I was a good six or seven inches taller than him, and when it was obvious I was there as a threat he got pushy.
“Hey, fuck you, puto. Aquí para Puente.”
“Man, you’re still a bitch.” I shoved him back. I had to admit, he didn’t hesitate, and he knew what he was doing. His hands flashed and he punched at me in crisp combinations, which I sidestepped. I could tell he was a trained boxer who was used to taking people down quickly. He pressed me hard with more punches, but none connected. I easily blocked and avoided his hands, which were fast, but like most boxers, he used rehearsed combinations that he threw in any given situation. He knew what to do because he’d practiced the same punches over and over again—not because he knew how to apply it to a real fight with a real fighter. As soon as he dipped his right shoulder to throw a right hook, I struck fast with my right fist, beating him to the spot and connecting with his eye socket, stopping him in his tracks. I needed to end the fight fast and not get blindsided by his brother again. I picked Ernie up around the waist and body-slammed him into the concrete, knocking him out cold.
Robert watched what I’d done to his brother and came to help. I was no longer thinking. My vision had clouded red and the rage and pain those two had caused me as a child surfaced as if it had happened yesterday.
Robert never had a chance. I hit him as he opened his mouth to say something, and drove him to his knees with vicious punches to the face and elbows to the head.
The next thing I remember is waking up in bed at 2:13 a.m. I had lost more than twelve hours. A dangerous pattern had developed. Triggered by emotions like fear, hate, or pain, I’d lose control and black out. Of course, I continued to function, but I’d have no memory of what I’d done.
It never happened when I fought in competition because that was only business, but when emotions were involved, when the situation opened up emotional wounds that hurt me or brought back memories of when I was a victim, that old rage returned.
The following day I went to school, but I didn’t want to see any of the guys on the team. I parked my car on the other side of the school next to the park. I just wanted to forget it and move on. I knew I’d see them eventually, but I hated hearing people tell me how sorry they were or how there was always next season.
By lunchtime I had reconciled myself to not being on the team by convincing myself I was already so busy that team practices and games would make my schedule impossible. A part of me knew I could have managed it, but allowing myself to believe, or at least pretend that the team would have been more trouble than it was worth, also helped me manage how upset I felt about it.
I sat next to my car listening to music and talking to a guy I’d met a few weeks previously, named Corban, when the guy who owned that ’56 oval window ragtop came up. Again, I noticed how he was dressed.
“Hey, what’s up, Bill? You got a moment?”
“Yeah, what’s up? How do you know my name?”
“I asked around because I wanted to talk to you and say thanks for yesterday.”
“Hey, don’t sweat it. Those two idiots had it coming.”
“Yeah, but what you did saved me from a major problem. He wanted my keys and who knows what would have happened then.”
“It’s cool man. Really.”
He shook my hand. “My name’s Adrian. Thanks for helping me out.”
I watched him walk away.
“Who’s that cat?” Corban asked.
“I don’t really know, I just met him. But yesterday he had problems with a couple of them Mexican clowns who hang out by the handball courts. Anyway, I fucked their asses up. They weren’t shit and had it coming.”
“No doubt. Why’d you help him out?”
“Don’t know. They just pissed me off.”
Corban was cool, and we got along, but I didn’t tell him the truth because that would be letting him get too close, and I didn’t let anyone see behind the mask.
Like me, Corban got kicked out of his former school. He’d been caught smoking weed on the school campus, and since his mother couldn’t deal with it he’d been sent to live with his father.
“Hey, I gotta get to class. I’ll see you later. Take it easy,” Corban said.
I sat there for a few minutes before I also went to class, but I couldn’t stop thinking about Adrian’s car.
About a week later, I walked home from school because my car had broken down. Although I put just about every dime I earned from working at the skating rink into the car, it was never enough and always needed repair. It would take at least a few weeks of saving to pay for the new fuel pump my car needed to get back on the road. Until then, I had no choice but to walk.
As I walked, I was wondering how much overtime I’d have to log before I could get the fuel pump, when I heard music. It was the same music Adrian played the day I fought Robert and Ernie. When I turned to look for his car, the black ’56 pulled up next to me. Adrian turned down his stereo.
“Where you headed?”
“Home.”
“Get in. I’ll take you. We’ll just stop at my pad real quick.”
“Sounds good.”
I got in his car and it was as if I’d stepped into another world—one I wanted to be a part of. He turned his stereo up and pulled away. I looked at the interior and it, too, was show condition. The entire car was a marvel. The thump of the stereo in my chest along with the roar of the engine sent my senses into overdrive. He knew what the experience would do to me. He knew I’d never be satisfied with anything less.
He turned toward the high school, and as we neared campus he opened the ragtop and hit his amps. His stereo jumped to another level and everyone within two hundred yards turned to look at us. I never felt anything like it, and Adrian smiled at me. It was his world, and as he drove slowly, allowing everyone to see, hear, and envy him, he kept his face straight as if nothing was out of the ordinary. He didn’t stop or talk to anyone. It was as if he was telling everyone, look but don’t touch.
I said nothing. I was too busy taking it all in, and I decided I wanted it. I didn’t know it then, but Adrian made up his mind to give me exactly that.
When w
e arrived at his house I expected to find myself at the gates of a mansion. How else could he afford that kind of car? Instead, we arrived at a small home that was well taken care of, but there was nothing special about it except there were four other show-condition Volkswagens parked in the driveway and on the street just in front of his house.
All the cars had their original chrome, and nothing was cut, shaved, or altered. They were all 1965 and older convertibles or ragtops, lowered to the ground with Porsche alloy wheels and built chrome engines. Each one had a perfect paint job and was waxed and buffed to a shine.
Adrian saw how impressed I was.
“These are a few of our cars. The red convertible ’62 Karmann Ghia is my brother, Julian’s. He’s our president. The blue-gray ’57 oval ragtop is Luis’s, our vice president. The black ’59 ragtop is Francis’s, and the red ’65 convertible is Ruben’s.”
“Damn. These rides are clean. Where do you work? It must cost a fortune to afford and keep up these rides.”
“I do a little here and a little there.”
“Shit, got any openings? I work my ass off and I can’t even afford a fuckin’ fuel pump.”
“Maybe, you never know.”
He had me. I wanted to know more, but just then four guys came out of the garage behind the house. I noticed another car in the garage, but the door closed and it was blocked from my view. I didn’t know any of the guys except one. Francis was in one of my classes at La Puente High, and he and Adrian were usually together.
“That’s my brother, Julian.”
“Who’s this, Adrian?” asked Julian.
“This is Bill, the guy I told you about who beat down those two guys who were fucking with me.”
Julian shook my hand. “Hey, thanks for looking out for my little brother.”
I nodded. “They had it coming.”
Francis smiled at me. “What’s up, Bill? We have a couple classes together.”
We shook hands and the other guys were introduced to me. Julian, Luis, and Ruben were all over twenty years old and said they had somewhere to be and left, followed by Francis.
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