Trashed: An Eastside Brewery Novel

by Mia Hopkins

  When she kisses me, the touch of her lips is sweet and cool. We kiss slowly, a gentle good night unfolding between us along with the first flashes of something I’ve never felt before. Something deep and real. Something I’m still too afraid to name.

  By the grace of God, my internal clock wakes me up before Carmen’s parents do.

  As gently as I can, I slide out of Carmen’s arms. She’s a heavy sleeper. To be honest, she snores like a hibernating bear, but this doesn’t bother me. I think it’s kinda cute.

  Yawning, I get dressed. I tuck the blankets around Carmen and take one last look at her before I go. I memorize what I see. Messy hair. Dark lashes. Full lips, swollen from kisses. There are creases on her cheek from the wrinkled bedsheets. On her wrists, faint bruises blend into her dark skin. They’re barely visible, but I can see them. They burn themselves into my memory.

  God.

  She is so beautiful.

  I hesitate. I should wake her up. I should tell her the truth about everything—my trip, my dad. She would understand, wouldn’t she?

  I reach out to touch her cheek.

  My hand stops short. I can’t.

  “I’m taking a trip, mi reina,” I whisper. “Goodbye.”

  Without looking back, I climb out of the window. Outside, the sun still hasn’t come up, and the sky is bluish-gray. Quietly, I snap the screen back in place, hop the wall, and walk down the silent street.

  After paying my fare with a handful of change, I take a bus filled with bundled-up nannies and factory workers on their way to work. I step off the bus downtown and I walk through a homeless encampment set up on the sidewalk in front of a row of warehouses. A block away, I see the flower district, brightly lit and open for business. I see plastic buckets of roses, and my thoughts go immediately to Carmen.

  I imagine she’s still in bed, waking up alone.

  I should be there.

  I’m sorry.

  The gray sky, the gray asphalt, and the gray buildings make the red roses look even redder, as if they’re lit from the inside out. I can smell them from here. I imagine the strange velvety petals, so easy to crush and bruise.

  I grip the straps of my backpack and walk down Sixth Street, sliding past the shadow of LAPD’s Central Division. The bus station is a big garage next to a small ticket office with a glass storefront. Next to the door, there’s a neon sign that says Cinco Estrellas. I walk inside. It’s run-down but clean. There is a bench with a half-dozen passengers waiting with backpacks and rolling suitcases. In the back, I see a glassed-in booth with a speaker. The prices of the bus tickets are listed on a big menu above the window: Las Vegas, Phoenix, San Diego, Tijuana, Nogales, Kingman, Fresno, Bakersfield, Barstow, Gilroy, Sacramento, Redding.

  The clerk eyes me with suspicion but says politely, “Buenos dias. ¿En que puedo ayudarle?”

  I show her the ticket. She reads it through the glass.

  “They’re boarding your bus right now.” She tips her head toward the door connecting the lobby with the garage. “You should hurry.”

  I enter the garage and join the line of people waiting to get on a charter bus. It’s nice but not new. The sign in the window says Wenatchee. I’ve never heard of this place before, but to be honest I haven’t traveled much outside of Los Angeles. My family went to Salinas a couple times when I was a kid, but I don’t remember too much besides my grandmother’s house. I served my time in Delano and Vacaville, but I wouldn’t include those locations in a list of exotic places I’ve been.

  As much of a hardass as I pretend to be, I’m nervous. All of this is new. Where am I going? And what happens if I get caught violating my parole? My heart beats fast. To steady myself, I take a deep breath and let it out silently.

  I watch the passengers put their bags in the cargo hold and board the bus while a clerk checks their tickets. When the clerk scans mine, his machine beeps and he welcomes me on board along with everyone else.

  I find a seat toward the back of the bus and put my backpack on the seat next to me to signal I want to sit alone. It’s not an issue. This bus to Wenatchee is barely a quarter full. Almost all of the passengers are Mexican or Central American. Farm laborers, I think. They’re silent or talk quietly to their neighbors. I can’t hear what they’re saying.

  While we wait to leave, I study my new identity.

  I’m now Hector Villalobos. I’m from Santa Ana, and I’m twenty-six years old. I memorize the address and birth date. The stranger in the picture looks a lot like me when I was sixteen. Like Hector, maybe I never renewed the photo on my card. It’s a strong enough resemblance that I don’t think this would make anyone look twice.

  The driver stows the last of the luggage and closes the hatch. He climbs into the front seat and shuts the door. The big engine turns over and comes to life with a shudder. We reverse slowly out of the garage into the street.

  On my flip phone, I begin to tap out a message for Carmen. I second-guess myself and delete it. It’s still early—I don’t want to wake her up. I turn off the phone and put it back in my pocket.

  I lean back in the seat. The bus is warm and comfortable. Even though I want to stay alert, last night catches up with me. My eyelids begin to droop.

  As sleep overtakes me, the bus crawls out of the city limits and leaves everything I know behind—my family, my neighborhood, my gang. My girl. Even my name.

  Twenty-Two

  When I open my eyes a few hours later, the sky outside is blue and bright. I turn on my phone.

  One message, from Carmen.

  classy way to take off this morning

  I smile to myself as I type. ha ha classy thats me

  I send the text and wait for a response, but nothing comes. Disappointed, I turn off my phone again to preserve its battery.

  The man on the other side of the aisle is dressed in jeans and work boots. He’s wearing a Seattle Mariners cap and a fleece jacket. He’s not tall but he’s bulky. I think he’s about forty.

  We talk. His name is Memo, short for Guillermo, and he’s from Sinaloa—a long way from home. We speak Spanish, but talking to Memo, I feel the limits of my ability with the language. My words are mixed up, more Spanglish than Spanish. He’s not a dick about it so I manage to get by.

  “What’s waiting for you in Washington?” he asks me.

  I blink. Wenatchee is in Washington? What the fuck?

  “My grandma,” I say.

  I don’t add more. We leave it at that. Memo sees my appearance and doesn’t ask me more questions. To pass the time, he lets me ask him as many questions as I want. I learn he’s a farm worker on a guest worker visa, just like the other passengers on this bus. He has a wife, a son in high school, and a daughter in college. His wages from working in the United States have paid for a car, his children’s school expenses, and a brand-new house in his hometown.

  “I worked as a history teacher for many years, but we couldn’t get ahead,” he says. “With the money I earn here, we are now middle class. I can support my family. We can even afford luxuries we couldn’t afford before.”

  Memo shows me photos of his family. He’s so proud of his kids. I can tell he’s a good dad. As I stare at his phone, my eyes lose focus and I see my own face in the reflection on the screen. For a second, I feel something like sadness for my own father and the years we could’ve had together. I shake off the feeling and remind myself I’ll see Dreamer soon.

  I ask Memo, “Isn’t the work hard?”

  “Sure. But I’m still strong. I can do it.”

  “Are the farmers fair? Do they treat you well?”

  “Well enough.” He shrugs. “Most of the time.”

  Outside, the Central Valley spreads out to the foothills and mountains like one big farm. Many of the state’s penitentiaries are out in the sticks. Because of this, I associate big open spaces with being locked up, with loneliness and frustration. Instead of looking out the window, I stretch out my legs, fold my arms, and try to take another nap. But a few minutes lat
er, Memo taps my shoulder.

  “Hector, look at this.”

  I open my eyes. The other passengers are staring out the windows. On either side of the bus are rows of white trees.

  “Almonds,” Memo says. “They’re in bloom now. This lasts one week, maybe two.”

  I rub my eyes and look outside into the bright sunshine. Against the clear blue sky, the trees seem to glow. Each one is covered with pale pink and white flowers. Petals cover the ground like snow.

  “It’s nice, isn’t it?” Memo snaps a few photos with his phone. “I will send these pictures to my wife.”

  The orchards go on and on. As I stare, I start to drift off.

  The black branches of the trees remind me of Carmen’s hair. The white flowers remind me of her bedsheets. The brown earth, of her skin.

  I fall asleep again, dreaming of her.

  More hours pass. When the driver takes a break, I visit the truck-stop restroom and use my new wealth to buy Cokes and some halfway decent tacos for both me and Memo. After lunch, one of the passengers takes a soccer ball out of his gym bag and we play a quick match in the empty lot behind the gas station, using traffic cones and an old Piso Mojado sign for goals.

  Overhead, the sun is bright and clear. The dry wind smells a little like cowshit. I let a goal get past me and my new compas go crazy with delight. Memo grabs his head and falls to his knees in fake despair.

  My life is work, hustle, sleep, and sex. But play? I haven’t played anything in a long time. I’m laughing. I feel like a kid.

  Back on the bus, I turn my phone on to check my messages.

  No voicemails, but three missed calls and one text, all from Carmen.

  Where are you?

  I call her but she doesn’t pick up. Slowly, I tap out a text and send it to her.

  takin care of some shit but i wish i was with you i’m sorry

  I turn off the phone again. We have a long road to travel, and there are no outlets on this bus.

  Every few hours, we make stops at gas stations and empty parking lots, twenty minutes to stretch our legs and get a gulp of fresh air. The air gets colder. More trees fill the landscape. The sun goes down. Memo points out the town of Weed. He laughs as he takes a picture of a sign by the road. In Redding, I brush my teeth and splash warm water on my face. I change my T-shirt. Back in the bus I slip off my shoes and stretch out as best as I can on my row of seats.

  I turn on my phone again. Nothing.

  My chest feels hollow. I imagine being there in Carmen’s bedroom again, lying in her arms instead of here in a dark, creaky bus that smells like armpits.

  I text her again.

  good night mi reina

  I turn off the phone and fall asleep imagining her soft skin against mine.

  Early the next morning, I wake up in Oregon. I turn on my phone again. No messages.

  At our first stop in Corvallis, I bite the bullet and call my brother. As usual, he doesn’t answer. I hang up and call Vanessa. I hear the sound of dishes. She’s with Muñeca. I can hear the little girl singing in the background.

  “Hey, what’s up?” Vanessa says. The connection crackles a little.

  “Hey,” I say. “Is my brother there?”

  “No, he already left for work.” To Muñeca, Vanessa says, “Just one more bite of waffle. Please?”

  “Listen.” I clear my throat. “I’m going to tell you something, but I don’t want you to trip.”

  Vanessa’s voice goes hard and impatient, the result of living with gangsters and putting up with our pendejadas. “What’s wrong?” she demands.

  “Nothing is wrong.”

  “Where are you? What’s going on?” Even though I expected it, Vanessa’s anxiety both annoys and comforts me. “Trouble, tell me.”

  I spit it out. “I’m not in LA.”

  “Okay,” she says slowly.

  “I can’t say where I am. But tell Sal I’m okay. And I’m not planning to be gone more than a couple days.”

  “When do you check in with your PO?”

  I appreciate how practical she is. I’m breaking the rules, but she knows I might be able to get away with it if I don’t skip any meetings with my parole officer. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll be there.”

  “Trouble—”

  “Just tell Sal everything is okay. I’m on the road. I’m safe.”

  “You…” she starts to say, but halfway through she realizes how useless it would be to lecture me right now. “Do you need us to wire you money?”

  I grip my backpack closer to me. I feel the thick envelope of cash inside, and it makes me feel warmer and safer than any blanket. “No, I’m good. I just wanted to let my brother know what’s up.”

  In the background, Vanessa’s daughter asks, “Is that Tío Eddie?”

  Instead of answering, Vanessa says, “Finish the egg now.”

  The little girl whines, “But I don’t like it.”

  Vanessa sighs, I suspect at both me and Muñeca. To me she says, “Sal’s gonna be mad.”

  “I know,” I say. “But it’s for a good reason, I swear.”

  “Whatever.” Her voice softens. “Be careful. Please.”

  “I will.”

  We hang up. My conscience is both heavier and lighter after talking to Vanessa—now the rest of my family’s involved. I have to stay on my toes. I have to keep them all in mind.

  There are showers at this truck stop, so I pay a little money to quickly wash up and change my clothes. After a hot cup of coffee, I almost feel human again.

  Back on the road, Memo folds his arms and snoozes. The world outside the bus grows colder and grayer. Thick trees fill the landscape and we cross bridges over rivers that look like actual rivers, deep and green, not like the dried-out LA River with its tall concrete embankments and abandoned shopping carts.

  South of Seattle, we finally branch off from the interstate. Rain starts to fall, first a mist, then a heavy downpour. Fat drops smack the windshield and the temperature in the bus drops even more. Mist rises up, thick and white, hiding the view. We crawl our way into the mountains and the highway is jammed with cars and trucks. When the fog breaks for a moment, that’s when I see it.

  Snow.

  Actual snow.

  Piled on the sides of the highway. Covering the mountains ahead.

  Holy shit.

  I’ve never seen snow before. Part of me wants to run to the front of the bus and beg the driver to stop. I have to know more. What does snow feel like? Soft and fluffy? Or hard, like crushed ice? I know I’m not supposed to eat yellow snow, but what about the little drops of snow coming down? What do they taste like? Do they really look like snowflakes up close?

  In my excitement, I feel something like a soft, wet rip in my chest.

  It hits me—I’m twenty-three years old. A convicted felon. A hardass, tattooed all over. Down for my neighborhood as long as I can remember. A survivor.

  But right now, in the foggy window, I can see my reflection. My eyes are big, and I’m smiling. I want to say I’m happy but that word feels too simple for what’s in my heart right now. It’s a sad kind of happy, mixed in with a little flash of pride—I’m alive. I’m here.

  Snow. Mountains. A new state. A new world.

  Soon the highway opens up and the bus accelerates. My window fogs up again from the moisture of my breathing, and my reflection disappears.

  Shivering, I put up the hood of my sweatshirt. I close my eyes, and soon, like Memo, I fall asleep again.

  Cold.

  That’s my first thought when I wake up—I’m fucking cold.

  I yawn and stretch. We drive slowly through a small town next to a river. No one’s on the street. Even though the town is neat and tidy, compared to the streets of Los Angeles, it’s a ghost town. The sun hasn’t gone down yet.

  We pull up behind a two-story brick building. The driver parks, opens the door, and fills the passenger compartment with freezing air and the sweet smell of exhaust.

  I fist-b
ump Memo, but we don’t have time for a long goodbye. There’s a white van waiting for him. He gets in it along with the six other passengers left on the bus. The door of the van slides shut and I watch the van drive away over the empty, icy road. The bus driver puts on a heavy jacket and walks across the parking lot to the office. He goes inside and closes the door behind him.

  And now I’m alone.

  It’s quiet. I hear the soft rushing of the river and every now and then, the wind through the trees. Cold snakes up my pants legs and through my thin hoodie. I pull out my phone. It’s dead—I forgot to turn it off to save the battery. Annoyed, I shove my hands into my pockets and try not to shiver.

  Now what?

  The stores we passed in town are all closed. I saw one or two motels by the highway, but I’m not ready to test out my new fake ID. You need confidence to run a scam, even something as simple as that. Any shadow of doubt, any fear, you’re out. You’re done.

  I stand there in the empty parking lot next to the bus. I dig my hands into my pockets. This is a different kind of cold than any I’ve experienced before. It’s got teeth, and it slides under my clothes and soaks through my skin and muscle until it gets to the bone.

  “Where are you, Dreamer?” I say to myself. My words evaporate into white steam.

  Half an hour passes until the only thing keeping my frozen feet in that parking lot is my stubbornness.

  A Ford F-150 from the 1970s pulls into the lot. It’s more rust than truck. A white lady in her fifties cranks down the window. She’s a big girl, with bright blue eyes and bleach-blond hair styled in the same era as her truck.

  “Are you Eddie?” she asks.

  She knows my real name. “Yeah.” My teeth chatter.

  “Your dad sent me. Get in.”

  When I slide in and slam the heavy door shut, the lady shuts her window and turns up the rattling heater. The hit of warmth feels so good, it’s like a drug. I buckle the lap belt to show her I’m responsible, and she rewards me with a big smile. She’s missing a tooth and the remaining ones are crooked. She’s dressed in a faded winter jacket, jeans, and worn-out snow boots. Besides some homeless Vietnam vets on Skid Row, I’ve never actually seen a poor white person. In Los Angeles, in my mind, all white people are rich.