Freaks and Revelations (17 page)

1980

TWO MONTHS BEFORE

LOS ANGELES COUNTY

“See what I mean?” Coco says. “L.A. Sunny Southern. You can’t beat it.”

He’s right. We’re on the boardwalk down at Venice Beach, walking around in T-shirts when Tommy’s probably huddling under a bench somewhere. The sun shines down on a whole universe of people—every kind imaginable. A black guy in a Jesus robe and harem pants roller-skates past, a boombox on his shoulder, singing along. His hair’s down to his waist, wound into dreds. People sit along the sidewalk on blankets, selling jewelry and T-shirts and pretty much anything you could think of. All kinds of music, all types of accents, all shades of skin. An old woman with no front teeth offers to read our Tarot cards.

“Not so bad, babe, huh?” Coco asks, slipping an arm over my shoulders.

“I like it.”

“See? Sometimes you got to check things out, you know? There’s a whole world out there we don’t even know about.”

We get to Venice Boulevard, where the boardwalk loops onto the street, and turn back. I feel like a little kid. I can’t believe I was scared about coming here. We get pizza from a stand and go watch a whole group of buffed-out guys lifting weights.

“Muscle beach,” Coco explains. “Check out the guy in the blue.”

“Amazing.”

We take off our shoes and head down to the ocean. Coco shows me how to dig out a seat for myself. Under the top layer, the sand is cool and moist. We take off our shirts and settle in. Coco reaches for my hand. At first I look around, but it’s okay. There are couples everywhere.

I find myself getting sleepy in the sun, lulled by the sound of the waves. When I look up again, he’s staring at me, a sweet smile on his face.

“What?” I ask, smiling back.

“You. Your eyes. Your craziness. Everything. I just love you.”

“I love you too.”

ONE MONTH BEFORE

LOS ANGELES

“Take that fucking shirt off right now,” I say. “Who do you think you are coming here with that stupid shirt?”

Rules have changed. Again.

The skinhead thing is getting intense. Lines are blurred.

Hardcore does not put up with shit like we used to. Like this guy up in my face right now, this stupid couple in their matching KISS shirts. Who the hell do they think they are? This is not the place for that shit. We’re at the Olympic Auditorium; we got Punks here from L.A., Orange County, the Inland Empire. There are some violent groups and they’re thinking the same thing as me but they don’t have the balls to say it.

I do. I’m not in the mood.

“I said, take it off.”

“Shut up, you creep,” the girl says, sticking up for her boyfriend.

“You shut up!” he says to her. He doesn’t utter a word to me. He knows what’s around. He knows he fucked up.

“Take that stupid shit off,” I say, and he does. They try to blend back into the crowd, but I see some of the Punk girls closing in and they get the girl’s shirt too. That’s the way it should be. The couple disappears.

Later, in the slam pit, I’m feeling pretty good until something sharp stabs into my side. I turn to see the KISS asshole grinning. The motherfucker came back and stabbed me! He’s got one of those big safety pins that chefs use to hold their aprons together, sharpened. He snuck back in and fucking stabbed me in the ribs.

He takes off. I chase him up through the bleachers and then down into the walkway, which is where I beat the fuck out of him. I grab him by the hair and smash his face against the concrete steps. Bouncers pull me off, big black guys with yellow
SECURITY
shirts. I know I’m about to get a beating, so I show them the blood on my palm and then my side where the asshole cut me.

“Not even face-to-face,” I tell them. “He stabbed me from the back, man, I didn’t even see it coming.”

“That’s wrong, dude,” the bigger guy says. “That’s just wrong.” They let me go. Later I hear they took the guy outside and kicked his ass.

All I want to do now is beat people up. Or get beat up myself. I don’t particularly care which. I look for it. Like when I’m in the slam pit at the Warehouse and this big guy is standing there, this wannabe skinhead, not doing shit to me or anybody, just standing. But he’s taller than me and that’s enough. I know he’s thinking he’s tough shit. That he’s like some Greek Fucking God. I hit him. He’s surprised, so I hit him again.

I can’t seem to get enough. When I’m not doing it, I’m thinking about it. I like how it feels. Every time, I know how bad it’s gonna get, how fucking much it’s gonna hurt. Every time, I get terribly afraid. My whole body shakes, my knees quiver, my blood turns cold. But I don’t run. I don’t move out of the way. I sure as shit don’t hide. I move
into
the pain. I meet it head-on. That roar in my brain starts revving up, pushes me forward. It’s like the best music I ever wrote.

Next comes the excitement, the challenge, putting myself to the test once again. What will happen? Will the victim fight? Will he try to run away? I don’t mind chasing somebody. I usually catch them. When the victim fights back, that’s the best. That’s when you really have your work cut out for you.

Getting hit the first time
always
hurts, hurts like hell—electricity shooting through from wherever is the point of impact, up to the brain where it explodes again. That’s the trigger, that’s where the change occurs. They hit me again, but now I don’t feel it. Now I’m numb to it, and time does that delicious slow motion thing, and I’m moving forward again—getting hit more and more, hitting back and feeling how that is, my fist on their flesh, always forward. It’s awesome.

Like inhaling and expanding, I swell up. I get
huge
. Strong. Godlike. It doesn’t matter who or what or why—victims are totally interchangeable, and always disposable. Sometimes they don’t really even register. They’re not people, they’re not important. What’s important is the release of action—the stretch of sinews, the flex of muscles, that incredible rush of adrenaline, filling me up and pushing me outwards—at the same time, protecting me and spurring me on.

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.