Woke up this afternoon hungover and out of focus from last night’s party. The details are a bit distant so I’m not about to figure it out now. I’m just happy that I made it home last night or this morning. Finding myself on my couch was a lot better than finding myself in jail or blacked out on the side of the road with a sore asshole. I reached for my glasses from on top of the couch put them on, and slowly got myself into focus as I got off the couch. And as I planted my feet down my left foot stepped onto last nights Wendy’s hamburger and fries. The ketchup was all up and in my toes—a soothing feeling for my atheletes foot. I shook my head in disbelief and smirked. I did the same thing yesterday morning. Finally, I made it to the bathroom. I unzipped and pulled it out to take a piss. I didn’t hear the normal splish-splash so I looked down and, noticed I was pissing in the laundry basket full of dirty clothes. Some girl’s panties were in my dirty laundry but I didn’t pay any attention to the mystery panties, and just continued to piss. I looked over my shoulder and saw that the toilet was directly behind me. I laughed. I think I did the same thing yesterday too. Oh well…there was no time to pass judgement. I had things to do today. Important things. Priority 1: Find My Sandles. I even wrote it on my arm apparently last night so I wouldn’t forget. I zipped up and started lookin’ around for my sandles. These sandles were my favorite sandles, and really my only pair of shoes in the house. So findin’ my sandles was a must. Mi tia, Anna, got them for me from Mexico. I think the sandles were from TJ, but don’t qoute me on it. The sandles weren’t in the bathroom and they weren’t in the kitchen. So, I walked back to the living room thinkin’ the sandles were some place close to the couch. I stepped over last night’s beer cans and lost cigarette ends. I even found a set of girlie earrings which I thought was strange. Also, don’t worry about the carpets they were still clean. Every morning, I use to lay out old newspapers on the floor in the living room so that I wouldn’t dirty the carpets. I’m a big fan of clean carpets, especially when it’s time to collect the money from the deposit. And like that the song “Money in da bank,” blared out from a whip that cruised by on my block. “What timin’,” I thought.
Moreover, the more I searched the living room the more I realized that my place was a wreck—a shit show. Fortunately, most of the debris were empty beer cans and cigarette butts, and a broken nail. Shit that I can pick up and trash later. Priority 2: Take Out The Trash. For the record, my priorities are coming to me as my day progressed. Furthermore, the trash can in the kitchen looked like a wreck too I bet the trash can was about as hungover as I was with all the beer cans and bad food that bulged out from it’s waist line. I thought any second now the trash can was goin’ to vomit all over the kitchen floor. That being said, I still picked up the gross hamburger and fries, in the living room and immediately and gently placed it on top of the crowning trash in the kitchen. “DAT GROSS,” I thought as I gave the trash can a look over. The bulging overweight trash can probably had diabetes too judgin’ by all the remnants of the appetite for pleasure debris jammed inside. But I digress. Like I mentioned earlier, the sandles were a priority, so I walked back to the couch and kicked around the debris left over from last night. I didn’t find my sandles but I did find a plate with some coke, a good size roach, and some pills. No tellin’ what kind of pills they were. At this point the roach sounded liked a better idea than doing a rail. There’s no telling where I might shit if I do the line. I fired up the joint and thought it would be a great idea to hear some tunes while I searched for my precious sandles. I grabbed the remote to the stereo and started to rock out to Beach House. And that’s when I looked up at the stereo and noticed my sandles sittin’ on one of the speakers by the book shelf. At first sight of my sandles I was completely overwhelmed with happiness. The feelin’ was as if I just met every hot babe that I pleasured in any and all amateur porn sites. Finally, I was in a happy place today with my sandles in hand. And the feelin’ was mutual with my sandles too. For as I stepped closer and closer to my sandles the pair suddenly jumped out at me like a lonely frisky cat happy to see it’s owner. I guess the sandles were longin’ for me as much as I was longin’ for them. I think the sandles also just whispered, “I love you.” But I think it was just the weed. The weed be lettin’ you know sometimes too. So with no time to spare I slipped the sandles on and headed to the front screen door. I opened and shut the door with ease as my door had a tendency to spring back to a loud and grand slammin’ introduction to the world. And there to my left was my favorite porch chair, a folding chair, from Mexico, it wasn’t much of a looker but the chair did the job. I found the chair when I was crossin’ the border at TJ one Saturday night on my way back to the U.S. side. I stopped by this taco stand that I always hit up when I’m drunk called, “NTLB Tacos.” The name was short for no taco left behind. And there the chair was up against the taco stand bruised, battered, and in denial like a Mexican house wife named Lorna or Letty. The woman who made those delicious tacos was a nice and sweet lady, and she proposed a deal with me for the ripe price of $15 the chair was mine. Completely overpriced but I thought it was a steal, especially with the grease stains that made the face of Jesus, Jesus, my buddy who does my mom’s landscaping back home in Texas. Furthermore, the chair gave my porch some character but what kind of character I have no idea. I later discovered that the chair came with a bonus—the chair talked. Any time I stepped out onto the porch and was too high, the chair always convinced me to sit down with his broken English and Spanish accent. The chair sounded much like Speedy Gonzalez’s drunken cousin’s accent. And today was no different, “Seey homes, uuu kno tu want to sit down wit me.” So, naturally I sat down and puffed away.
As Beach House soothed my way into my day I noticed planet Earth was coming to life on my block. I sat on my porch, and I observed the life on my block like if I was doing some kind of a study for Chicano Geographic. The name of my block was Silver Soul, and not so much a hoodish name but more like a street name in San Fran. Directly across the street from my porch, Miss O’Connor, an older lady in her mid-80’s originally from Georgia, tended to her roses with her pink water sprout—prize winning roses too. She had on a purple and green polka-dot sun dress with her pretty white gardening hat that had a fresh cut daisy crowned over the left side of her garden hat. She was a nice, sweet lady. She always made me cookies for my birthday and fed me once a month. She needed the company and I needed to eat well at least once a month. Next to her on the left were the Smallies. They were a married couple of like six years and they were the first husband and wife lawyers to have openned up their own law firm in town who were midgets—small people to be exact. They often stayed to themselves but they were always up or down for a barbeque on Sunday afternoons or a Wednesday walk in the park with their dog, Munchies. I think he was a miniature pit bull, but don’t qoute me on that. I’m not goin’ to even lie, Munchies, scared me to pieces. Munchies reminded me of a baby Mike Tyson. Despite Munchies, I really liked my neighbors. Absolutely nothing wrong with good neighbors. Like I always said, “Invisible fences make good neighbors.” Speaking of fences and neighboors, the echoes of a slammed screen door rushed my way from my neighbor’s place on my left side. His name was, Scratch. A cool cat, a funny Jaimican, who just happened to me my weed dealer. With his Jaimican accent he shouted, “Say…brotha I see that you are rockin’ that sweet Beach House again. I come over and jam out, man.” In typical fashion, Scratch didn’t bother walkin’ over to his gate opening it and closing it, and walking over to my gate and doing the same. He just jumped over the fence and plotted himself down on the front steps—“da stoop,” as we call it on my block.
Scratch and I sat on the porch for what seemed like an hour, and didn’t say one word to one another. We just puffed away and became two members of the Beach House “Teen Dream” wolfpack. Silver Soul became alive right before my eyes some more. Lalo and his cousin, Chuey, cruised by in their low rider ’67 Impala cream colored exterior and interior with hydraulics to boot. On the hood of the whip there was a chrome grillin’ woman blowin’ in the wind. “Whip,” is a term for a car or ride in the Ghettovilles of America if you didn’t know that already. And as they faded away to the end of the block we could hear Dre’s “Let Me Ride” as they bent around the corner. Lalo and Chuey both lived a block over with their tia, Rose Mary. I think the street was, Norway, but don’t qoute me on that because I think the street name might be LoverOfMine. They were some chill vatos too but you wouldn’t want to cross them. They were from Mexican Mafia, La EME, roots. My other next door neighbor, Mr. Eastwood, he was a retired veteran of the U.S. Army served in Vietnam and some other skirmishes. He walked out of his house and started to wave but dropped his hand down as soon as he saw Scratch sittin’ next to me. I don’t think he liked Scratch much or any minorities. He was a complicated man and perhaps mean on the surface but he was actually quite nice if one was patient enough to get to know him. Two things to know about Mr. Eastwood, he always raised the American flag up every morning and lowered the colors at dusk, and never missed a day—never. And the second thing, shortly after raising the colors up the pole he watered his grass—front and back. Never missed spot or a blade of grass, and he made sure of it. That man loved his grass. He treated his grass better than his neighbors. Shit…..better than his wife and kids. That’s probably why they all left him years ago, and don’t bother coming by to see him. As for me, he was fond of me and invited me to dinner sometimes with him and his dog, Preacher. I like Preacher, he was a older German Sheppard who was gentle and loved attention unlike Mr. Eastwood. Moreover, for a lonely man who never had visitors, Mr. Eastwood, was quite the cook. I was always suprised after dinner how good his dishes were. Which was why I never minded his invitations or his company. I think the main reason Mr. Eastwood enjoyed my company was because I was a veteran as well, who could swap service stories. Mr. Eastwood called us veterans, “a dyin’ breed.” I agreed, a “dyin’ breed” we were.
Scratch got up off the stoop and suggested, “Say….brotha lets go for a walk. Look at the day, brotha. I don’t know about you but the winds be callin’ me. Let’s do this.” He dusted off his shorts and headed to the gate. I was a little hesistant to go for a walk at first because I was still a little woozy from last night’s party. I felt like any minute I was about to puke up last night’s fries. But I gave the idea a once over and I felt the stroll would be a great idea—fresh air. So I, too, got up and dusted off my shorts and headed to the gate. “So what’s your plan? Where we headin’, Scratch?”
“A walk, brotha. Just a walk.” He replied. Not soon after they closed the gate and started headin’ down the street. Scratch asked, “So what’s up with that girl from last night?”
“What girl?”
“Brotha, don’t play dumb. The whole neighborhood could hear ya two goin’ at. You guys were so loud sounded like she needed help.”
“What are you talkin’ about? I didn’t have sex last night. I would have remembered that for sure. Believe me, I haven’t had some in three months.”
Scratch passed over the joint. “Boi….you were cuttin’ up something, brotha. I thought for sure Miss O’Connor was gunna call the coyotes.” Scratch paused. “I was almost excited for you but then I was a little worried.”
“Scratch….I’m tellin’ you the truth. I don’t remember sleepin’ with any girl.”
Less than two blocks on Zebra St. a roller (police call) pulled up next to the boys. “Ya’ll two stop right there.” And the cop gets out of the car. “I’ve been lookin’ for you, Benny Alvarez.”
“I’m Detective Jordan vender Sloot,” the cop said as he pulled out his badge.
Scratch looked over at me. “Brotha…I didn’t know your name was Benny Alvarez. I was thought it was, Brotha.” Scratch paused for a sec to calm his nerves down because of the joint blazin’ away by his foot. As the cop approached the two Scratch asked again. “What the hell did you do last night, Brotha?”
I looked back over to Scratch and whispered. “Man, I’m sorry I don’t know. I really don’t know what the fuck happened last night.
The cop saddled up next to the two boys. “Alright, Benny, you’re coming with me downtown. I got some questions to ask you.”
“What the hell? Detective, what the hell am I been charged with? Please help me understand this.”
“Ya man, what did Benny do?” Inquired Scratch.
As the cop was readin’ my rights and handcuffin’ me, the cop turned back to Scratch, “Benny has been charged with brutally rapin’ a young teenage girl. Sixteen years of age, who is in intensive care as we speak. The reason why you don’t remember a thing, Benny, was because you drugged her and probably drugged yourself on accident as you were preparin’ to rape another teen dream.” The cop placed Benny in the roller and closed the door. “We seen these cases before, and now we finally got him. He’s had a long enough stretch of rapin’ women.” The cop said to Scratch as he made his way to his car door.
Scratch looked perplexed and dumbfouned. He couldn’t imagine his bestfriend doin’ something like this. But then again he often wonderd how Benny was always sleepin’ with the hottest of women. Tears began to roll down Scratch’s face. The roller slowly pulled away and just as Scratch started to see my face come crashin’ with tears. I suddenly turned my frown into a smile. A devilish smile that Scratch had never seen before. A Jack the Ripper or Dorian Gray kind of smile. It was a smile of a prince charmin’ in wolf’s clothing.
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