VII.
Jimmy stands up and sways, a little then a lot. It took a moment to get right with gravity and the Earth’s rotation. They set off among the live oaks when they hear a soft moaning followed by a grunt and a sharp intake of breath. In the shadows, they see the pale legs of someone squatting, no pants, dead white hands grasping at the ground. Spread wide, they are locked on a pair of boots. Danny’s boots. He sat reclined against an oak, pants around his ankles, hands caressing as Sher’s naked hips grinded back and forth on his cock.
“Yeah, yeah. Nice and tight.”
“You like my chinky pussy? Hmmmm.”
“That Viet cunt is sooo tight.”
“Race-mix me, baby!” She squirmed.
Danny fixed his arms around her waist, bucking harder, balls flapping up and down.
Jimmy and Skinny watched. Skinny clasped his face, shaking his head.
Danny grabbed one of Sher’s neon orange pigtails, yanking her head back.
She saw Skinny watching and bit her lower lip, closing her eyes. She leaned back to kiss Danny; throat muscles working, she slid her tongue all the way into Danny’s mouth.
Skinny ran away tearing up. Jimmy followed.
VIII.
“Hey man, I’m sorry Danny’s such an asshole,” Jimmy said.
Skinny slumped on a bench away from the others. “Nah man, I should’ve known. I should’ve known. Sher’s always had a rep. But I felt like I was close this time.”
“Looking for that first fuck? Shit bro, same feeling. At least you don’t have any doubts about her being a freaky, bomb-ass fuck,” Jimmy said and smiled. “C’mon on man, she’s just some weirdo slut.” Skinny looked up and pointed at his dark purple Mohawk.
“Oh, right. Well, you’re just a dark dude. She’s a twisted fucko.”
The others saw them return.
“What’s up, guys?” Wingnut asked.
“Nothing. Skinny here just had his heart broken.” Jimmy said.
“Oh?”
“Danny’s playing tunnel rat with Ms. Saigon.”
“Dan always been a yellow hound dog,” Wingnut said.
“Let’s just beat it. I don’t really care to wait for Danny to bust his nut,” Jimmy said. “That good with everyone?”
“I’m fine with that,” Wingnut said.
“I’ve wasted enough of my life waiting while Sher got fucked,” Gee said.
Azie just shrugged.
Queef cleared his throat, “Nah. I’m not ditching Danny,” pointing at the three other skins he continued, “and neither should you guys. Loyalty among smooths.”
“Oh, can it, Beef. Danny’s a fucking degenerate. He constantly ditches us to chase poon. So drop the loyalty shit; he’s our pal mostly when he can’t get with his usual drinking crew.”
Wingnut said, “Queef, I am sick of Danny’s big man on campus act.”
“I’m fine with whatever you guys want to do,” Gee said.
Jimmy turned to Queef, saying, “I guess this is goodbye; maybe you can give Danny a hand and break off a piece for yourself.”
“See you dipshits around,” Queef said as the six of them walked off.
IX.
“Sorry Sher is such a slut,” Gee told Jimmy.
“I don’t care, I wasn’t the one with the hots for her,” Jimmy said, looking back at Skinny, who was walking hands in pockets, shoulders slumped.
“Skinny gets like that: moons over some girl for a couple of months, gets his heart broken, writes poetry, dyes his hair another color. By next week, he’ll be fine.”
Wingnut broke in, “Kids, I don’t know about you all, but I’ve got the munchies like a motherfucker. Who wants Pollo Loco?”
Wingnut gave Skinny a jostle. “C’mon let’s get some burritos in you. Or we could get some of Jimmy’s mom’s cooking. Get some homemade enchiladas.”
“Oh no, I’m not busting in on my mom at eleven at night drunk and high.”
“El Pollo Loco it is! Woooohoooo!” Wingnut took off at a run, cutting through an office complex parking lot.
The others did the hot foot and followed.
In the parking lot, two cars were parked. A group of cholos and cholas were assembled. Hard men and women, both sexes alike dressed in oversized khaki shorts and pants, rocking white tank tops under flannels buttoned at the top.
Cypress Hill blared.
Azie brought up the rear. He stopped for a moment and stared at the clickas. For an instant, he locked eyes good and hard on a busty chola.
She spat at him, “Fuck, you looking at guero!?”
And he was off in the wind.
Azie rejoined the group as they gathered around a self-serve kiosk.
Wingnut confirmed the order, “Okay, so we have two ten piece familia dinners and six drinks. Anything else?”
“Burritos,” Azie said.
“What?” Wingnut asked.
“Ranchero burritos, kill the munchies,” Azie said.
“And six Ranchero burritos!” Wingnut added with a flourish of the hand.
Jimmy went to the bulletproof glass partition and gave an enthusiastic thumbs up to the workers.
When they sat down, a group of three slight-built preppy white boys in MAGA hats kept eying them nervously. Wingnut cocked his thumb at them and said, “What kind of soy is this?”
The boys’ eyes went wide.
Jimmy piped up, “Don’t worry about us punks; we’re your friendly neighborhood skinheads. But our friends here all in black,” he turned and winked at Skinny and Gee, “well, they’re vampires and might suck you dry.”
Gee hissed and pulled her lips back in a snarl and flexed her black nailed fingers like cat’s claws.
“Come on, man, you know they don’t get sucked by anything living or dead!” Wingnut said in a fit of laughter.
The MAGA preppy boys whipped out their phones and recorded.
The skinhead crew howled.
Hands quivering, Wingnut said, “Oh noes! The bitch tit soy boy squad gonna stir up the Internet mob for their two minutes of hate.”
Jimmy jumped up, thrusting his pelvis forward, and added, “Hey, MAGA soccer moms of California,” then pointing at his crotch, “chew on this. I wash it once a week! Oi!”
“How rude, young man! Shame on you! They’re just boys!.” Gee clasped her chest and mock swooned.
Skinny had his head down, pounding the table, laughing.
Azie sat there still and let out a, “Heh.”
A black man as wide as he was tall, in a salad-flecked and grease-stained El Pollo Loco work shirt, waddled out into the dining area, his cocked-eyed stare looking hard.
“Hey! Get the fuck out of here before I call the cops.”
The laughing stopped, the smart phones recorded on, looks were exchanged.
Jimmy stood upright and said, “Sure. Can we get to-go bags?”
X.
They ate, they walked, they talked, laughing at the squares, at the normies, at the kids from the hills. The nightlife pulsed along the boulevard.
Gee pointed at an abandoned bus bench and sat down. Jimmy took a sudden breath, “Gee, that’s tagged ‘VBPP.’”
“So? There’s no bums asleep on it. My feet are tired, I sit. I don’t think the Brown Pride is going to give a shit about some rejects sitting on ‘their’ bench.” She made air quotes. Azie sat next to her and dug into a bag fishing out a burrito.
“Mmmm…munchies,” he said.
Skinny sat down pointing at the bounty. Azie handed him one.
The three goths took up the bench.
Wingnut and Jimmy stood uncomfortable.
“Fuck it, dude, we civies really,” And Wingnut planted his ass next to Gee. Jimmy sat on the curb; an olive shrub poked him through his bomber jacket.
Gee giggled at himm sitting uncomfortably.
“Gee, shut up and pass me a taco,” Jimmy said.
Jimmy contended with some stringy melted cheese; Skinny pounded down some burritos. Azie burped, then Wingnut burped louder. Azie gulped down some air and ripped a burp so hard piece of pre-digested chicken flew from his lips. Wingnut cocked an eyebrow and said, “Oh yeah?” And belted out a window-shaking belch.
“And the winner is Wingnut!” Gee shouted.
“What do I win?” Wingnut said.
“A kiss!” Gee said and kissed Wingnut on the forehead.
Jimmy flushed ruddy and unleashed an even bigger burp. Leaning into it, he blasted out a huge fart. Gee’s mouth tightened until it was a pinhole, waving her hand in front of her face, “Ugh. No, dude. Stinkers are not winners.”
Skinny rocked back and forth, silently laughing.
A metallic green chromed out ‘64 Chevy Impala lowrider pulled to the curb in front of them. Two cholos on the passenger side eyed them up. The cholos were looking away when a shrill screech issued from inside the lowrider, “There he ees! That punk white boy who be dissin.’” Ms. Busty Chola leaned out from the rear seat, pointing at Azie. The doors sprung open; the driver, a tall Latino man in neatly-pressed chinos, white tank top, and flannel stepped around. Two of the other men trailed behind Ms. Busty, who was still pointing at Azie running towards him. Big tiddies bounced, mesmerizing Azie, fixing his gaze.
Too late; she sunk a wild right haymaker on the side of Azie’s head. Azie sprung up; Jimmy leapt to his feet asone of the cholos got between Ms. Busty and Azie.
“Whoa, chiquita! What’s goin’ on?” he said.
“That’s the crazy white kid who gave me the eye,” she said through her nostrils.
“This true?” the cholo turned to Azie.
Azie stayed silent, glaring from under his omnipresent hoodie.
Gee reached inside her jacket pocket and held her hand there, tight, unyielding.
The driver went over to Jimmy. “Hey homie, you know these fools?”
“Yeah, Hector, they’re okay. He just doesn’t say much,” Jimmy cocked his chin at Azie.
Hector turned to his crew. “Vic, get her under control.”
Vic pulled Ms. Busty away.
He almost had her back in the car when she broke loose.
“Ximena!” Vic shouted.
Too late.
She closed in on Azie, winding up for another swing.
A misstep; she plowed into him, big tiddies and all.
His hoodie flew back, revealing the deeply scarred side of his head; an ear like melted wax caused Ximena to pause for a moment.
A moment too long.
With an expression as black as sin, Azie shot out two quick left jabs to her mouth, then a wicked right cross to the nose. Ximena, stunned, stood bolt upright, and Azie, shifting faster than the eye could follow, cracked her in the jaw with a left hook.
Lights out, Ximena pivoted on her heels and hit the pavement, big ol’ tiddies juddering like two bags of Manteca lard.
Vic and the other cholo sprung into action.
Gee pulled her hand out of her pocket, followed by the click of a lockback knife.
The goths ran, Wingnut ran, Jimmy pumped his legs.
“This way!” he shouted, pointing towards a pedestrian overpass.
Hector watched them take off; looking down at Ximena, he said, “Stupid puta.”
The two cholos fell into single file behind the group on the pedestrian bridge. Jimmy swung back behind Gee and the others.
“Keep going.” Cocking his chin at Wingnut, Jimmy said, “Take ‘em to the pipe.”
“Got it, Jimmy. Don’t get dead,” Wingnut said and motioned to the goths.
Jimmy did the Clint Eastwood Man with No Name saunter towards their pursuers. Vic spread his arms wide, cocking his chin, getting in Jimmy’s face, “You it, holmes?”
“You know what?” Jimmy said.
“What, white boy?”
“The smell of Aqua Velva is shit.”
Vic snapped his hands into a shove.
Jimmy yanked them down, pulling Vic forward, driving a Thai knee into his face.
Vic’s jaw crunched, his head snapped back, his legs turned to jelly, and the smell of shit stank up the walkway.
Cholo got into a boxer’s stance ready.
Jimmy sprung off Vic’s prone form, throwing his weight behind a jumping front kick.
Cholo was quick and pivoted to his left.
Just not quick enough to avoid the follow-on Superman punch.
Instant punch drunk, Cholo stumbled as Jimmy swept him up into a hip toss. He landed with an audible smack.
Jimmy Eastwood walked away, looking back occasionally.
He descended the stairs, past the homeless encampment, down the highway bank. He found the storm pipe.
“You guys there?” he said.
Two smartphone lights came on.
“What’s the plan, big man? Is it safe to come out?” Wingnut asked.
“I think we should stay out of sight, out of mind for a few days,” Jimmy said, “Hector’s boys are going to be laid up for a while, but the Percocet should make them forget.”
Skinny said, “What’d you do?”
“Broke some bones, handed out a couple of concussions. Nothing worse than they were planning for you guys,” Jimmy smiled and turned his phone’s light on. “Anyways, hope you guys have enough battery for a walk.”
“What?”
“Huh?”
“We’re taking the city’s ‘subway’ system,” Jimmy said and walked into darkness.
For a while, they walked in silence, the booze and pot working their way out of their systems. They went deeper into the storm system; soon, they were in a place where the tagger’s art hadn’t reached. An endless gray arch embraced them.
A few times, Jimmy paused at a juncture to check his phone before making a decision.
Gee peered into the darkness of the intersecting pipes. Once, she thought she saw something pale and vaguely human in shape.
“Don’t bother wondering, Gee,” Jimmy said, “some of the less-used channels have folks living in them.”
“God,” she said.
Soon ahead was a circle of orange light.
“Well, fearless explorers, we have found our destination,” Jimmy announced, “La Sierra Park.”
They emerged onto a deserted creek bank, the sounds of the boulevard muted by distance.
“Great, I’m only four blocks from home,” Skinny said.
Azie whispered, “Nice.”
“I’m beat, dudes and dudette,” Wingnut said. “Yt’s been real, it’s been fun, it hasn’t been real fun. Catch you later, Jimmy.”
Jimmy and Gee watched them depart; at first the three of them walked together before splitting off in different directions.
“You remember this place?” Jimmy said to Gee.
“Yeah, our parents used to bring us here for day camps and stuff when we we’re in grade school,” she said.
“Good times; thinking now, best days of my life.”
“That’s a bummer.” Gee nudged Jimmy’s shoulder.
“What? It’s the truth,” he said.
“No. Thinking that way.”
They stood in silence for a little.
Jimmy checked his phone.
“You know, sometimes I come here by myself, early in the morning.”
“Oh? Is someone getting sappy on me?”
“Do you still climb?” Jimmy asked.
“You always did win. I remember your mom freaking out that one time you went all the way to the top. We all had a good laugh when you had trouble getting down,” Gee remembered.
“I want to show you something. Follow me,” he said taking Gee by the hand.
Jimmy led her to a tree. “This is the one.”
Gee looked at it. “Funny, I remember it being bigger.”
Jimmy hoisted himself into the lower branches and climbed, shouting down to Gee, “C’mon, or do you still need a boost?”
“Boost my ass!” she said and followed.
They got as high as the branches would support two full-grown adults.
Jimmy pointed in a direction. “Over there, watch.”
Gee turned, looking out over the city. “What am I looking for?”
“It’ll be a few minutes.”
A pink, golden-tinged line broke over the periwinkle band marking the horizon. It grew until the whole eastern sky was a mass of reddish pinks and oranges, dispelling the purple hues of the night.
Birds sang to the dawn’s light.
“Lovely,” she said.
“Lovely.”
***
For all installments of “On the Boulevard Under the Swastika: A Heartwarming Tale of Hate,” click here.
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Proteus Juvenalis, of the Lost Generation, is a cynic and misanthrope orbiting Neptune and contemplating his former home. His stream of consciousness broadcasts can be found on Telegram.
