Jenny
After a long moment of stunned realization, I started laughing with my head tilted back and my eyes closed. Just as suddenly, my arms fell to my side and my body went lifeless as if some dark force had instantly sucked all the life from inside of me. The letter fell from my hand and into a small run off of water heading for the curb gutter. I gazed like a man who just found out his family had been killed in a head-on collision. I thought about going for the letter and saving it, but I couldn’t move just now. I didn’t seem to breathe.
My lips stuck together. The wind echoed in my ears. I watched the record company letter go towards the street drain, exactly like my dream of the music I had created with a guitar player named Joey Zagarino. The letter had wrapped around one of the small iron bars over the gutter drain. As I stared at the wet letter, it now represented my new life without Joey. One day we could be wanted by a record company and the next day I could be bending over the gutter. I took three steps and picked up the soggy paper. I turned and looked at Adele. I was now shivering from the emotional shock. She could see in my eyes I was about to crack.
I held up the soggy record company letter to her. “This is what’s left!”
I fell against my car. She ran to me.
“Rusty.”
I turned violently around, digging both of my hands into my hair as if I’d been shot in the head. The emotion boiled up into my face as I burst out crying. The tears of rage and defeat shot from my eyes like small rain clouds. I pulled her to me and just wept, burying my head on her shoulder. It spilled from me in great waves of release. Adele had probably never seen anyone cry like this before. My heart was so broken I didn’t care what I appeared like to anyone else.
I put my head back, trying to control myself, but the emotion was so great, the sadness so profound, I had to get it out somehow.
“Rusty, it’s okay,” she kept saying. “I know, I know, honey, how you feel.”
She set me down on the lawn. She kept her hand on my arm, then moved it to my cheek. I grabbed her hand as if it were a lifeline. I looked at her with such red, swollen eyes, that she felt helpless. I said, “What if—What if this is as close as Joey and I ever get, Adele? What if this was our only shot and we wind up old farts selling dumb ass insurance to people who don’t care or know anything about music. What if I never see him again?”
We sat on the lawn leaning against the old Chevy. She took my hand and got as close as she could to me.
“This phase of our lives might be over, but I’ll guarantee you this: That a new one will start soon that has some of the elements that we learned from this one. And mixing that with the new one will make it all better.”
I smiled. “How’d you get so smart, Gidget?”
“I shared a piece of my life with two musicians with big hearts. Joey Zagarino and Rusty Johnson.”
We stood and walked around the car to the driver’s side. I got in and started the engine. We stared at each other silently. I put my hand out the window. It had the wet Record Company letter in it. Adele took it. The car started to roll. We watched our hands slowly separate.
“I love you, Adele,” I whispered.
“I love you, Rusty,” she answered.
II
Chorus
4
Town Without Pity
My sluggish red and white Bel-Air pulled half-heartedly onto Third Street. I slurped coffee from a plastic cup, hoping the caffeine would kick-start my worried mind. At the light I reached down and put seven forty-five records upside down into my newly installed mobile record player. My favorite, “Surfer Bird” by the Trashmen, kicked in and its parody of the Motown lyric and the surfing driving beat brought a faint smile to my lips.
I stopped my car at another red light as early morning workers scrambled to their different duties, some with plastic lunch pails, others with paper sacks.
When “Surfer Bird” finished, the next record dropped and jammed. The needle went SSSKKKKK across the record causing me to flinch. Suddenly, I slammed the player with my right hand in anger.
“Shit, does anything work in my life anymore?” I yelled.
An engine’s loud revving roared to my left as I waited at the signal. I slugged more coffee and thought sarcastically, Just what I need, some speed-o ho-dad racer wants to flex his ego in his car. So much for the hospitality welcome wagon bit.
“I don’t need this shit,” I moaned to myself and glanced over at the challenger. There, dressed to the nines and topped with a shit-eating grin, sat Eddie Olmos in his red 1961 Chevy.
“Hey, dude!” Olmos yelled across his front seat and out the open window. “How you doing?”
“Hey, Eddie! What are you doing down here?”
Eddie roared with laughter. “What am I doing down here? No, the question is what are you doing down here?”
The remark caught me just right and I busted up with laughter, getting exactly what he meant. What’s a white boy doing in the heart of Latino-land in East Los Angeles at seven in the morning?
“I thought you lived over in Monterey Park?” Eddie asked.
“Up until last week I did, man. My parents sold our house and split to Orange County. Joey Zagarino was dragged back east and the Upsets broke up.”
“I heard. Sorry,” Eddie returned.
“Thanks.”
We were both darting our eyes up to the signal and back at each another, ready to spring from the line when it changed.
“My sister lives back there,” I continued, pointing over my left shoulder, “at Indian and Third with her husband and kids. I’m renting a room to finish school here.”
Just then the signal light turned green and we had to roll. Two blocks further, we continued our conversation at the next red light.
I yelled through my window, “I thought you lived in Montebello over there close to Greenleaf off Telegraph.”
“I did…ah…I do…Well, it’s a long story,” Eddie said. “I’m actually staying with my father right now just off Brooklyn Avenue and then sometimes at my mom’s. She lives in Montebello. They’re divorced.”
Damn. Had the shit hit the fan for everybody? “What a drag,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, so am I. It makes it hard sometimes on the family. But anyway, dude.”
He glanced at the light, carefully balancing his throttle and clutch pedals. The cars resembled race horses at the starting gate, rolling back and forth, anxious to run.
“Hey, well, we’re neighbors now, thrown together by life’s little tragedies. We should meet every day on the corner and cruise to school together.”
“Cool, okay,” I said, almost shouting to be heard over the revving engines.
“I live two blocks from you. Wanna race?” Eddie yelled while turning up “So Fine” by The Fiestas on his radio.
“Yeah,” I mocked. “I can get this bucket of bolts up to about forty now.”
We immediately pretended like we were driving with our cars still standing still at the red light, racing their engines loudly while steering our wheels like lunatics.
Eddie had been the first person to get me to smile since my world collapsed. I saw in Eddie’s personality that same over-the-top energy that I loved in Joey—fearlessness and the ability to quickly get everyone laughing.
The light turned green and we acted out wild race car gestures while gunning our engines furiously. I quickly turned my radio to find the same station Eddie was listening to. It could only be one of two choices: The extremely popular KRLA with Sam Riddle in the mornings or KFWB with “Emperor” Bob Hudson. I turned to KRLA and found “So Fine.” Now my friend’s car and my own pounded with the same driving music as we cruised in tandem, both of us forgetting our personal tribulations.
We began playing an impromptu game of car tag now, speeding up and slowing down next to each other. Eddie suddenly sang at the top of his lungs across his front seat, “Well, I know…She loves me so…Oh…Oh!”
During the bridge of the song,
we made even wilder gestures. We egged each other on in some strange, exhilarating, cast-your-fate-to-the-wind dance on wheels.
“Go! Go! Go!” Eddie yelled as we tried to keep our eyes on the road and still perform for each other. Eddie, putting on the complete act now, grabbed a small black comb from his pocket and started combing his pompadour-styled hair.
I immediately did the same thing.
An old, beat up 1948 Chevy truck had stopped suddenly in Eddie’s lane. I saw that he wasn’t looking, so I screamed, “EDDIE, LOOK OUT!” Eddie came out of his hair combing dance, shot a look in my direction, and darted a look straight ahead. His face contorted into horrifying fear. His lips curled back and his eyes widened like spot lights as he screamed “SHIIITTT!”
The cars met in a bending metal rage as my car sped by in the right lane.
“Damn!” I yelled, slamming my clenched fists down on the Bel-Air’s black steering wheel. I quickly pulled my car into a U-turn and returned to the scene.
Eddie had gotten out of his red Chevy and was busy examining the damage with the other driver when I pulled up and parked against the curb.
“Everyone all right?” I yelled.
“I think so,” Eddie responded, a little dazed but none the worse for wear.
The driver of the other car didn’t speak English and Eddie was busy speaking in Spanish. He asked him if he was hurt and if he needed anything.
“You better call the police, Rusty. Looks like I did some damage to this poor man’s truck.”
“Is he all right?” I asked Eddie.
“Yeah, he is, but he doesn’t have insurance and I do. We’ll figure something out. I just think we should have a police report because I’m on my father’s insurance policy and I want to cover all the bases.”
“Sure,” I agreed. “I’ll call the police from that gas station over there. See if you can get the cars off the road.”
I walked across the street to call the police. I related the details and approximate address. I then called Bette, a girl I’d been dating and was picking up for school, to tell her that he’d be “a little late.”
After the police left and the driver was on his way, Eddie and I leaned against Eddie’s crashed car.
“Looks like your luck is catching up to mine,” I said.
“Actually, things are great. I’ll just be without a car for a while,” Eddie explained.
“Here’s an idea,” I offered. “Call your insurance right now, find out where you should take it and I’ll follow you. Since we’re neighbors now, I can drive you to school. I could use the company since I’m living all the way over here now.”
“Thanks, man. That’d be great.”
Lunch was in progress by the time we made it back to school. When we entered the crowded cafeteria, applause broke out from different sections, accompanied by voices imitating cars and crashing sounds. Shouts of “Congratulations!” and “Wanna borrow my car?” flew through the air liberally.
“News travels fast, I see,” Eddie cracked.
“They know something we don’t?” I said laughing.
“Looks like they know it all,” Eddie said.
Our girlfriends Bette and Irene, both lovely trim brunettes with bangs for days, casually strolled over. Bette resembled an eighteen year old Angie Dickenson and Irene’s statuesque figure and soft brown eyes melted hearts on a regular basis.
I had tried settling into a normal routine with Bette after Joey left and I wasn’t allowed to see Adele anymore.
“Well,” Irene smiled. “It’s Crash Corrigan and his trusty side kick, Rusty.”
Bette laughed so hard she was wiping moist tears from her eyes as I gave her a hug. “God! You guys really know how to get attention, don’t you? Just a couple of show-offs looking for an audience.”
I turned and smiled. “Well, it seems to me, Betty Boop, you’re the only one I called to tell what happened. How’d the whole school find out? Huh?”
“You must be big important guys,” she said. “I only told first period when I was calling roll. Had to say something ‘cause you weren’t there, big boy.”
Eddie pulled open a bag of corn nuts with his teeth and interjected, “Anyway…My new neighbor, Rusty here—”
“Neighbor?” Irene said with surprise. “I thought you lived in Monterey Park, Rusty.”
“It’s a long story,” I said. “Clue you in later.”
“Yeah,” Eddie continued, “Rusty’s offered to drive me to school while the Chevy’s in the shop.”
“I guess somebody’s going to have to drive your ass around,” I quipped. “You sure as shit can’t drive yourself.”
For the next two weeks, I would pull my Bel-Air in front of Eddie’s house on Cheese Borough Lane at 7:00 a.m. and honk twice. I’d bust up laughing as Eddie leaped from the front porch and dashed to the car as if trying to set an Olympic record. The half hour drive to Montebello High School was ample time for us to hash over the problems we’d been facing: Eddie’s parents divorcing and my conflicts with losing the Upsets; Joey being taken away; the kaput record label interest; my relationship with Adele; and then—as if that weren’t enough—my parents selling the house I grew up in and moving two hours away to Yorba Linda.
“I’m not usually a depressed person, but after the work we put into the Upsets, when it folded I thought I’d go bonkers. Then, I see the letter from the record company that they were interested five minutes after Joey’s family hauled his ass to Jersey. Then my parents sell our house from under me.”
“My band is getting tons of gigs these days,” Eddie said. “I’ve renamed it The Left Hand.”
“Boss,” I said. “I’ve got to start something new now that the Upsets are gone-zo.”
“I got a brainstorm!” Eddie said. “It will get your mind off what’s happened to you lately and help me with the new band. Why don’t you come jam with my band tonight? As just a singer, I mean. We already have a drummer. And besides, I think you’d do better out front with your singing voice.”
My eyes widened. I turned to look at Eddie, but before I could get a word out, Eddie grabbed my arm for enthusiasm as if he were magically transmitting some mystical power to me. It was a comical, friendly gesture, but just the same, this boy wasn’t afraid to make his point.
“We could do a Righteous Brothers thing,” Eddie carried on like a politician needing votes. “We could be a team! Of course, you can drum anytime you like, or play whatever. It gives us both a lot of freedom to roam around the stage, singing and dancing.”
“Out in front, huh?” I considered this, smiling to myself. “Sure,” I said. “Where?”
Eddie turned his algebra book over and placed a piece of paper on it. “Ah…Oh, wait, I don’t need to give you directions, we…ah…have to go together ’cause my car’s still in the shop. Remember?”
In the garage that night, everyone was wailing with friendly laughter. Someone had even sneaked in a beer. After meeting everyone, I said, “Eddie, let’s get funky like the monkey.”
“Let’s kick out ‘Mustang Sally,’ you guys!” Coach Olmos yelled at the band.
“Key of C,” I said pointing to the band, getting an image of myself as Bobby Darin doing my band gig number.
Eddie counted it off. “Ah…one…two...”
The music started and we approached the microphones. Eddie’s cool, James Brown-styled movement was hypnotically compelling. He closed his eyes and gripped the microphone as if it were his passport to another world. He sang the first verse and then motioned to me to sing the second verse.
We sang all the choruses together.
“Ride, Sally, ride!”
“Let’s swap verses on ‘The House Of The Rising Sun,’” I suggested, and we did. Eddie and I sang and played for another hour and a half before ending the evening.
After rehearsal, we found ourselves walking around Monterey Park for the next hour, talking about this new idea.
“I think it works, Johnson,” Eddie began. “Wh
at do you think?”
I took a second, thinking about the challenge of being in front all the time. “I love being in front, Eddie. And you’re a very cool head to be working with. I’m not weighed down by the drum set. I can really concentrate on my singing and not have to worry about driving the band all the time.”
An empty Bubble Up bottle lay on the lawn of a house we passed. Eddie tapped it with his Kinney’s loafer.
I continued, “Are you sure you want to share the front of the band with me? I mean, you’re great on your own.”
Eddie smiled. “You’ve been at this some time now. You have a good reputation and can really sing. I’m just a James Brown-type singer.”
“And a shaker,” I said, making the point with my finger. “You are the Edward Olmos, man.”
“Thanks. Because our voices are so different, we can do more kinds of material. I really listened tonight on how we blended on the high-energy stuff and it mixes well. I think we could make something happen, get to the Hollywood circuit, you know, do the Whiskey, Gazzarri’s, the London Fog, the Galaxy, and the Sea Witch. We could do a few dates around here, then start the auditioning process in Hollywood. I know we could make it work. I felt really bad for you when I found out Joey went to New Jersey. But I started thinking it’d be so cool if you sang lead in my band with me. You know, make the best of a bad situation.”
“Isn’t that a blues song?” I asked.
Eddie started singing, “Gotta make the best of a bad sitchu-a-tion!”
“I’m in if you want me, daddy-o.”
“Great, I think we can climb mountains together,” Eddie said in his deep, gravelly voice.
After school each day, Eddie and I went back to work with our new band. I often found myself thinking about Joey. Many times over the past few months as I was uplifted by Eddie’s boundless enthusiasm, I felt grateful I had found a new friend. I knew how deeply Joey had been wounded and I worried that he would not find a friend like Eddie.
“I told the band to be here at three,” Eddie said.
Strong gusts of wind pounded at our backs as Eddie and I walked up the steps of the East Los Angeles College Auditorium. We pushed the bar handles of the double doors and walked in. Our eyes fell over the five hundred empty seats. It was widely known around the campus of E.L.A. Junior College that Eddie Olmos had been performing with his band around town. Someone on the committee of the Junior College approached Eddie about bringing his new band to the campus for a performance. Eddie gratefully accepted the opportunity, knowing it would be a great way to premier his idea of two front singers.
Walk, Don't Run Page 5
