Having None of It
Page 1
DAHLIA SEASON
stories & a novella
MYRIAM GURBA
(a Future Years book)
Manic D Press
San Francisco
For TJ
The author would like to thank the following publications where some of these stories originally appeared, in slightly different form: Tough Girls (Black Books), Bottoms Up (Soft Skull), and Problem Child magazine.
The Future Tense series is edited by Kevin Sampsell.
©2007 Myriam Gurba. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. Contact Manic D Press, PO Box 410804, San Francisco, CA 94141. www.manicdpress.com. Printed in the USA.
Cover photo: © Cora Reed. www.corachaos.net
Author photo: © Ivana Ford. www.ivanaford.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Gurba, Myriam.
Dahlia season : stories & a novella / Myriam Gurba.
p. cm. -- (The future tense series)
ISBN-13: 978-1-933149-16-5 (trade pbk. original : alk. paper)
ISBN-10: 1-933149-16-7 (alk. paper)
1. Mexican American lesbians--Fiction. 2. Goth culture (Subculture)–Fiction 3. Identity (Philosophical concept)–Fiction.
4. California, Southern–Fiction. I. Title.
PS3607.U5485D34 2007
813’.6–dc22
2007010565
Contents
Cruising
Just Drift
White Girl
Primera Comunión
Dahlia Season
Cruising
The beach is really crowded today. Somebody has their radio tuned to the oldies station and they’re playing “Tell It Like It Is.” It sounds sad. It’s too hot for a song like that. It’s the hottest day Long Beach has had in a really long time and they say it’s going to break records. Out in the street it looks like there are puddles but it’s just mini-mirages from the heat. The same thing on the pier. You wanna watch for those puddles you might slip in but it’s really just the heat.
Long Beach is not a clean beach. It’s crowded and full of trash, like Styrofoam cups and plastic wrappers and soda cans. Long Beach is also a poor beach. There’s no blondes in bikinis or movie stars. That’s Malibu or Orange County. This is a real California beach. Everybody here is Mexican or maybe Filipino or Black. There are all kinds of Mexican kids out splashing in the water. Some of their moms are old gangsters. They’re the big ladies parked on the faded beach blankets. You can tell what they are—veteranas, old-time gangsters—from their sloppy tattoos. There are no waves today but some of the little boys have their boogie boards out anyway. They’re grinning and they’re just floating, kind of going back and forth to the lazy rhythm of the ocean.
The pier is covered in people. Two drunks are having a burping contest and if you go anywhere near them you can smell the cheap malt liquor that they keep chugging out of their 40s. Brown paper bags wrap their bottles but hide nothing, the burps reek like King Cobra and are so loud you can hear them halfway down the pier. It’s gross. It stinks like fish up here, too, and people are fishing right where the kids are swimming and I wonder if anyone ever gets hooked by accident. Some kid could get it right through the skin but nobody seems to care. There are a million lines in the water and they overlap. They look like spiderwebs.
To my left there’s a little Mexican boy baiting an anchovy on a rusty hook. Next to him this little cholo has an octopus in a bucket and his kid brother is poking it with a stick. It’s going to die soon. To my right there’s a dark-skinned punk boy on a plastic chair that’s too small for him, probably from Pic‘n’Save. He’s trying to act cool, ignoring his family, his jefita, his mamá who’s passing out sandwiches wrapped in tinfoil to his brothers and sisters. He’s too cool to be kicking it at the pier with his family but they probably told him he had to go and it’s so hot out that he figured why not. His hair is in great big spikes, pointy, and they’re going to melt because of the heat. He looks like his heart is covered in barnacles and he’d rather be anywhere but here.
To escape from the sun, a lot of people crowd under the pier. It’s like there’s a little city down there trying to stay cool. There’s all kinds of people down there—families, fags, lovers, bums, drunks—everybody huddled under the pier trying to get wet and avoid sun. That’s their common bond. That and they’re not rich people, not the kind of California people you see in movies but the real kind of people who live and breathe and sweat and die in California.
This is the pier that separates the good beach from the poor beach. The good beach is about a mile down on the other side and it’s called Belmont Shores. That’s where the white people go. It’s right on the tip of Orange County. The beach that I’m on, that the pier belongs to, is the brown beach. The water is murky and weird stuff washes ashore all the time. About fifteen years ago they found something really horrible on the beach here. It was a head, just a head. No body, no hands, no nothing. This homo serial killer had cut it off one of his tricks but nobody knew that at the time. It was just a John Doe head until they found out Randy Kraft had been hunting and killing fags here in Long Beach for years, preying on boy whores, barflies, and even a few Marines.
At night, the fags like to fuck under the pier. I come out here with my friends sometimes and get drunk at night and listen to waves, and the pier looks like a scene out of a John Rechy novel, all sorts of hot clandestine fucking. You can see silhouettes moving back and forth to a really provocative rhythm and you think they’d just go to the gay bars down the street and have sex in the bathroom or the alleys. Broadway is right next to the beach and it’s lined with gay bars but for some reason these guys like to do it old fashioned, cruising outdoors.
It’s dangerous what they’re doing and maybe they’re closeted or they haven’t even come out to themselves. They probably don’t know that this was Randy Kraft’s old hunting ground. The beach patrol comes by at night to scare them and the straight couples who get it into their heads that it would be romantic to have sex on the beach away. They’re especially tough on the fags. They’ll drive across the sand in their little jeep and this guy'll get on his loudspeaker and he’ll yell into it, “Okay, faggots, pull up your pants. The party’s over.” You can see the shadows stop, their rhythm breaking and they scatter like roaches. But they’re back again within a couple of hours.
The Queen Mary is docked nearby. It’s one of the city’s biggest attractions. Right now they’re auditioning monsters for the haunted boat show that they have every year at Halloween. They decorate the boat all creepy and it costs twenty bucks to get on and see the show. They say that the boat really is haunted. There are things floating through it, walking the halls. The Spruce Goose used to be parked in a hangar nearby and some people say that Howard Hughes’ ghost wanders around it. You can hear his footsteps clicking and clacking against the bare concrete floor.
In the 1940s, Long Beach was really different and it had this fun boardwalk where sailors and Navy men used to hang out. It was kind of like Santa Monica with a wooden roller coaster and lots of games with cheap prizes. The air smelled like hot dogs and sweet cotton candy and kids could have fun for not a whole lot of money because there was a penny arcade with a big carousel. But the boardwalk had plenty of things for grown-ups, too. Because of the port, sailors would go hang out at the boardwalk before they had to ship out. It was always full of uniformed men, Navy boys in their little white pants and cocked gobs rolling up their sleeves to get tattoos of hearts that said “Mother” or their girl’s name. The boardwalk was also lined with bars that were dark and smoky inside
and there were girls everywhere looking to make a little money off of the sailors who might not be seeing women again for a very long time.
There was a really weird little wax museum at the end of the boardwalk that got famous for this gross exhibit they had there. It was run by some evangelical Christians who wanted to put a stop to all the vice they thought was destroying the boardwalk so they made these wax displays of what venereal disease did to the body. There were wax penises and wax vaginas with syphilis and the clap to scare the sailors away from fast sex and whores. But instead of scaring the sailors, they would get drunk or smoke some weed and then go to the museum and trip out on the wax replicas and laugh until their sides ached.
They say the Black Dahlia—this really, really famous murder victim—used to hang out there. She had a taste for sailors and servicemen and tattoos, and she combined these loves by hitching up her black dress and biting her lower lip and letting an inkslinger buzz some fella’s name into her thigh. No one’s certain what was written on her leg cause when her severed body was found in an empty lot, the banner was gouged out of her flesh. The killer might’ve been jealous of some other guy’s mark on his victim’s body, but I like to think it was the fiend’s John Hancock, a clue too precious to abandon.
The Black Dahlia’s old haunts are gone now. The roller coaster, the bars, the tattoo parlors. The only thing that’s still there is the carousel. The faggot sailors that started cruising the boardwalk back then, in the ‘40s, opened it up for the faggots who do it now. See, Long Beach is a city full of fags, working class fags. Short bears, sober queens, anarchist punk boys who like to suck dick. There’s a lot of dykes here too because they can afford to live here. It’s not like West Hollywood where you can’t make it on an average dyke’s salary. There aren’t many trannies though. Way more trannies in Hollywood. But I hate Hollywood.
The bathrooms at the beach are the best place to go cruising. I go sometimes. At first I just watched but now I do it, too. The first time I went, it was with my friend Stan. He took me to the Tomkat, this fag “theatre” on Santa Monica Boulevard, and he disguised me as a boy. I just put on really baggy pants and put up my hair in a beanie with a ball cap on over that and wore a big puffy jacket. I had on boots. I looked like a baby-faced Mexican boy. We went and sat down in the dark and after a while Stan got up and left me there. This guy came and sat down next to me. He took out his dick and jerked himself off. He looked kind of like Paul Reubens. Maybe he was. I sat and watched but I didn’t touch him. I could’ve if I’d wanted to.
I’ve cruised this beach at night before, under the moonlight. I wear the same kind of clothes, everything all baggy and loose and my hair up in a Yankees cap. The first time I went alone, I almost turned back and went home until I saw this Mexican guy looking me up and down. Now, girls check each other out like that all the time but it doesn’t mean anything. Girls do it because we’re trained to check out other girls. But when a guy looks at you like that it means something totally different, it means only one thing. So I followed him down to the beach. He took the stairs and he held onto the handrail. It was really cold that night and the air smelled like dead fish. We didn’t say anything. We just walked.
The beach felt like a different place at night, like a place full of dangerous possibilities that the waves were whispering to me. The guy had walked on ahead and I saw him turn into a public bathroom. I followed him there and stood outside for a second. I put my hands in my pockets and listened to the tide. Then I walked into the boy’s room that smelled like pee-pee and seaweed. There were already three other guys in there. One was standing with his back to me with his dick out, just holding it there like he was waiting to go pee. The other was leaning against a stall, just sort of watching everything. The Mexican guy was squatting with both feet on the toilet, sort of checking everybody out. This dude had a moustache and looked sort of wetback, like he probably had a wife or at least a girlfriend. The wetback was checking me out. His hair was kind of long and he was short.
More faggots started showing up and it made me nervous. There were six of us in the bathroom. Everybody kept taking out their dicks or rubbing their crotches so I went and stood next to a urinal and touched myself over my pants. The wetback checked me out as I did this and I know that if I’d been packing what he wanted I could have gone over to him to get a blowjob. I wasn’t though so I just stood there sort of squeezing myself like the other guys and then I saw someone I liked. He was a white guy, kind of younger, dressed sort of plain, kind of emo. He looked kind of lost but he was definitely queer. I looked right into his eyes but he looked down at the floor real fast. He was in there only a few minutes and then he was gone.
When I noticed he was gone, I went outside to go find him. He was standing by himself, smoking over by the girl’s bathroom. I saw the cherry of his cigarette bobbing up and down, and he was wearing a white T-shirt so he wasn’t hard to see. I walked over to where he was standing and just kind of leaned against the wall. We were quiet. He was blond. He walked over to me and sort of stood there smoking. He finished his cigarette and then he dropped it into the sand. His face slowly came at mine and he kissed me. His mouth tasted good, dirty and boyish, and his cheeks scratched my face. It was good to kiss a boy. He kissed me hard, his tongue darting around hot in my mouth like a wet warm lollipop and he sucked my lips. It was lovely.
He kissed me like that for a little while and then he pulled away. He grabbed my ass and he squeezed it. He felt it and he slipped his hands down my pants through my boxer shorts. He felt my hips. He kissed me and he reached down to grab my cock but he felt my wetness and I opened my eyes and he opened his. His finger was on my pussy and I pushed him away. I started running and I didn’t turn around. I ran up the stairs that led up the cliffs to the sidewalks and walked the rest of the way home. I got to my apartment and slipped the key into the door. I fell asleep in my boy drag and when I woke up the next morning I could still taste the emo boy in my mouth. But he was gone. I had spoiled everything. I ruined it by being myself, by being a girl.
Just Drift
No Mexican celebration is complete without a flan. I needed one bad, but not for no party. I needed a dessert to avoid my own funeral. I was going to bribe a powerful, plus-size woman with it.
Operatión Flan began with my big sister, Lydia. She’s famous for two things, being a phenomenal bitch and being a good cook. Last night, she got home from the bank all tired but, I begged her, I mean down on my hands and knees begged her, to make me one of her legendary desserts.
“Lydiaaaaaa,” I moaned, “you have to make me one. If there was a flan category in the L.A. County Fair, the judges would give you the blue ribbon, for sure!”
“Get off the floor, idiot! You look pathetic! Why does your skinny ass need a damn flan anyways?”
Lydia’s bad attitude got the better of me. “None of your damn business! Just do it!”
“Forget you!”
I got off the floor and brought out the big guns: “Remember that grocery money you stole from Mommy’s purse last year? She still doesn’t know you took it and gave it to your old boyfriend, Tommy, the one Mommy hated more than all the rest.”
“You little bitch,” Lydia seethed. “You wouldn’t?”
I smiled and nodded. Lydia stalked into the kitchen and got busy.
I breathed a sigh of relief and walked to my bedroom and sat at my desk, switched on my computer. The piece of shit’s always freezing, so I prayed to the virgin for no technical trouble, cracked my knuckles and began typing my junior thesis, “Catch-22: A Gay Romance Novel.” On page nine, my cell rang. It vibrated like a pair of chattering teeth off my desk and onto the carpet. Not wanting to disrupt my flow, I let voicemail get it.
Twenty pages later, it was midnight. Yossarian, the world’s biggest closet case, was getting on my last nerve so I bullshitted my conclusion, did a fast “Works Cited” list and title page, and hit “Print.” My thesis popped out. I stapled it and slid it into my backpack.
My cell vibrated so I leaned over and picked it up off the carpet. 1 New Message blinked on the display. I dialed voicemail and put the phone to my ear. Sokhun’s voice demanded, “Cassidy, be under the mural of Bill the Buffalo at seven-thirty, sharp.”
Sokhun. She’s my girl, my vieja1, what old time homeboys would call my heine2, a title that sounds like highness. Sokhun’s tiny and Cambodian with long, straight, silky black hair and she complains her name’s common, like the Khmer “Jennifer,” but to me, it’s gorgeous. What do I know though? Love blinds me. I’m the puppy in one of them what I think they call “spring-fall relationships.” Sokhun’s a senior. I’m barely a junior.
I called Sokhun back, but her phone rang and rang. With my cell still in hand, I leaned back on my mattress, shut my eyes and crashed hard as the space shuttle falling back to planet Earth.
Because of being blackmailed into cooking, Lydia woke up grouchy this morning. Esa ruca3 was stomping around the apartment and she hates me regardless. Lydia’s jealous cause I’m prettier than her; I got all the looks in this familia4. Plus Lydia thinks I’m a loser cause my crappy grades got me “d”-moted from Advanced Placement classes to almost all regular ones.
I don’t care I ain’t with the smart kids no more; all’s I care about is kickin’ it wit’ my girl, listening to my iPod, and DRIFTING! Vroom-vroom-vroom! Lydia thinks she’s the shit cause she’s leasing a German car and studying to be an accountant and she wears a suit to work everyday and stands behind bulletproof glass wondering how fast she can fill a sack with money if a guy wearing pantyhose over his head shows up in her teller line.
“Caaaaaaassidy!” Lydia shrieked at six thirty. She pounded on my door with her fists. “You best be ready soon or I’m leaving yo’ ass!”
My eyes popped open. No blur, everything was clear cause I’d forgotten to take off my glasses. I was dressed in yesterday’s wrinkled clothes, too. I bolted upright. “Hold your frickin’ horses!” I yelled. “At least let me take a shit!” I got up and walked across the hall to the bathroom and slammed the door shut.