Alex’s face lighted up with a grin. “Yeah, man, Lulu’s my buddy. He’s a good guy.”
“How’s he doin’?”
“He’s doing all right—all right as you can do there. He did have a motherfucker of a fight with Spider Contreras from Eastside-Clover. One of the baddest fights I’ve ever seen. They punched toe-to-toe for five minutes—wingin’ punches from the shoulder. It was even. But Spider is supposed to be a duke.”
Rico listened, grinning, the anecdote of courage and toughness a thing of pride. “When does he raise?”
“He goes to the Youth Authority board in a couple months … October, I think. He should be out for Christmas.”
“Yeah, man, cool.” The Chicano offered his hand, and Alex took it, nodding and winking. “If you need anything,” Rico continued, “come on by. If I’m not here, one of these guys will be … and they’ll know where to find me.”
“Thanks, man,” Alex said, then glanced to JoJo, who gave a head motion of “Let’s go.”
As they walked toward the door, Alex felt good at being accepted by Rico, hence Rico’s friends.
* * *
The marijuana was in a paper bag stapled at the top.
“I hope it ain’t full of stems and seeds,” JoJo said.
“We’ll see when we get where we’re goin’.”
“We’re goin’ to the beach, remember. Let’s get something to drink. Weed makes my mouth dry.”
“That’s a good idea.”
“How’s ale sound? It’s a lot more potent than beer.”
“Yeah, that’s cool, too.”
They found a wino leaning in the doorway of a flophouse hotel. For half a dollar (he could buy Muscatel) he took their money into a liquor store and came out with two quarts of ale and a bottle opener. Then they took a nearly empty bus two miles to the stop for Cabrillo Beach, where they had to walk down a steep sidewalk.
Part of the beach, to the right, faced the open sea, but on a right angle to the left the beach was behind the giant seawall that created vast Los Angeles Harbor—the largest man-made harbor in the world.
The beach café and small museum of oceanography were at the bottom of the street, near where the breakwater separated sea from harbor. So, too, were most of the people. The beach open to the sea was small because the cliffs came down to the water a few hundred yards northward. But the beach within the harbor was two miles or more in length, several hundred yards wide beneath the cliffs of Fort Douglas McArthur (sic). Nobody trekked very far up this beach, or at least Alex saw nobody, and the sand touched by the tide wasn’t marred by recent feet.
Alex removed his shoes and walked barefooted on the hard-packed damp sand. Because it was within the seawall there was no real surf, just softly lapping water at low tide exposing the harbor’s flotsam cast upon the shore to the high-water mark. The two boys trudged and drank the ale. Eventually they reached where the beach curved sharply away from the cliffs. Ahead was a fence jutting into the water. Beyond was private property and a yacht marina, a line of floating docks with myriad pleasure craft tied up side by side—everything from a twenty-foot cabin cruiser to a hundred-foot motorsailer, though the largest yachts were anchored offshore. Another man-made breakwater of granite blocks separated the marina from the vastness of the harbor.
Beneath the seventy-five-foot cliffs of the fort they found an empty antiaircraft gun emplacement. The cannon was gone, but the pit, trenches, and sandbags remained, though one already had leaked its contents into the wooden slots of the floor. They went down a ladder and were out of the wind. It was a good place to roll the joints, and an old newspaper was found to do it on.
They dumped the marijuana out, ground it down in their hands, and then shuffled it on the newspaper so the seeds separated from the rest. Alex rolled the joints, using one paper, which made JoJo frown—most persons used two papers, he said. “That’s ’cause they can’t roll,” Alex explained.
When they lighted up, Alex inhaled as he would a regular cigarette.
“Man, are you sure you smoke grass?” JoJo asked.
Alex’s face burned. “Whaa? Man, you saw me roll these joints. What the fuck do you think?”
“Yeah, well…” JoJo inhaled deeply, sucking the smoke as far into his lungs as possible, making the necessary sucking sound of the deep toke.
And Alex watched, obliquely but intently, so when the joint was handed back he knew what to do. He fought back the cough as the strange smoke burned his throat and lungs. He held the smoke in and handed the joint back.
Three times they passed back and forth, and suddenly Alex could feel the elevation in his mind, in his whole being, in fact. A sudden laughter or chuckle, senseless yet hilarious, started somewhere inside and burst from his mouth. JoJo grinned in sympathetic unison.
“Oh wow, man!” Alex said. “I’m high!” The words seemed to echo and resonate; they seemed almost visible.
“Good weed, man,” JoJo said, blowing on the joint so the orange tip glowed brightly.
The statement and gesture looked strange, yet wonderful. Everything, in fact, looked strange, both more real and less real.
JoJo upended the green bottle of ale, some of the liquid leaking from the corner of his mouth as he guzzled. He finished, handed it to Alex, and belched, grossly and happily. Alex drank deeply, came to the end of the bottle and pitched it out of the hole. It would join other bottles and cans on the beach.
Alex was unaccustomed to alcohol and its effects—and in a short time he was really high for the first time in his life. He tried to study how he felt, as if a chamber of his mind was watching detachedly, yet struggling not to be sucked down into the vortex. His eyelids were weighted, and his eyeballs needed rest. Yet everything looked cleaner, clearer, new and different. His being seemed to soar, and he couldn’t find even private articulation for what he felt. It was true that his lenses of perception were more open, with colors brighter and truer than ever before. Every sound had a unique tone, a musical quality that entranced him. Suddenly, as before, an urge to wild laughter welled from deep in his belly. It carried JoJo along, so both of them sat laughing loudly and privately at nothing on the beach in the waning afternoon sunlight.
“Hey, man, this is good pot,” JoJo said.
“Yeah, it’s pretty good.” The understatement seemed hilarious, and there was another gale of laughter.
Time was lost, but soon enough Alex’s thoughts began to slur; his head spun and his stomach followed. Nausea was next. He vomited on the wooden slats and the dirt. He tried to kick dirt over the mess, but the earth was too hard.
JoJo watched, eyes blurred, a grin on his mouth.
The vomiting made Alex feel a little better and lessened his inebriation. In fact, he felt good. The earlier fear of the unknown—of what marijuana would do—had gone away. Now he flowed with the high and luxuriated in the sensations. He wanted to go somewhere, but nowhere specific. “C’mon, let’s walk.”
They climbed the steps and walked along the hard-packed sand toward the populous area around the beach café and the beginning of the breakwater.
The marijuana increased his fascination with looking at things. He stared avidly at everything, registering freshly what usually would have gone unnoticed. “God, look at ’em,” he said in awe, watching the soaring beauty of seagulls in flight. “Nothing flies more gracefully.”
“Or shits on more things,” JoJo said; the high was obviously different for him.
On the breakwater, which stretched for about three miles, a few fishermen watched lines draped into the harbor side. The seawall was made of huge granite blocks. It was wider at its unseen base beneath the water. It rose in steps, and was flat (roughly so) and five feet wide at its top. The waves and tides rose and fell against it.
“Let’s take a hike out there,” Alex suggested.
“Why? What’s there?”
“Just to see.”
“Man, I can see everything from here.”
Alex made a snort
ing noise of disgust and shook his head. JoJo had understood from the beginning and now dropped his act. “Okay, I know,” he said. “I can understand—but I don’t wanna go. So why don’t you go, and I’ll go over there”—he pointed toward the large, low stucco building containing the small marine museum and café—“and get myself something to eat.”
The tide was out, so the first thirty yards of seawall were on the shore. Alex walked gingerly; the granite blocks weren’t flush to each other, and sometimes the cracks were large enough for a foot to slip inside. About fifty yards out the waves began crashing against the barrier, throwing foam and spray high above the parapet, then backing up to try again. What really fascinated Alex was how they came at an angle, the explosion of collision starting in the distance and racing down the wall toward him, then going past while another assault began far away. Sounds of roar and hiss jumbled with the raucous cries of countless seagulls.
Alex was suffused with scrambled feelings. He looked up at the scudding clouds, then studied the rolling wild sea on one side and the oily, smooth water on the other. Although he was young, he’d both experienced and read a lot, and he now saw a metaphor for life in sea and harbor and breakwater—and he knew he wanted to live on the wild sea, not the polluted harbor. He also knew that his destiny was to be an outlaw, a criminal. Indeed, it was already branded on him and within him. It was already too late to turn back. Strangely, the recognition made him feel free, and good, deep inside. He began laughing; it was soundless against the sea’s roar.
* * *
When he went back toward shore, JoJo was waiting at the start of the seawall.
“Damn, I thought you fell in and drowned,” JoJo said. “You ready to go home?”
“I dunno. When’s your sister get there?”
“You got eyes for Teresa, huh?”
“Man, I mean—bong!”
“Yeah, I guess so. Everybody says it. But a guy can’t see his sister like that … know what I mean?”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Oh yeah, I think she got a new boyfriend while I was in Whittier. I heard her talkin’ about him to Lisa when they visited me. He’s like us, been in trouble, and I think he’s sixteen or seventeen.”
Alex said nothing. The odd part was that he’d barely met Teresa, and nothing besides her attractiveness had led him to the mild fantasies and speculations.
JoJo took a different route to the house, staying down near the harbor, shortcutting through the yards of canneries and along docks where fishing boats were moored. Across a ship channel was Terminal Island, where many big ships were drydocked. “Man, last year I used to go over there to sell newspapers. One time a big troop transport came in. I was damn near the only one on the dock. A whole division of G.I.’s was hanging on the rails. One guy wanted a paper—so I threw it up and he threw me half a buck. Then they all started throwing money down for papers. I only had thirty-five and wound up with better’n twenty bucks.”
They finally turned away from the harbor, heading toward the houses clustered on the sides of hills which rose two miles away. In between was an undeveloped area, the roads sometimes were dirt. The land was mostly vacant lots with high weeds and discarded trash. But when they came over a low rise, ahead was a chain link fence around several acres. Within the fenced acreage were big, gray life rafts knocked together with flotation drums and wood. Every cargo ship and tanker had carried several during the war, augmenting the lifeboats. Now they were surplus.
“This is new. I never seen it before.”
“Let’s go in and see what’s what.”
The fence was low for agile youths, and the area was unguarded. Curiosity and zest for adventure had them inside in seconds. The huge rafts were stacked on top of each other. They climbed to the top of one stack to see what was in it. They found storage compartments with waterproofed packages of emergency rations, C-rations, chocolate, and tiny packs of cigarettes and matches. Medicines, flare guns, and other valuables had been removed.
They also found dye markers and three big, gray cans with pins like hand grenades and writing on their sides. They were orange smoke bombs—to be thrown overboard far at sea whenever a ship was anywhere on the horizon. They took two of the cans, simply to do something, and climbed back over the fence.
Half a mile away, in high weeds next to some railroad tracks, Alex put one can down and pulled the pin, jumping back quickly. At first it sputtered inside, and then the unimaginably bright orange smoke issued forth. Initially it came slowly, but it quickly gained force and density. Within thirty seconds it was geysering thirty feet into the air. The can began spinning with the force of whatever was going on inside. As it rocked the smoke came out more thickly. It also stayed thick as it rose—now sixty feet in the air.
“Wow!” JoJo said. “That fucker sure does kick out the smoke.”
“And it smells like shit, too.” Indeed, a vagrant gust of air had carried the acrid, lung-searing smoke to Alex, making him duck away.
They both heard the siren. The scream of it grew rapidly. They knew it was coming to the orange smoke. Whether it was a police car or fire engine made no difference. Either one would grab them—if they were available. They ran, Alex carrying the other smoke canister tucked under his arm like a football. They went over a rise, around a corner, and now they slowed to walk down an alley. The siren went silent, indicating that the vehicle had reached the cause of the smoke. The boys looked back every few steps, just in case, and also watching the orange smoke still hanging in the air behind them.
“Get rid of that,” JoJo said, meaning the canister. “If they cruise around and spot us when you got that…”
“They’re not gonna do that. I’m keeping it. I’ve got an idea.”
“What idea?”
“Wait until we reach the pad. I’ll tell you then.”
* * *
The following morning they found the market they wanted—not too big, but not a mom-and-pop corner grocery either. This one had two cash registers (just one was operating) and four employees on duty. It was a hot, hazy day, and they watched the market until the afternoon, going in twice to buy Dr. Peppers and stand beside the case while drinking them.
Just before the closing hour, they came back with the canister of orange smoke in a paper sack. They stopped around the corner of the building.
“What if they ask what’s in the sack?” JoJo queried nervously.
“So what? Show ’em and don’t do nothing. Just come back and we’ll find another place. It ain’t like you had a gun or something. They won’t know what’s in your mind. Right?”
“Yeah, it sounds right, but—”
“But shit … Get going before you think too much.”
Alex gave him a hug and a shove. JoJo sighed and went around the corner into the market. The girl at the cash register glanced up for a second, then went back to her newspaper. An aproned stock boy putting cans on a shelf didn’t even glance up. JoJo went down one aisle; then turned back to the empty aisle closest to the cash registers. He was trembling as he opened the top of the sack and pulled the pin. He put the can down so quickly that he almost dropped it, and then hurried toward the rear. He was at the end of the aisle when the fizzing noise started, followed by spluttering noises—after which the orange smoke belched forth. As the day before, the beginning was small, but each passing second added to the smoke. It was at the ceiling and spreading swiftly when the first voice cried: “Hey! What’s that?” And there was fear bordering on panic in the voice.
“Oh my God!” said the girl.
At that moment Alex came in, stepping to the side. Nobody saw him because they were watching the smoke, frightened but not knowing what they confronted.
“GAS!” JoJo bellowed from the rear. “IT’S MUSTARD GAS!”
The scream was the catalyst. They ran for the front door, the young woman going over the counter without dignity but with remarkable agility. They were all galvanized by panic.
In another ten seconds
the entire store was filled with orange smoke. It poured out the front door.
Alex had a wet handkerchief over his nose and mouth. He was just a few feet from the cash register. He bumped into the checkout counter, went over it and felt for the cash register. He took a breath; it burned his lungs. He punched the buttons. The cash drawer came open and he stuffed the contents in his pockets, first the paper, then some coins. He had to breathe again; it was worse this time. He dropped to his belly. Some air was within a few inches of the floor.
He stumbled blindly for the front door, knocking over a display of cold cereal. Panic strained to control him, the deep fear of being unable to breathe. Then he saw the patch of light indicating the front door. He stumbled out into the sunlight.
The rapidly increasing crowd was already two dozen persons, both passersby and employees of adjacent shops.
JoJo was in the forefront. He grabbed Alex’s arm, pulled him away from a clucking, concerned woman, who kept asking, “Are you okay? Are you okay?”
Alex’s lungs still burned, and he kept coughing, but he also kept going, nodding and saying, “I’m all right, all right.” He and JoJo were passing people heading toward the smoke. Once they were around the corner, Alex began laughing. He felt wonderful.
Back at JoJo’s, they locked themselves in the bedroom and Alex pulled the money from his pocket and dropped it on the bed. It was three hundred and ninety dollars, not a bad score for two young boys.
17
The next day Alex and JoJo went shopping for clothes. JoJo bought one garment, an off-white blazer with flecks of tweedy red in it—and no collar. The cardigan sport jacket was “in” that season, at least in their milieu it was. It had heavy shoulder pads and tapered to a close fit at the fingertips. Alex bought the same jacket in powder blue. He also bought other clothes. Now the packages were spread across JoJo’s unmade bed, some opened, others waiting. It made Alex feel good to have new, sharp clothes—and he also still had over seventy dollars of the loot from the smoke-bomb caper. Last night he and JoJo had taken Teresa and one of her girlfriends, half-Chicano, half-Italian, to a movie theater where their crowd hung out in the left balcony. When JoJo began necking with the friend, Teresa allowed Alex to put his arm around her—but she gave no sign that he could go further toward intimacy. So he sat, his muscles beginning to ache after a while—but he still refused to move it. It was the first time he’d been with a girl since puberty made him feel differently about them. From Teresa’s softness, from her scent and his half-formed fantasies, he got an erection—but that part of longing he fought down. He was terrified that she’d notice how his pants were bulging. He was sure that she never went that far; a girl worth loving never did, or so he thought at thirteen. His ultimate dream at the moment was to neck with her, something else he’d never done. But she gave him no opening, so he contented himself with the warmth of her shoulder under his hand. He knew that she was being faithful to her steady boyfriend, Wedo—who still hadn’t appeared or been heard from. Teresa was obviously angry at him—or worried about him; her attitude changed several times during the day. When they went out for hamburgers and milk shakes after the movie, she obviously had forgotten Wedo for a few minutes. She was a girl who glowed when happy.
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