Halfway House

by Weston Ochse

  Bobby grinned. He’d heard this before. He didn’t mind people laughing at the idea of Elvis Presley being his father. He actually appreciated it. The idea was ludicrous, and any self-respecting person would refrain from putting themselves in the position to have to admit it in public. But not Bobby Dupree. He’d bantered Elvis with the best of them, and after hearing his facts, they grudgingly agreed to the possibility of his truth.

  “I can’t deny my namesake. That’s what this is all about, Laurie. I’m trying to get closer to the father I never had, by getting back the thing he wanted me to have.”

  Bobby had left the day after Sister Agnes passed away. On her deathbed, she’d tearfully given him the envelope that had been left with him as a swaddled infant on their front lawn. Inside was a letter from Colonel Parker that had said it all, detailing Bobby’s father’s sadness at not being able to be a part of his life, information about his mother who’d died in childbirth at Memphis Memorial and who Elvis had met at a concert in Biloxi, and finally about his father’s wish that little Bobby Garon Dupree get the Double Platinum Award for Heartbreak Hotel.

  “Then maybe you should wait until the time is right to tell them.”

  Bobby shook his head. “These guys are straight shooters. They’ll appreciate my honesty. Trust me on this, Laurie.”

  She looked like she wanted to argue, but instead she bit her lip and nodded. They resumed their journey to 8th Street. The lower in the street numbers they got, the poorer the homes and shops became. No more palm trees. Bare dirt plots. They passed an abandoned Buick, the engine ripped out along with the tires and the bucket seats. They passed a taco stand, a wizened woman pushing a chalupa cart, and a secondhand store where Fernando Valley yuppies were busy loading furniture into the back of their Lincoln Navigator.

  When they turned onto 8th Street the aura completely changed. A well-maintained suburban street rolled out in front of them. Postage stamp lawns, neatly trimmed, and fences painted white. The single-story shotgun shacks all sported new paint. Children tricycled down the sidewalk. Old men watered flowerbeds. About halfway down the street, seven or eight young men spoke low among themselves as they stood around two low riders rumbling in a driveway.

  Bobby spied the lookout sitting on the porch of the first house. Holding a cell phone on his knee, watched Bobby with a predator’s gaze. As Bobby passed, the young man brought the cell phone to his mouth and spoke several words. When he’d finished, he snapped shut the phone, then resumed watching the street’s entrance.

  One of the low riders was the neon green beast that had passed them earlier. The other was a midnight blue Impala. All the young men wore shorts below the knees, and most had steel-toed boots. Two wore flannel shirts, the rest wife-beaters—white tank tops.

  An immense Buddha-sized Mexican stepped forward. His chin was lost amidst rolls of fat. Bald, his tattoos began just below the left eye with a single tear drop. His arms and chest were covered in enough ink to tattoo three people. Bobby picked out a large tattoo on the man’s upper chest—Louis Cabellos. Then it clicked. The man wasn’t named Lucy, he was named Lou C. Or maybe Lucy was his nickname because of that. Bobby’s attention was drawn away from the tats to the man’s astonishing blue eyes.

  “Laurie. Que paso, girl,” Lucy said. “This the gavacho you told us about?”

  The man smiled broadly at Laurie, but turned his eyes to hardened steel for Bobby, who readied himself for what was about to come. They’d test him, he just didn’t know how yet. One thing that he did know is that if he failed it would probably mean his life, or at the very least, some bones.

  “His name is Bobby, Lucy. He’s a friend of me and my father.”

  At the term father, the gang leader cocked his head and stared at Laurie. “I remember you saying your dad run away. He’s that old man down at the beach, isn’t he?”

  She nodded.

  “He’s a badass, this dad of yours. He took out some pringao surfers the other day. One came asking for help, but I told him to get lost. I mean, if you get beat by a Geritol, then that’s about you. Has nothing to do with me, yes?”

  As he spoke, the others in the driveway moved until they’d surrounded Bobby. None of the gangbangers seemed to have a weapon, but as baggy as their clothes were, no telling what they could produce if needed.

  “My dad’s pretty cool.”

  “So, are you two tight?” Lucy looked from Bobby to Laurie.

  “We’re working on it.”

  Lucy stared at her for a few seconds, then turned his attention to Bobby. “Where you from, gavacho?”

  “Memphis.”

  “As in Tennessee?”

  “As in Elvis.”

  A lanky boy crooned the popular song about being a hound dog, smirking around his savagely out of tune falsetto.

  “You have ink?” Lucy asked.

  Bobby held his gaze. “Some.”

  “Any of it related?”

  “Some.”

  “Strip.”

  Bobby didn’t move.

  A crazy-eyed kid with a slash across a cheek flipped out a butterfly knife and pushed his face to within an inch of Bobby’s. “Hey, puto! Lucy said to strip, so take off your clothes!”

  “Lucy, you said he’d be safe.” Laurie moved to step in front of Bobby, but he held her back with his left hand.

  “That was before I found out he was affiliated.”

  “How about if I only take off my shirt.” Bobby spoke calmly, careful not to get angry.

  A beefy kid with food stains on the front of his wife-beater yelled in his ear. “Hija la Chingada! Take it all off.”

  Bobby frowned. “I doubt you want a naked white boy standing on your street for all the kids on trikes to see, so let me take off my shirt and show my ink. I come in peace. I’m not representing. I want to show respect.”

  Bobby felt Laurie staring at him. He’d never told her about this. It wasn’t like he’d hid the information from her, he’d just never had the reason to tell her. Still, he knew he was going to pay.

  The kid with the knife made a move, but Lucy stopped him with a meaty hand. “Let the man show respect. Go ahead, Dukes of Hazard, take off your shirt.”

  Careful so as not to make any sudden moves, Bobby pulled his T-shirt over his head. He dropped his arms to his side, the shirt gripped in his right hand. His well-tanned torso held two tattoos. On his left breast were twin lines of text that read I am a cowboy in the boat of Ra. On his right breast was a silhouette of a cartoon Playboy bunny rabbit with the name Nosebleed scrawled above it. Other than the portrait of Elvis tattooed on his right forearm, these were the only tattoos he had.

  Several of the Angels leaned in, but none of them seemed to know what they were looking at. Even Lucy looked, but didn’t see anything gang affiliated. The leader finally shouted toward the house. “Pops, come here and check out the gavacho puto.”

  An older man wearing a starched ILWU longshoreman’s union shirt and black slacks stepped from the porch. The boys parted as the man stepped through. He stopped in front of Bobby, his heavy-lidded stare examining the tats. Took him about five seconds, then he said two words and returned to his domino game on the porch. “Vice Lords.”

  One of the gang members whistled. Another said, “What the fuck.” They might not have recognized the tat, but almost all of them had heard of the East Coast gang headquartered in Chicago whose territory spanned the inner cities of the Midwest and the South. Older and stronger than the Crips and the Bloods, the Vice Lords had survived for fifty years and would probably survive fifty more.

  “You representing?” Lucy asked.

  “No way. I left the life five years ago. It was just a way to survive.”

  The gang leader seemed to like the answer. He pointed at the bunny. “They call you Nosebleed?”

  “Yep.”

  “Why?”

  “Cause when I get hit in the face, my nose bleeds.”

  “We all get nose bleeds.”

  “No. Ev
ery time I get hit in the face, I get nose bleeds. Stupidest damn thing. Whether it’s a five-year-old or a fifty-year-old who punches me—I get hit, I bleed.”

  Lucy chuckled, then turned and fired some rapid Spanish into the house. To Bobby he said, “Put on your shirt. We’re gonna go inside and talk for a minute. My grandma is in there so show some respect.” To Laurie, who still seemed a little stunned by the events that had transpired, he added, “Come on girl, my mother wants to see you.”

  With that he headed toward the house, Laurie and Bobby following close behind. By the time they passed the two old men playing a silent game of dominoes on the porch, Bobby had put his shirt back on.

  Inside, the smell of baking corn tortillas filled the cramped space. Everywhere were images of the Virgin Mary. Pictures, statues, books, 3-D nail art, even a powder blue velvet painting—all showing Mary in different states of divinity. Telemundo was on TV, but the volume was turned all the way down. An ancient woman snored softly in a lounger next to the empty couch.

  Seeing Lucy’s mother working in the kitchen, Laurie hurried into the other room. Soon the happy sounds of reminiscing drowned out the old woman’s snores. Lucy gestured toward the couch. Bobby took a seat facing the kitchen and the old woman in the chair. Lucy sat facing him.

  “That’s my abuela. You can talk in front of her. Even if she was awake, she don’t speak English.”

  Bobby finished taking in the room. Everything seemed so domestic, so normal. By looking inside the house, one wouldn’t know it was the headquarters of an L.A. gang. The image of the grandmother snoring over Lucy’s left shoulder was almost too surreal to believe.

  As if reading Bobby’s thoughts, Lucy spoke. “So what is it you want from us? The 8th Street Angels are local, so our power in L.A. is limited. We don’t like to project too far out. Most of the guys are kids. I give them jobs or things to do to keep them from doing something stupid and ending up in jail, or worse.”

  Bobby shrugged. “I don’t know how much you can help me. My problem is unique. I don’t know if anyone can help me.”

  “I told Laurie I’d help out if I could. I owe her, so you are part of the payback. Tell me what I can do and let me be the judge.”

  “Okay, here we go. I was raised in an orphanage in Memphis, Tennessee. I got a letter from the lady who took care of me after she died. The letter says my father was Elvis Presley and that he’d left his Double Platinum Award for Heartbreak Hotel to me as my inheritance. The award, a platinum anodized album inside of a picture frame, was stolen from the orphanage before I even knew what it was. I think I know who stole it. If I’m right, there’s a good chance the album is here in L.A. I was kind of hoping you’d be able to help me get it back.”

  A siren sounded close-by. Bass beats from the car out front thundered a hip-hop rhythm. Lucy glanced at his cell phone once, read the text message, then resumed staring at Bobby.

  “And he sang that Bee Gees song to me...” said Laurie from the kitchen as the two women broke into fits of laughter. The seconds dragged on until Lucy finally spoke again.

  “Where do I find this album?”

  “A man named Alvin Verdina.”

  “Do you have an address?”

  “Nope.”

  “Any other information besides a name?”

  “He was a teacher in Memphis. He taught algebra, so if he’s teaching here, he should be in a database somewhere.”

  Lucy’s bright blue eyes were piercing and strange for his Mexican heritage. He leaned forward so that he was only an inch or so away from Bobby’s face. “Are you fucking with me?”

  “Nope.”

  “All this about Elvis and Heartbreak Hotel, is it true?”

  “Yep.”

  “And Laurie knows about this?”

  “Yep.”

  Lucy sat back and expelled air from his lips. He shook his head as he started to chuckle. The gravelly sound awoke the old woman, who began to cough laboriously into a rag. When the sound of her gagging stopped, she shoved the rag into a pocket of her housedress and glared directly at Bobby. She had the same blue eyes as her grandson. Either that or she was glaucoma blind. Whatever it was, her unblinking hatred unhinged him.

  He tasted copper. The smell of burnt toast filled his nostrils. He recognized these as warnings of a grand mal seizure and tried to focus. Please God. Not here. Not now. He wanted so much to remain cool. He needed to be cool. The grandmother swam before his eyes as his vision dimmed. The copper taste grew unbearable. A wave of heat shot though him. The old woman raised her finger and pointed at him. He heard the slurred sound of Lucy crying What the fuck! and then Bobby felt his body go stiff.

  Then he felt nothing.

  Obituary from the Long Beach Press Telegram

  Lashondra Van Johnson went to God Tuesday Morning. Daughter of Ruthie Duane, Lashondra graduated from San Pedro High School in 2006. She worked as a cashier at Vons Food Store in San Pedro and was known for her quick smile and personal attention. In lieu of memorial services, please send donations to the Assemblies of God Church, San Pedro, California, in care of Ruthie Duane.

  She soared momentarily, like a torrent of water held under pressure for too long, then released to spurt free. Higher, higher, and higher, until she could feel the heat of the Lord, the fire of his gaze scouring her of sin. Too terrified to open her eyes, she basked in his grace, reveling in the release of her prison without bars. She smiled beatifically, the memory of a hymn from the Assembly of God choir, a heartbreaking soundtrack to her salvation.

  But then the pressure died, and as she began to descend she opened her eyes. A face glared at her from the heavens, neither man nor woman. The face was everyone, everything, one person she’d tried to forget forever. She screamed, her soundless shriek carrying her to the earth where she struck, bones snapping, flesh ripping. She had no breath, but she had pain and it grasped her in a fiery claw. Talons of agony spider-danced along the lengths of protruding bone that shot away from her body at impossible angles. Her right arm. Her collarbone. Both her legs. Her back. Shattered. Broken. Bent. Twisted.

  But she did not cry.

  She did not bleed.

  And she knew why.

  She had no more to give. After months of self-revulsion and self-recrimination, something she couldn’t tell a single soul, she’d finally gotten the courage to save herself from herself. The cheap knife had only been used once last Thanksgiving to cut the turkey when she’d pretended nothing had happened. Inexperienced, Lashondra remembered how easily the edge had sliced the skin of her finger as she carved the bird. Through Christmas and New Year’s, the memory held. Past Valentine’s Day and the Irish holiday, long after the wound had healed, she relived the exquisite sense of the metal passing through her flesh. Then came her mother’s birthday, then her own, and then the birthday of the little one, and as Lashondra sat with a cupcake and a candle and sang the sad song to the ghost of a one-year-old who would never be, determination took her and propelled her to this moment.

  Was it last night or the night before when she’d taken the same knife that she’d used on the great American holiday to sever the veins in her wrists? She’d learned how to do it well. Not across like in the movies, but lengthwise from elbow to wrist.

  Unable to move, Lashondra peered from beneath her shroud of hurt. She was on a great plain. Somewhere behind her she heard the ocean. Before her, in the direction of her feet, was a single black spot on the horizon. Past it she saw the cranes of the harbor, ever-present markers of San Pedro and home. But this place couldn’t be home. There was nothing around her but a plain of dust. She noticed the sky as if for the first time. Gone was the celestial presence, and in its place was a slab of flaking red heaven, pieces of it falling like blood that had dried in the sun.

  The sound of breaking glass burst through the silence.

  A car skidding to a stop.

  Gunshots.

  A long sigh, like air escaping a balloon.

  The sound of a baby
crying.

  Not just any baby.

  Her baby.

  And not just one, but tens, hundreds, then thousands of babies, creating a cacophony of wet diaper, heat rash, sour milk, chafed, blistered, hungry and colicky cries. The noise was a physical thing that grew and grew, and with it, the pressure of her deed.

  The ache that she’d felt these two plus years returned like a Louisville Slugger to the head. She didn’t want to end up like her mother, in and out of methadone clinics. Lashondra had wanted a future. She’d wanted to be a model or a clothes designer or an accountant. She’d wanted to be a strong, proud, black woman, a keen example of what one could be, if given the chance. She’d never wanted to get pregnant. She’d never wanted to have the child. She’d never wanted to be a mother. How could she be? She was just a kid herself. Just a sixteen-year-old sophomore in high school, not yet smart enough to survive the world. And they expected her to be a mother?

  And Theopolis, the man-boy who’d stolen her heart, and then took her soul when he’d insisted she have the child. No abortion for him. He’d given his seed and wanted to see it grow. He wanted a Little T to his Big T. He wanted to harvest his seed, to have children to worship him, and had made Lashondra both farmer and farm.

  And when the baby came, her mother smoked crack in the backyard bushes, and T rode shotgun in a Camaro up and down South Pacific Avenue like he was a Compton Gangster. Lashondra never saw either of them when she needed help; and she always, most desperately, needed help.

  For the thing they’d named Yolanda Phipps was nothing more than a creature that produced tears and rage and excrement. It stank and consumed and railed against the world, never-ending, never-ending, never-fucking-ending. In the long dark hours of the night when the thing raged in its bed, she’d considered joining her mother in the bushes, momentarily understanding why she’d given up, turning a high eye to the universe, trading reality for the sanguine peace of a single-celled crack organism.

  That temptation had been what had finally spurred her to action. Lashondra had convinced herself that it was self-defense. To succumb to the tears and the rage was to chase the crack lion along the backstreets of San Pedro. Gone would be any aspiration, any future, any chance she had to overcome what was already an almost insurmountable genesis—African-American, female, fatherless...and now unwed mother. She could embrace the grand cliché and be like her own mother—and add the words crack whore to her resume—or she could simply become a murderer.