'My Name is John" Chapter 2

Chapter 2
WEBSTER STREET

I was staring at myself, only I had no idea at the time.

Reggie was doing pull ups again. Up down, up down as he inhaled and exhaled. Beads of sweat slowly dripped down his face and disappeared into his jagged handlebar moustache. A half bottle of Cisco wine sat on the marble bus bench; the endless cycle of self sabotage wrapped in recycled brown paper.

“Yo Danny, Reg' is ripped man, check him out!” We looked up as the yellow stoplight swayed back and forth. “Haven’t seen him in months man.”

“He probably just got out from a bid. You can tell, he’s put on like ten pounds. Got some fresh ink too.” Danny's attention to detail was bar none.

Dropping down from his final repetition, he slowly walked over to the bus bench and sat down as if there was nowhere to go, no one to see. Reggie pulled a small flip comb from his back pocket, tidying up the few stray hairs on his broad head, compulsively.

“Reg’ sure loves his hair eh?” I laughed while the small pocket comb struggled to find a path through the thick lather of Brill Cream.

Danny scoffed with certainty. “He’s gonna comb that hair to death one day, I swear.”

I don’t know when his routine stopped being a spectacle, but everyone knew Webster Street Reggie, and pull ups were his thing. Like always, his black Dickies pants were neatly starched and ironed, riding high on his waistline with sharp creases running right up to the belt buckle. His skin-tight white tank top flaunted a solid build, heavily tattooed sleeves that continued up his neck and down his hands. He always walked with a slow stagger, leaning the slightest bit back, while his arms swung back and forth dramatically in perfect rhythm; a mean manifested strut that only years on the prison yard could create.

“Hey Reg.” I nodded, as he put the bottle to his lips and took a generous sip. I didn’t get a response. I never did. I stood there, self conscious. Discount mousse didn't have the added affect of Reggie's top shelf hair products. Mine was droopy, matte. My thick curls fought the sticky adhesive within an hour of having a shower. His was stiff, gleamed like a new Pontiac. Upkeep, must be the upkeep I though.

I was always intrigued by the Webster Street celebrity. I wondered what his life was like beyond a half empty bottle, his unique exercise routine and long, show pony walks up and down the block. I tried imagining life behind the iron door of his grotty, blue stucco apartment. Maybe he would dance around in woman’s clothes like the guy in ‘Silence of The Lambs, ’or challenge some theory in great detail under a dim light and one day some one would make a movie about him. I never heard Reggie speak so much as a word. It was as if he had run out of energy.

I looked over at Danny. Our eyes met. We looked at Reggie, then back at each other simultaneously. We could read each others thoughts; a mix of sympathy and humour, excentuated by a cheeky smirk and a subtle shake of the head.

Sitting all alone on that bus bench, Reggie’s emotionless stare and systematic traits broadcasted a lifetime of confinement. So institutionalized, his days were limited to inebriated slumbers and a three block radius. The only life Reggie knew was the California penal system and the only acceptance and sense of familiarity were behind these same walls that raised him.

Danny and I loitered outside Santos’ Liquors. All the windows were covered in the latest advertisement placards. The neighbourhoods’ thirst for cheap alcohol and three dollar packs of tailor made cigarettes was blatantly obvious.

We rested our fishing poles against the shop window. My reflection caught me off guard. I turned to the side. I seemed thinner, my skin a tad more pasty- and my eyes... where are my eyes I thought. I moved around, hoping it was just the perception of the warped glass, subjective.

“How bout him Danny?”

“Naw he’s a square.” Ask that dude. Danny pointed to a familiar face from the Bridgeport apartments.

“Naw, he won’t buy. I asked last week. That’s Antwon’s cousin. “

“Just ask man,” Danny was frustrated; high tide was an hour ago. We slept in and by the time we walked the channel, we’d be lucky to get a couple small perch, if that.

“You ask!” I pulled my beanie down over my eyes and leaned back against the shop front. “Why don’t Santos’ sell us anymore? Who’s workin?”

“Dunno.” Danny crouched down and sparked a cigarette. “Look at Reg, he’s getting’ worse eh?”

“Yeah man, but he still pumps out those reps on the stoplight like there’s no tomorrow.”
I laughed, staring at Reggie. He remained motionless on that same marble bus bench alone and in a state of disarray as cars careered by his numb like body. He stretched out his right arm, admiring his exhausted triceps. Distracted, he attacked a rogue piece of lint on his shirt with pinched fingers and a look of concern. He drooped back into the bench like a wilted flower, reaching for the bottle in slow motion, fighting for each inch.

“He’ll be dead by the time we get out of the East Bay, man.”

“Leave? Shit you’ll never leave the Bay, Danny. You’re a lifer, just like Reg’.” I stared at Reggie. He was like a picture book; each conspicuous tattoo revealed a fascinating story, a significant point in time stained his body like a selected memory ingrained on his pale skin. My eyes were drawn, almost magnetized to the different patterns of ink. Some were old and faded, while more intricate, detailed designs sat under his aging flesh.

I looked down at my own arms, bare with random patches of smooth peach fuzz. They looked so innocent and untouched compared to Reggie's. I wonderd if, when, how many tattoos I would have by the time I was his age.

A small teardrop sat below his right eye in bold green ink, indicative of a lengthy stretch behind bars- the sorrow of lost time. Spider Weds, scorpions, love hearts…. they all had a meaning; the crimes he was incarcerated for or the woman that remained staunch to him throughout. A small swastika bedded between Regs’eyes, just above the bridge of his nose. On the outside he was a loner. Once inside, his Aryan brothers stretched from coast to coast


“Go ask Reggie.” Danny looked at me with a last resort glance.

“You’re a pussy man, you never ask.” We were relentless. Alcohol seemed to be the first thing on our mind those days. We had our unorthodox method down to a fine art. We could always find somebody willing buy us a 12 pack for a small commission, or a can or two. After all, it was Webster Street.

Alright man, but you’re carryin’ the bag.” I threw my empty backpack over to Danny. I walked towards Reggie’s silence, my baggy pants swishing between my skinny legs.

Reggie was always our last resort. He was always reliable, coming good to the smell of a dirty dead president. Never certain of the end result, it was like one of those office gift giving schemes- you win some, you lose some. Once, we had no choice but to sip red wine from a brown paper bag. We hated asking him, but when you run smack-bang into a brick wall of potential afternoon sobriety, you take what you can get.

“Hey Reg.” I whispered in a soft voice, holding a few arms distance. “Psst... Reg,” a crisp ten dollar bill clutched in my sweaty grip. I took another step forward.
Reggies glazed eyes struggled to focus as he slowly came to from his mid morning coma. I waved the money in front of him again.

“Hey Reg, how’s it goin’ man?” My small talk charm went straight over his head as he bobbled in recognition. “Can you get us some beer, man?” I slipped the bill in Reggie’s hand as he slowly balanced to his feet. “12 pack of Bud Ice, B-U-D I-C-E. A twelve pack… beer, beer.” I hoped my words formed a small nest in his head as he stood up, running a flat palm over his hair. He took a few steps and stopped; fastening the top button on his flannelette as the shirt tails dangled in the breeze. I looked over at Danny. His face shrugged with sarcasm. Reggie always seemed to surprise us somehow and leave us in disbelief or in fits of laughter. I laughed. Danny had a funny way about him; a composed humour that was always in tune with mine.

The distinct sound of Santos’ sensor alarm farewelled Reggie as he clutched a large brown paper bag. The square shaped bag was a refreshing sight. I was beginning to have faith in ol’ Reg after all. He stood there momentarily; confused, setting off the alarm over and over again. He arm wrestled with his short term memory as he looked around for a second, puzzled. He spotted me. I nodded. Reggie shuffled over to the marble bus bench. Placing the bag on the ground, he shoved two wrinkled dollars into my hand. He swayed back and forth like a wobbly toddler as he dug deep in his pocket for the loose change.

“Naw, naw…keep it Reg’, and take this too.” My arm stretched out with the two greenbacks. “Grab another Cisco, man.” I said with enthusiasm, like I was some goddamn saint or something. Reggie put the dollar bills in his top breast pocket and fished out his small flip comb. He guided the comb through his hair with a flat palm again, quickly folding it up with one swift motion. He sat down. His elbows came to a rest on his spread legs, sliding the comb back into his top pocket. Reggie started at the ground like he was studying the socialisation of ant colonies in the urban environment. Everything about him was so intense. His eyes were fierce. His jaws clenched over and over again as his cheek muscles flexed with anger. I stared at the bold statement that marked the middle of his forehead. He rocked back and forth with a subtle anxiety that told me it was time to go. I bent over and grabbed the plastic bag by the handles.

“Thanks Reg.” I didn’t wait for a response. I knew I wouldn’t get one. I walked away. I looked back. He hadn’t moved. His heart was beating, but his soul was as lifeless as the concrete slab he was silently communicating with.

Reggie, Ol’ Reg, Webster Street Reggie, Cell Block Reg…He was the well known vagrant that no one knew well at all; a man of mystery and intrigue that radiated a spine-chilling aura and menacing presentation. In a sense Reggie became our friend over the years. He was a part of West Alameda, a household name, iconic in his own right. He respected our audacity and appreciated our civility. We didn’t cross the road or clutch our handbags or cover up our pin numbers at the bank teller machine. We asked him to buy beer for us. We trusted him. We relied on him. For that split moment, he was empowered.


The heavy backpack alleviated my despondent thought process. I knew my imbalanced mood would soon get the green light to re-stabilise with the crack of a can, or two. Walking into the bait shop, the putrid smell of frozen anchovies and fresh blood worms forced me alter my breathing pattern, taking slow, deep breaths through my mouth to avoid the off putting stench. I stopped and had a look at the ‘wall of fame’. I always looked at the ‘wall of fame.’

“Eh, Danny, look…last week at the tires man!” A huge striped bass dangled by his gills; the angler’s demonic red eyes glowing from the Polaroid flash.

“The tires are bullshit.” Danny shouted; an undertone of contempt dominating the tone of his voice.

I laughed in a quiet reflection. Danny had an overwhelming tendency to loose expensive Repala lures there.

“Look at Filipino Pete. Fuck man, he always gets on to those big Leopard Sharks. On anchovies at Bay Farm Island, last week!” I studied the familiar faces on the wall, noting the types of bait, tide levels, and locations.

“Fuck the East side.” Danny hated the East end; the big houses, the nice cars, the manicured lawns and those fancy sprinkler systems that went off and on automatically.

“West side for life.” Danny intertwined his fingers and formed a ‘w’ like he was in one of those over- the -top rap videos. We laughed. We knew we had it rough, but unlike those other kids who had emotional check-ins over mom’s hot cocoa in front of those artificial fireplaces, we had character for it and we were proud of that.

“Hey guys.” The shop owner broke free from his shadow; the fatigue in his voice consistent with the dim lighting as he appeared from the back of the store.

‘What’s up, Tran.’ I tried to be pleasant; offering a smile, hoping it would be contagious. I didn’t work.

“What I get u, same? Pile worm?” He leaned on the stained carpet that lined the countertop; his lethargic stare penetrating straight through me.

“Half dozen, no dead ones though, c’mon.”

“You know me, I never dead one, always fresh!” Tran’s broken accent bounced off the dirty brick walls of the bait shop. Our eyes collided in a showdown, both trying to contain our laughter. I chuckled. He reciprocated with a guarded smirk as he shuffled to the back of the shop; his chunky sandals slapping his heal with each casual step.
Tran removed a rubber band from around his wrist and secured the small white box of worms, sliding it across the counter. “Three fifty.”

“Sweet, give me a few three ounce sinkers as well.” I tossed a five dollar bill onto the counter. “Keep the change.” I said, with a facetious grin, winking as I fished for a response.

“Ah, ten cent, I retire now. You modern day Robin Hood.” Tran’s catfish whisker above his upper lip danced as he broke into laughter.

“That’s right, Ghandi and Mother Theresa too!

“Yeah,yeah…” Tran leaned on the counter; his paper thin frame fighting the exhaustion of the long hours “You miss outgoing tide, better hurry.”

“You need a holiday, man.”

“No holiday…work. Two kids,wife…u know American dream, can’t u see.” He opened his arms, offering us a look around the dingy small business.” The disdain is his voice was followed by a bellowing laugh. The kind of laugh when you have nothing left to give. A laugh of acceptance that conceals years of anger and resentment and regret. Laughter seemed to be the only form of tears Tran had left.

“ Yeah, I know.” I tried to empathise, but I had no idea.
He was dodging the same bullets of capitalism that saw him flee warn torn Vietnam. The closest thing Tran had to a white picket fence were the barred windows of his connecting Victorian.

“Ok,ok, so where u go, rockwall?” His vacant tone politely asked us to leave as he walked toward the back of the shop.

“Yeah, might walk the channel.”

“Too many snag there, make sure you have extra sinker.” He closed his eyes and positioned a worn cushion under his head. His sandal slapped the calluses on his heal as he sat cross legged on a tattered futon. Tap,tap,tap,tap,tap….Tran’s big toe subconsciously flicked the cheap piece of plastic against the bottom of his foot, offering some sort of distraction from his monotonous day.

“Alright, thanks.” I looked over. The shop had gone quiet. The tapping had stopped, as he shot me a lazy wave and slowly curled up in the foetal position. His sandals dropped from his feet as they dangled off the side of the small couch.

I stole one more look at wall of pictures, imagining myself holding a record catch with a proud smile and those demonic eyes. I looked back at Tran. Years of hard labour formed a thick, hard yellow crust on the souls of his feet. He curled up even more, letting out a loud sigh as he tossed and turned, slowly dipping into a state of unconsciousness. ( )





.



A splash of sea water trickled down my leg as I navigated a path along the jagged rocks. A pool of thick white suds formed around the edge, building with the momentum of the tide.

“What’s with all that foam man? You think its got somethin’ to do with the high mercury levels or something?”

“How the fuck am I supposed to know?” Danny shoved a cold can of beer into my hand. I wiped the top of the can with my t-shirt. Driving my fingernails under the cap, I pried it open, catching an explosion of froth with my lips.

“What do ya think, man?” I stared down the narrow rock path until it bacame a cluster of small pebbles and then specks of sand.

“What, the channel? It’s a long hike.”

“Yeah, let’s go. It’s the only place where we catch more than a cold.” I pulled the straps on my backpack tight and reached for another hole in my belt. I bent down tucking my pants into my knee high socks.

“You look like a fuckin’ pilgrim blood.” Danny laughed, pouring half of a can of beer down his throat until a loud belch echoed in the empty sky.

“Fuck you too, let’s go. Gonna be low tide in like three hours. I wanna get onto at least a one Leopard Shark.”

“And this is your Plymouth Rock!” Danny amused himself as he guzzled the rest of the beer with one powerful sip, dropping the can amongst the other forgotten nights.

“Fuck you, ( ) I shouted.

“Sure Captain.” Our limited vocabulary traded blows like we were in the twelfth round and anticipating a split decision. Humour was the crux of our relationship. We had to laugh. It was our coping mechanism I suppose.

We peeled away a section of loose fencing that restricted the access to the channel, shimmying through. The beginning of the Rock Wall was the worst; large serrated rocks full of dry algae and wet moss forced us to premeditate each step with caution.
A can of beer tapped me on the back, dancing in the corner of my eye.

“Thanks, Danny.” I crouched down, resting the cold can against my knee and cracked it open with one hand. I looked into the horizon. A silhouette of skyscrapers overlapped each other as they fought for space behind a transparent haze. The huge container ships looked immobile as they tiptoed into the San Francisco harbor.

“What you thinks on that one Danny?” Five levels of blue and red and white containers piled on top of each other like huge Lego blocks.

“Dunno, man..bunch of big ass TV’s that cost five dollars to make, and a hundred stowaways.”

I laughed. “Hey, is it true they were thinkin’ of makin’ the old navy base into another Disneyland?”

“That’s what I heard, but the proposal didn’t go through.”

“Could you imagine?” My eyes rolled with the tide as I shook my head in disbelief.

“Yeah, could have been an East Bay themed Disneyland. Mickey mouse with a perm, smokin’ a blunt with Pluto on chrome 20’s.” Danny’s infectious sense of humour had me in stiches, gasping for air while I choked in a flood of laughter. Water poured from my eyes as I looked at the vacant landing strip and abandoned air hangers. ( _)I imagined Minnie Mouse with low cut jeans yelling ‘thug life!’ or Donald Duck ( )

Once a thriving city in itself, tenacious weeds attacked the large runways; the steel buildings tarnished by thick orange rust. After Uncle Sam up and left, late night graffiti and broken bottles offered the only sign of life, leaving hungry developers salivating at the possibilities.

We calculated each stride, occasionally taking huge leaps or using our hands as a crutch to plot a safe course. The smell of saltwater dominated the air as gentle waves walloped against the side of the rocks. It was so quiet I could hear the water hiss as it rolled back off the bank into the open sea.

The Rock Wall was more than just a fishing spot. It was our inner city oasis, the silence eavesdropped on our thoughts and played the impartial critic. I looked around. Reggie would have loved this place. I wondered if he knew the Pacific Ocean swayed just a few blocks from his marble bus bench.

The manmade formation of rocks stretched a healthy mile or so into the bay and was less than five foot wide during high tide. Sometimes, the tides were so high, it felt as though we were walking on water; the luminous moon offering just enough light to guide our feet.

In a matter of minutes, a heavy whistling stole our silence. My windbreaker flapped with the howling wind. A chorus of nylon sang in the mid day gales, flinging the hood back and forth over my shoulder, slapping the thin jacket against my arms and my chest. I pulled the draw strings tight around my face as the cold air snuck in, filling the hood like a hot air balloon. I wished the violent weather would lift me in the air and carry me somewhere else, take me a better place, or hide me in the clouds somewhere, even if for little while. It didn’t. I kept fighting the gushing winds, going sip for stride along the slippery rocks.


We dropped our bags at the channel. I sat down. We were exhausted. The winds died into a faint whisper and there was no need to shout over the top of it anymore.

“We’re gonna’ need an anchor to hold our line down today!” I stared at the violent rips. They looked uninviting, telling us to go home as surges of water crashed every which way, forming an intimidating whirlpool in the middle of the channel. The heavy currents carried in all directions, fighting each other in a circular battle of domination. I could stare straight through the water if I tried hard enough; the hungry inhabitants of the sea egging me as they circled the bottom in hierarchal formation, flaunting their sharp teeth or lurking in the dark shadows.

I blew warm breaths into the palms of my hands, rubbing them together, then blowing on them again. I opened my tackle box. The stench of dried fish guts and squid attack the salty air with back alley potency. I pulled a pack of Eagle Claw hooks from under a swarm of tangled fishing line and empty beer cans.

Danny peeked over my shoulder. His face shrivelled in disgust, pulling his shirt over his face. “That shit’s horrible man, close it!”

I closed it, sitting on top. Resting my pole between my legs, I tied two slip knots above the heavy sinker, lacing each hook through with my nimble fingers. The bait worms flared with panic, thrashing their tails wildly and thrusting their pinchers into the tips of my fingers. I drew one out of the small white box. He dangled, six inches in length, helpless, before convulsing in is a fiery spasm of desperation. I pierced the galvanised hook through his plump body, weaving it through the tail twice, then vertically through his stiffened body. One more frantic explosion of energy sent the worm into a fit, until realising it’s fate, falling limp into an emotionless state of defeat.

“Hey Danny.” I looked up. My line swung like a pendulum back and forth from the tip of the pole.

“Huh?”

“You think it’s always gonna’ be like this man?”
Danny prepared himself with a deep sigh. “Like… what, John?” He hated my rants. His sceptical eyes changed shape with one eyebrow raised slightly.

“Man, you know. Like, are we always gonna’ be the ones on the sidelines fishing from the rocks?” My empty stare pierced his worn parka, becoming a hypnotic blur.

“Huh, I thought you didn’t even like boats man.”
Trapped in a reel of projection, I sat, staring at nothing- his words contaminated by my silent daydream.

“Hey, John…what the fuc…did you hear what I said?”

“Huh?” I snapped up, trying to focus like ….

“Boats man, boats…I thought you didn’t even like fishing from boats?”
“Naw I’m not talking about boats, Danny. It’s a metaphor.” I went back to a blind stare, beyond anything that was visual- past the naval base, through the skyscrapers, and into the future.

“A what?” Danny’s eyebrow jumped again, this time higher than the last.

“A metaphor man, like a comparison.

“A meteor? Isn’t that like got somethin’ to do with space?” Danny’s simplicity didn’t do him any justice. He was a smart guy; the kind of education that wasn’t in the bindings of generic school books- instinct, rationality, intuition. He wouldn’t be a ( )

I tried not to laugh.

“Not a meteor, a metaphor. A metaphor makes a comparison between two things in…. like an abstract…like in a funny way.

“Oh.” He was still confused.

“What I mean is… are we always gonna’ to be wondering what it would be like to have things. Like, looking at the boats from the rocks or the nice cars out bus windows… or what it would be like to live in a house- and I don’t mean some old ass duplex or some dilapidated weatherboard with cigarette holes in the carpet, I mean a house-a nice house with a backyard and central heating and..

“What?” Danny’s face shrivelled with mockery.

“Fuck, John, what ‘s next.. a responsible father, a dog named Charlie, and a university degree. Yeah, I could picture you in one of those shiny square hats, gold tassel and all!”

“Man….” I stopped myself. I didn’t respond. It was no use. Our differences were as apparent as our uncanny similarities. Danny cracked a can of beer, and offered it as his answer. It was always his answer, a twelve ounce equation and solution, theory and hypothesis all in one.

“Thanks” I grabbed the can, cracked it open, and brought it to my lips quicker than I could resent Danny’s patronizing remark. I nuzzled the open can into a small crevice in the rocks and sent my line into the channel with a whipping toss. The heavy pull consumed my line into the murky depths, stripping the reel ten feet per second through the pole’s eyelets with a drowning swallow. I dropped the bell on my reel, securing the rest of the line. The persistence of the heavy current pulled me 20 feet to the right, leaving my pole to bobble up and down to the rhythm of the tide. I set the slack of my line loose enough to dance with the stamina of the sea, burying it deep between two large rocks and testing its sturdiness with two forceful tugs. I sat down, watching my line sway left to right along the surface.

You could never underestimate the brawn of the San Francisco Bay. There was enough muscle under that water to rip a pole clear from the rocks, quicker than you could muster a reaction. The Rock Wall was no high country trout pond -it was a melting pot of fierce saltwater predators with powerful tailfins and chiselled jaw lines and unforgivable strength.

I stood up again, burying my rod deeper in between the two rocks. I sat down. I folded my empty bag into a makeshift cushion and slid it behind my neck as I stretched out amongst the cold rocks. I closed my eyes and looked towards the warming sun. For a moment, I forgot about everything-where I was, the direction I was headed, how drunk I had become-. I just lay there feeling the warm air dig into my face and my neck and into the back of my hands. The sudden heat took me out of my seventeen year old mind and into a state of contentment- the kind of stillness you fall into when staring at a crossword puzzle; when your thoughts are unable stretch beyond the cryptic clue and letter counts. I just lay there; my mind slightly numb from the beer while the freshness of the bay absorbed all the bullshit that plagued my frontal lobe.

“Your getting’ Bites, John”

I sprung up, onto my feet like a surfer on the tip of a swell. Crouched down, I inched forward, placing my index finger on the line. Tap…….tap,tap,tap…the bites stop; my heart replacing the action with nibbles of adrenalin. Tap,tap,tap…..I could feel the light tugs as they put pressure on my finger each time. There seemed to be a hundred bites in each tug. I could feel the fish pick and chew, then gorge on the bait with gluttonous excitement, pulling violently but to no avail.

There was something magical about fishing-about getting that first bite or even mistaking the current for a fish’s curiosity. The silent communication travelling through the monofilament line fuelled my imagination, igniting a childish anticipation that reminded me my emotions weren’t confined to a huge black pit of despair. The sea’s banter made me feel excitement and wonder and hope- all the things that were suppressed day in, day out. I wonder if those feelings ever made an appearance in my life at all. I guess that’s why I enjoyed fishing so much- that sense of innocence I never really had.

I would wonder who was talking to me on the other end of the line and how big they were- I would imagine me in one of those Polaroid snaps at the bait shop, smiling into the eyes of envy as John’s record catch filtered through the local fishing circles and dive bars.

“You get robbed?” I didn’t know if Danny was asking me a question or offering his condolences.

“What do you think?” I reeled my pole in quickly, lifting my rod and leaning back as it wedged between my arm and my chest, then picking up the slack. I did this over and over again until the sinker appeared through a small splash in the water. This was the best method in avoiding a nasty snag and having to rewire the whole thing again.

“They had a smorgasbord down there, man.” Danny grabbed the dangling line, noticing the teeth marks that showered the worm’s body. “Probably just a perch or a smelt.” He slid two fresh worms on the wet hooks and let the line fall to a rhythmic swing.

“Hey, how’s your hand anyway?” I stretched out my fingers, the pain in my knuckles preventing a full extension.

“Yeah, it’s better-but I wouldn’t want to have to throw down anytime soon,”

“You know their callin’ you Penny Roll now?” Danny laughed. He stared at me- for a moment too long. There was a hint of admiration or respect or even contemplation and worry in his eyes.

“Who’s they?” I tried to act like I didn’t care, as I lined up for another toss-but I did, and I wanted to know.

“Everyone is. Half the school seen you knock him out man. You fucked him up John.”

“Well, I didn’t ask for any of this shit! And if everyone is callin’ me Penny Roll-then the West Side Crew must know I weighed down my punch too, eh?”

“Yup.” Danny looked at me the same as before- only this time for longer, and with wider eyes that didn’t blink for as long as they met mine. I knew his look was one of contemplation and worry rather than any kind recognition. “So what you gonna’ do?”

“What do you mean?” I knew exactly what he meant- but held my poker face firm, despite the crappy off suit hand I was stuck with.

“They gonna keep comin’ after you man- they know you used a roll of pennies in your fist that last fight-so anything goes now. You know I would have your back, but….”
I cut Danny off. It wasn’t his battle, it was mine. I felt bad- him always having to justify himself. Without fail he would go red in the face every time. “It’s alright. I don’t want to get you mixed up in this mess-I told you that. I’ll just keep taking different routes home and bailing out of class early-it’s no thing.”

“But, man I never seen anyone get knocked out cold before. Than penny roll trick really works eh!”

“Just drop it Danny-like I said it’s no thing.”

But it was a thing, it was more than a thing and it was wearing real thin- leaving my days frayed and tattered and exposed and vunerable. I wish he hadn’t brought it up at all. I was starting to sober up just thinking about it. Danny grabbed my arm and brought it close to his eyes. He squeezed down softly, but hard enough to instigate a slight reaction. “Does this hurt?”

I pulled back. “What are you, a fuckin’ two bit doctor?” adding just enough sarcasm to hide my true resentment. That’s just how I was. He laughed and that made me angry-but I laughed with him instead. That was me.

“Sorry Penny Roll, I was just tryin’ to help.”

“Dude, don’t call me that.” I walked to the edge of the rocks and hurled my line into the channel.

“What?…. Penny Roll?”

“Yeah man, that’s not my name.” I had to yell this time.

“What’s that Penny?”

I knew he heard me. I turned around, puncturing his sense of humour with a snarling glance. Danny’s smile faded to a neutral..almost apologetic look.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean nothin’ man. It’s just the beers. You’ll get through this John.”

“All good man, I just wish you didn’t bring it up, that’s all. Its been fucking with my head. Let’s just fish man…….drink and fish. How many beers we got left?”

Danny bent over, catching his balance with an additional step. He stood up. Another step. “Four ,man.”

“Three for me, one for you.” I said.

There was that damn smile again.”What…heeeeellll no man. I ain’t no mathmetician,but…..” Danny swayed, still smiling.

“When you start fading money on the beer, we’ll split em’…right down the middle.”

“Yeah, makes sense.” He didn’t hesitate, nodding

I knew he wasn’t happy. It wasn’t like him not to kick and scream then somehow charm the fuck out of me until he got his way. I got the impression he was trying to salvage the rest of the afternoon, sensing my irritation. It went silent for a few minutes.

“It’s all drama Danny. More drama than a two foot midget!” A sat cross legged at the base of my pole, back turned.

“A two foot midget?”

“Yeah, a two foot midget. More drama than a two foot midget.” The alcohol was starting to talk.

“How many two foot midgets do you know....actually, how many midgets do you know in general?…never mind the size.” Danny’s face exploded with amusement, followed by his high pitched laugh.

My laughed joined his. He walked away, fumbling with the worms and loose tackle. It went silent. My mind fought between deep thought and nothing at all. Back and forth until it got the better of me. I quickly reached for another beer.

A beef lasts a lifetime. Someone said that to me once. I don’t know who said it, probably Notorious B.I.G or Tupac or some other rapper who ended up dead before he fully matured. It made sense -a beef lasts a lifetime. I didn’t see this one ending with a handshake over a Nation’s burger and chilli fries. The West Side Crew wanted to send one last message. They wanted me to stand down, admit my inferiority, and retreat back into that reserved disposition that moulded my societal role. The only problem is that I wouldn’t. I had lived in a cacoon for too long, protected by my own web of silence. I kept coming at them stronger, with heavier fists and a tenacious hunger to feed my malnourished pride and self respect.

To think this whole thing started with one cherry red beach cruiser. I didn’t ask for Fat Boy Richie to steal it. I didn’t ask for Fat Boy Richie to loiter up and down the block smug, belly full of pride. He could have at least sprayed painted the damn thing black. Fat Boy Richie- you motherfucker.

What was I supposed to do when I seen him that day- on my bike, the bike I spent mindless hours sanding and polishing and painting and sweating over, the bike that had mail order rims and custom white walls? I could have said- um excuse me…um I just wanted to let you know you may need to order a new chain soon, or…hey the chasse should arrive any day now, I’ll send it to you. I could have looked the other way and let him stand over me, swollen with ego - everyone else had this crafted to a fine art, so why not? My confidence had been bruised and battered for so many years; the internal bleeding causing an infectious clot of doubt and self hate and every other emotion that keep shrinks in business.

“It’s dead, man.” I looked up into the clouds and tried to make shapes out of them.
“Dead.” Danny stared somewhere else, in his own world, his own unique concern or worry or empty thought.
“My mom wants me to move back East….with my Auntie.”
“New York?” Danny sat up, looking somewhat interested.
I chuckled, “Naw, New Jersey. Out in the burbs’ somewhere.”
“That’d be alright man. Get away from here for awhile, meet some new folks. I never been out of California…oh… well, Las Vegas once. They get snow there in the winter eh?”
“Yeah they get snow. But no way man. They got places called Greenbrook and Castle Ridge, and Cherry Oak Lane.” I burst into laughter. Danny wasn’t far behind.
“Cherry Oak Lane! You gotta’ be fuckin’ kidding me!”
I snapped back. “Yeah, Cherry this..and Cherry that…Cherry Ridge, Cherry Crescent Drive…probably even got some old lady called Cherry that everyone seems to know!”
“You could learn to play croquet or join a soccer team…..or how about team Frisbee!” Danny’s voice picked up when he offered the Frisbee comment.
My face read like I just chomped into a sour lemon. “Sure, man. It’s like the places you see in the movies, for real. Everyone’s got that BMW attitude. I wouldn’t fit in. They don’t even have fences in the backyards. It’s just these huge lawns that join together and they got those lawn mowers that you ride on…like a tractor.”
“Well, they say life is about new experiences.” Danny …..

It seemed like half the neighbourhood wanted their title fight. I couldn’t even get a spit man on my side, let alone a corner. But , back East wasn’t an option- no way… I would rather hide under the stretched canvas while normality sat ringside sipping cold soft drinks.
•
Each step slammed into the sidewalk, flat souled with a carbonated balance. My legs were heavy. I had to concentrate, but I couldn’t. I stopped, closing one eye. Things stopped spinning, or maybe it was just an illusion. I opened both eyes, wide. Everything started to spin again. I was surprised to see Reggie’s bench vacant. An empty wine flagon sat belly up, a small stain of liquor attracting a swarm of nocturnal appetites. I stared at the sticky dribble. I wondered if ants got drunk-if they got aggressive or made inappropriate mating calls or something. Maybe they waited for Reggie to leave every night, attacking his left over alcohol in a desperate bid to forget colony politics or the Queen’s tirade. A small pool of wine floated in the bottle. I thought about drinking it. I thought about Reggie. I decided not to.
I looked up. The flickering lights at Santos’ Liquor were enough to put me into a mild epileptic fit. S_NTOS LIQU_R…on and off, over and over again. Tight wads, I thought. My feet trudged along the pavement; my body close behind while my mind lingered in the Rock Wall’s therapeutic trap.
A load screech woke me from my nothingness. A cloud of thick black soot emptied from the exhaust of a passing transit bus as slammed on the brakes in time for the next stop. The stench of burnt rubber quickly overpowered the fast food breeze along Webster Street. I kept walking, one foot in front of the other like one of those inexpensive wind-up toys, stiff and monotone, but with a slight wobble back and forth.
It wasn’t but a few seconds before that cheap, ground beef supplement dominated the air again. I think I preferred the aroma of ammonia, bread crumbs and dead cow better. Nothing worse than burnt tires. A few more blocks I thought, turning east along Lincoln Ave. It was good to get off the main drag- the seedy bars, the surreptitious looks, the mosaics of vintage bubble gum that fossilised into the sidewalk , and that eerie silence that made me feel exposed and susceptible despite a gut-full of beer.

I stopped at the first step, leaning against the railing. I looked up. The chipped brown paint was still chipped and the off-yellow paint was still not quite yellow. The wilting sunlight made it look even gloomier. What an awful colour combination, I thought. It was the type of colour combination that screamed ‘poor white trash inside’ and ‘Home of the Salvation Army Soldiers’. Maybe it was a contemporary 60’s thing. I looked up. 1950’s…40’s….. shit, maybe earlier? I wondered how long a paint job lasted. I sat down. Yellow seemed to be the colour of choice. All these Victorian weatherboards, some better shape than others lined the street like sets of Siamese twins, breathing down each others’ necks.
I sat down. The sky was a beautiful orange, the kind of orange you couldn’t create with a stockpile of pastels or the best water based paints. It was that kind of orange that changed its shade with each second and with every movement of the sun and had a fancy name, like tangelo or deep carrot orange. I could sit on that stoop for hours during the long summer nights, staring into God’s failed masterpiece. You could see the cracks and blemishes on the off white canvas, then for a split second see the beauty that it once was.
Cars passed…swoosh, swoosh. Pause. swoosh. Nothing. Swoosh..swoosh. I sat for a few long minutes, numb, slumped back on my elbows, legs stretched wide. It went silent, the long summer’s night fading into quiet shadows and hollow sound. I stood up. It seemed to take such effort. My hand gripped the railing that stretched up the twelve stone steps. The vibration of the loose aluminium stirred that same noise that I attributed to coming or going. It was like a huge bell, long after it had been rung- subtle yet seemingly powerful. Boooiiing , boooiiing… I walked up the steps with a