ORANGE MESSIAHS by Scott A. Sonders (best free e reader TXT) š
- Author: Scott A. Sonders
Book online Ā«ORANGE MESSIAHS by Scott A. Sonders (best free e reader TXT) šĀ». Author Scott A. Sonders
It took us about two hours to finally leave for the party. Vicki has really straight, naturally blonde hair. But she hates it because it wonāt hold a perm. So while we were smoking and talking and listening to the Beatles, she spent about half of those two hours just with her curling iron. Maybe Iām just a teensy bit jealous but I donāt know why she bothers with any of it. I mean she is just as gorgeous from the moment she wakes up and from the moment she steps out of the shower.
So, Vicki borrowed her motherās station wagon, which is very luxurious and comfortable, and we took off for the party. It was in West Hollywood on Sunset Plaza Drive. We made bunches of wrong turns, got lost for another hour, and didnāt make it to the party until after 10 P.M. Great view from the living room but you could barely see it. The place was jammed elbow to elbow with people.
It was such a groovy evening. But itās already after two in the morning and I have yet to crack my books for the Psych mid-term tomorrow. So Iāll save the juicy stuff for my next journal entry. So, āsay good night, Gracie.ā
December 18th:
I could hardly wait to get home from work. With only three hours of sleep last night, Iāve been one sorry puppy all day. But Iām itching to write my new journal entry. I think itās almost addictive. Probably because everyone in my family is a closet intellectual of one form or another. My mother, Carla Maria, since I was old enough to remember, has spent every minute of her spare time reading. And I donāt mean dime novels or true confession magazines, but heavy stuff.
She was the best student in her high school back in Juarez. She showed me her report cards, ānot to brag but to show (me) that itās part of the Batista heritage.ā She never got less than an āAā in any subject except Home Ec, and that wasnāt because she canāt cook ā because she can, really well ā but because she and the teacher had what Mama politely calls āpersonality differences.ā What I think that really means was that the teacher was a major asshole.
Anyhow we only got a television when Gabby, my little sister, was about three years old. I was already thirteen. Mother definitely has a thing about TV being a negative influence, anti-intellectual... blah, blah, blah. So when she finally caved in to our protests, the television she gets has a crummy little fifteen inch, black and white screen. Iām not even sure where my mother found such an antique, probably in a garage sale or something.
Iāve felt like such a total dork most of my life because everyone would be watching their huge color TVās and be all excited about the latest Soupy Sales antics ā like when he flipped the bird to the producer of his show ā and Iād just have to pretend to be part of the in crowd.
But the good part is that because my mother knows more about history and politics (her favorite subjects) than half of my college professors, some of it has rubbed off on me and Carlos and Gabby. It rubbed off on Manny, too, but I donāt like to think about that since he was killed. It still hurts too much.
Since Carlos got out of Nelles last year, he spends most of his time at work. But when he was a younger teenager he wasted a lot of his time just hanginā with his pachuco friends. He was always trying to prove how bad-assed he was. He wanted to cover up the fact his big āsecret.ā When he wasnāt being cool, he was reading books ā just like his mother and sister. Thatās one way Carlos and me are really alike.
Oops, I just wrote āCarlos and meā when I really should have written āCarlos and I.ā Mother would freak about that, sheās a Mexican nut for English syntax.
So, Carlos and āIā both love to read. Weād pass novels back and forth. I think in one summer we read everything we could find by Herman Hesse, Albert Camus, and, of course, Jack Kerouac. Carlos has these alternating fixations that he is the āSteppenwolfā and that he is the āStrangerā.
Maybe two summers before that, weād read every novel that John Steinbeck (heās Mamaās favorite) ever wrote. Our biggest difference, though, is that I also have a secret life, kind of like Walter Mitty, but itās as a poet. Maybe this journal thing fits right. I have a shoebox filled with my poems ā just like Emily Dickinson. And I suspect that Iām gonna die with them still in the shoebox. Iād never show them to anyone. Again, Iām like my brother. We donāt do well with burla, which is Spanish for āridicule.ā I really need to practice my espaÅol. Like Uncle Gordo says, āitās the vernacular of at least one half of our heritage.ā
Carlos and I both like to think of ourselves as pretty tragic figures, and we both have what Mama calls, ārampant imaginations.ā In fact, I happen to know that he spent the better part of seventh grade saying to everyone about me and him, āsomos los reciĆ©n llegados y huĆ©fanos,ā that we were orphans who had just recently sneaked in from Mexico and that we lived by ourselves in an abandoned shed on a parking lot. Carlos was good, he practiced those words until he got them just right.
Anyway, he is clever! He even showed one friend the āshed,ā which of course is on the same not-so-abandoned parking lot that we both now happen to own. Even though Carlos and I speak hardly any Spanish, Carlos enjoys using as many Chicano words and phrases as possible so he can āblend in with the barrio and intimidate the yokels.ā
When heās around his friends or in school, he adopts this masquerade: he walks like a pachuco and speaks like a cholo. This is pretty amusing to me because, at home and at work, he speaks English like a surfer who was born and raised in the Valley. He used to dress like the other homeboys, too. Baggy chinos with sharp creases, a starched white tee shirt and a Pendleton buttoned only at the neck. But after he got out of Y.A., he lets me pick his clothes with my 20% employee discount.
Now he wears stovepipe Leviās that we distress and fade ourselves by washing them with lots of bleach after rubbing them for an hour with sand. Heās also going for his bachelorās degree, at night after work, at Cal State, L.A. He wants to be the first Mexican film director in L.A.
Wow, Iām rambling again. I get so carried away. I wanted to talk about āThe Big Party,ā so here goes. When we finally found the right address and went inside, the place was SRO, so packed to the rafters that you could hardly take a deep breath, as Vicki would say, without giving some guy a cheap thrill. Well, that may apply to Vicki because sheās got this fantastic-Playboy-Bunny-figure. Iām not exactly flat-chested but Vicki is a guy magnet. Sheās what anyone would define as āreally stacked.ā Plus, sheās gorgeous and funny and has a personality that could light up a New York City blackout.
Also, though, she is already twenty-one and a Libra, so she knows her way around. I mean, sheās very... overt! Just as an example, about two minutes after we get to the party, this guy, who looks like he stepped out of a poster of James Dean in Rebel Without A Cause, sort of accidentally-on-purpose bumps into Vickiās bosoms, and makes this fake-type apology which was just a big come-on line.
āExcuse me,ā he says, ābut if your heart is as warm and lovely as your breasts, Iām sure youāll forgive me.ā
But Vicki, without so much as batting an eye, says to him, āWell, if your cock is as hard as your elbow, my phone number is 555-6969.ā
I couldāve died right there. She is so fresh. I would have guessed that the guy would just turn to stone. But instead, just as cool as a cucumber, he says right back at her, āThatās cute but, in some cases,ā and he points his finger from his elbow to his wrist, āitās also this long.ā
QuĆ©ā cojones ā Iāve never seen such balls! But Vicki doesnāt get flustered either. She gets this demure look on her face and says, āHey, youād better get a letter of recommendation, if you want me to believe the unbelievable.ā
So he says, āIāve got more than one. I really do. Iāve got signed affidavits from at least ten ex-lovers, back at my place. You wanna come read them over?ā
Then Vicki takes my arm in hers, and as she turns her back to walk away she retorts, āWell, if you were really all that good, at least one of them would have taken you as her hostage, not as her lover.ā
So James Dean starts getting desperate and even more aggressive. He pushes though the crowd and plants himself, ahem, firmly in front of us.
He reaches out, puts his hand on Vickiās shoulder and says, āLook, Iām really attracted to you. If you ladies would like to get high ā uh, you do get high donāt you? ā well, why not come over for a toke of some super fine shit I just scored last night. Hey, I even took a shower about an hour before coming to this party. So Iām really clean, if you catch my drift.ā
I could feel Vicki was getting impatient. You could hear by her voice that her throat was tightening up a little. She looked away from James Dean and at me and said, āWell, Ramona, do you think he couldāve made his sales pitch a little more rudely?ā There was a heartbeat or two before it seemed like they both regained a little composure.
The guy looked at me this time and said, āThe lack of tact does not deny the fact.ā
Iād been invisible until that moment. I felt a surge of adrenaline, like Iād gained some kind of power by having Vickiās arm in mine. There was an alkaline taste on my tongue, like her electricity was charging my batteries. I opened my mouth but the words that came out were Vickiās, not mine. I looked at James Dean hard and icy and said, āSo what you mean by ācleanā is really that you donāt have crabs or clap or anything, right?ā
He says, āYeah, Iāve been working on the Pipeline for the past twelve months in some pretty remote parts of Alaska. Lots of Eskimos, but no TV and no sex. Iāve been as pure as a newly driven snow.ā
I could feel Vicki looking at me, letting me take control. I retorted, āHow chaste of you. With Mother Theresa as your only competition, you should petition the Church. Keeping such a big thing as yours in your pants for a year
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