Last Days of the Three Amigos

It was a non eventful afternoon. Sadly it would be our last...

Last Days of the Three Amigos

 

   It was my Sabbath before the last day on the corridor. I was making my rounds more than before. There was nothing else to do since my living situation was in limbo. Yet, I was a creature of habit and ritual. To be on the shaky porous ground called instability created a pacing beast. I walked up and down the crowded street of Broadway-alone.

    The sun was always a blessing, beaming down on me from above, while activity on the street bustled. The dark, open door watering holes were always filled with revelry. I was tired of living chess and the whole rigmarole life dished out: coffee shops, Fresh and Easy, with a park workout thrown in to keep my body on point.

    I lumbered the street with a semi-abused gate; feet blistered and hurting. Brain blistered and hurting, while trying to block out the whispers of an unforeseen future filling my ears.

   I walked by the Broadway bar and suddenly picked up a shadow. It was Baltimore. I hadn’t seen him in a while. It seemed as if he slipped a bit. My friend looked a little more manic and not in control as he'd been during his classes at LBCC. I remembered him telling me about the quest for his son and how his boy was on the East Coast living with his grandmother. My buddy had been smacked by the Crack rock again.

“Come on man lets go to the park.” He said

     We started the journey south: side-by-side, talking and walking. Two East Coasters broken: slipping and sliding on this oily surface of survival. Block by block we ambled until we approached the shady confines of the park. The noise from the skate boarders reached my ears. The babbling of the toddlers on the Jungle Gym sang to me. I pulled out an LA weekly in my bag to read, not in the mood for deep conversation. Baltimore rattled on his usual mantra about self-control and conquering his addiction that he had memorized from an NA meeting.

“I’ll be back. I’m going to get a beer. You got a dollar?”

   I quietly pulled out a wrinkled George Washington and handed to him.

“Thanks. I’ll be right back.”

   He hopped over the small bench were we sat. The cover from the trees felt refreshing, blocking the late afternoon sun. The Bixby Park was full of activity, but that time of day was always busy. Jogger, Addicts, Children, Skaters, Homeless, starving, and pros: together in an odd tasting human salad situated by the salt water of the city of Long Beach. I tried my best to suppress the rage; I had for everyone by escaping into Henry Rollin’s article. Baltimore bounced back with a six- pack of beer in tow.

The things you can get for a dollar!

    He was a master panhandler, so the beer was probably a communal contribution from the pedestrians on the street. We relaxed next to the sit up bench and sipped our domestics. I drank quickly not wanting to be spotted by the boys in blue. A collage of memories filled my cranium of all the people who fucked me over. The people that wronged me floated to the front of my gray matter.

But it’s still all blurry. It’s still so very blurry.

   I was on my second beer, holding the cold can in both hands. It felt like magically divine. Baltimore was on his third when from out of nowhere crept a black and white with two officers. They exited with a oh so familiar glare in their sunglass.   They were scouring the park for Rift Raff.

Wait! We were the Riff Raff.

“Look man. It’s the cops.” I said without opening my mouth or turning of my head. I slipped the open container back in the six-pack. Then a little voice in my head sang,

‘You have a warrant don’t you? Don’t you have a warrant?’

I did. A cold shiver went down my back. I didn’t need jail right now.

“Hey guys how are you doing?” said the first average height, Latino officer.

The other young white officer shouted to us, “Whose beers are those?”

I didn’t say a word. Baltimore felt the tension and spoke up,

“There my beers officer.”

 The cops motioned him over to the squad car and searched him. I was in a humbled state and didn’t want trouble. Usually, I would be all mouth. Telling the dear peace officers about my rights, but I was in the red to the city of Long Beach already. The first officer searched my friend then asked for his name and identification. Baltimore did the usual song and dance, talking himself out of jail and into a citation. It must had been a good day because the boys in blue let us go. Usually they pushed the point until handcuffs came out and someone was face down with dirt on their gums.

   Baltimore sat back down and took out a beer.

“Hey man. Lets go drink on the bluff man. Lets not drink in the open.”

    He nodded and we walked over toward the bluff overlooking Cherry Beach. They did Yoga on the bluff, where all the thin ladies and skinny, gay men flocked. That evening’s program was over and there was nothing but addicts and teenaged lovers. It was felt cool and the vanilla skies posted up over the blue water. The people below on the bike trail look like small figurines. I pulled out my can of beer hidden in my pocket, then took it to the head. Young E: the rapper rode over on his bike. He was talking to a pretty Latina with bright brown eyes and a brighter future than he, who himself belonged to one of the Meth Harpies that hung with Shadow. I couldn’t see what she saw in him but hey opposites attract. 

Then Prince Paul himself made an appearance.

“What’s up with you n****s!?” He screamed, strutting across the street. The little human missile came our way.

“You guys got a beer for me.”

     Baltimore swelled up into the Alpha male posture and jumped in his face.

“No you little b***h. We don’t have a beer for you.”

“Jersey let’s play chess again.” He said.

“Man I forgot my board at my room.”

“S**t man lets go find another one.”

     And with those words I was off down Broadway with two fourths of the male prostitutes from the Corridor. The same addicts that plotted on the rich queens by day and lived huddled together on cold ocean nights, where the sea breeze tried to kill them.

We headed to the dollar store owned by the small, slim Cambodian man and his regal, conceited wife. Three of us marching down the street in some sort of mob.

 A gaggle of loose nuts.

     Baltimore was drunk becoming that baffonish character I’d seen the in the Red Room several month ago. He whipped out his c**k in the middle of the sidewalk and pissed into the street.

Corey screamed,

“What the f**k are you doing man!”

    Baltimore was a mad man, wobbling back and forth, bumping into pedestrians. I could see the police in our future and wanted to distance myself. We turned and returned to the park without a chessboard.

“Okay. Hey I’m going back to take a nap.”

     Corey looked confused,

 “Will you be back tonight?”

“Yeah. I’ll be back.”

     I made a common right, willing to take on whenever was waiting for me at the Villa. I would lock myself in the room and ignore the abusive English midget lass.

 The Jersey boy knocked out for a few hours, but would make my way back to the park for a long work out. I woke to a silent condo, dressed, and gather my equipment, doing the same march through the Corridor.

      The streets were dark and empty. Most of the time they were filled with scattered, drunk foot traffic, but this night it wasn’t the same. I made it to the park and did my routine: the same as before never changing up.

   After most of the harder activities, I started hitting the bamboo poles on the green bar stuck in the ground. It made a loud clanking noise that echoed through the streets, probably reaching the ears of those at the Java, drinking sweet drinks on the outdoor patio, while enjoy nighttime conversation.

   Out of the sheet of darkness that lay over the park came Corey, limping toward me. The streets were beating him senseless. The Corridor wore him down. No longer was he the same energetic gnome I’d known. He was a slight shell of himself.

    I remembered a few days ago I saw him teary eyed, waiting outside of the Von’s complaining about a severe case of Hemorrhoids. He was crying explaining how he dropped his baby daughter's picture in the toilet of the supermarket. I’d never seen him so sad and didn’t know he had a little girl. Most of my new friends had children, growing up without fathers, who weren’t done growing up, but on the street instead coddling an addiction.

“Corey. What up man?’

    He was ready to cough up his guts onto the grassy plain.

“I’m sick man. I’m going to check myself into a the hospital.”

“What’s wrong man?”

“I think I have an infection. Yo man let me borrow some money to get something to eat.”

“I didn’t bring any money with me man. I have to go back.”

“Stop playing man.”

     He rolled his eyes and sucked his teeth.

“For real man. I have to go back the room. Give me a couple of minutes.”

   He laid on a park bench moaning. I forgot about my oath never to let him borrow any money, because a person in need was a person in need. I went back to the Condo for pocket cash. I showered then took my car back: any other time I would have walked. I drove to the park and found parking a few block away.

     Corey was gone. I searched the whole park for thirty minutes. I found him the next day on a park bench. He didn’t think I was coming back. Something inside told me our time on Broadway was coming to an end.

Author's Note

Any notes or comments would be helpful

Reviews

[Tree]

Cassic story telling, Hammer. I am reminded, rolling through your language, what a good weaver you are of the journey. And again, I found this funny, with a hint of sadness to it. Like I like all my stories. That ending, too.. Felt that.

Excellent piece, JH

[Judas Hammer]

Thanks Diego. Coming from a LBC resident that means a lot. I hope I am representing the city well. Thanks again my friend.

[audrie]

Well, my goodness! What an awesome story - It drew me in from the very beginning. I loved the many, many metaphors you used. I would sure love to read more - have you posted any more of the story? I think this was great - thanks for the share

[Judas Hammer]

Thank you very much. This is a later chapter in the novel Bixby Boys. Some chapters are posted. I'm going to take them down in july since I'm finished the book.

[audrie]

good to know - I'll be sure to check them out!

[Dayran]

Hi Judas ... how are you doing?

A story told like life on the Mississippi ... with a statement of self-sufficiency ... that is spartan in its search for activity or relationships. Yet within that environment ... we find an expectation for it to continue ... seeking not much more than a time with friends ... spent idling under the sunshine ... on the sidewalks of life. And just like that ... it seems it might be over. Fine story telling Amigo.

[Judas Hammer]

I'm good Professor. Nice to hear from you again, thank you for the read and the excellent review which is art in itself. Thank you for your valuable time and the Mark Twain comparison...LOL

[Coyote Poetry]

A powerful story my friend. I go back in time. I walked the dangerous edge and I knew some wild and crazy people. I wouldn't trade one people away. I like the places and the people in this story. Life isn't easy and we lose and gain friends. Always a pleasure to read your story. I'm behind and I will catch up with your work tonight.
Coyote

[Judas Hammer]

Thank you my friend. Nice to hear from you. Thank you for the read and review. As always it's great when you stop by.