A Punker's Notes [Original Novel]

Part One: Entry 16

I sit at the wheel of the Cutlass in twilight outside a stained off-white stucco apartment building. It’s just one of fifty or more low-rent apartment buildings that make up the Clinton neighborhood in Santa Ana. Young Mexican guys walk past the car every few seconds. Some whistle, some mumble “mota” or “chiva.” I ignore them keeping a lookout for undercover cop cars. I regularly check the rearview mirror while keeping an eye on any cars coming in off Westminster Avenue. From time to time I curse and mutter to myself. Sweat runs down the side of my face although it is a typically cool southern California evening.

After a few more rounds of swearing and mumbling I see Ryan Smith emerge from the disheveled apartment building.

“If you’re gonna do this shit you’re gonna have a hard time pickin’ yer mom up later,” Ryan comments as we drive off.

Jenkins stands in front of me tapping an insulin syringe with his middle finger causing air bubbles to rise to the top of brown liquid. With my left hand I pull a pillow over my face. Lying back on Ryan’s bed, I hold my right arm straight out.

“Yeah..., you got some big stickers here,” Ryan sits next to me on the bed grasping my bicep tightly as he examines my bulging veins.

“Okay you can look now,” Jenkins pulls the hypodermic from my arm. I pull the pillow off my face but still lay motionless.

Sprawled on my back on the living room floor, a couch pillow supports my head. As long as I don’t move I feel great. If I move my head even a fraction of an inch I get very ill.

“Fu-uck dude...,” Ryan slurs grooving to the Joneses on his mother’s stereo, “our banddd’s gonna be so rrrad... Like fuckin’ Redd Kross meets the Stooges meets the fuckin Germs... Total fuckin’ dirtnoise.”

Jenkins runs to the kitchen just to the left of the living room and vomits in the sink.

It’s time for me to pick up my mom from La Palma Hospital where she works as an R.N. I walk out to the car, start it and drive north on Knott Avenue. My mother’s shift ends at 11:30 P.M. Five minutes down the road the Cutlass’ V-8 gives out. I instantly look down at the gas gauge noticing that it’s below empty. I pull off onto a side street and coast to a stop next to a strawberry patch. I’m still a bit shaky from the heroin. I just sit for a while not quite ready to deal with the situation at hand.

After scoring the H in Santa Ana, I had made a mental note to get gas later.

I was so sick and high driving away from Ryan’s that I blew past two gas stations without even thinking about stopping. There’s a two-gallon gas can in the trunk for just such purposes. I am unable to open my door, walk around to the trunk, get the can and walk back to the ARCO at this point. I lean my head out the window and puke a little onto the ground. I promise myself I will get out of the car after I recover from vomiting. I slump in the driver’s seat for a short rest closing my eyes. Then I hear a muffled voice on a two-wave radio. I open my eyes and notice the beam from a red light illuminating a sound wall on the opposite, residential, side of the street. I straighten up as a police officer approaches my window.

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Photo by Park Dasol