A Punker's Notes [Original Novel]

Part One: Entry 26

“It’s all I ever listened to when I was a kid in Michigan,” I go on about Hank Williams Sr. coming from the Cutlass’ stereo. “I used ta call the radio station and ask ‘em to play Webb Pierce or Buck Owens and shit when I was like eight.”

“Yeah my dad’s got a lot of that stuff,” Jenkins comments.

We slow down as we pass the communal lawn of Bradford Estates. I stop and Ish gets in the backseat.

“Fuck dude, is this Joe Strummer’s grandpa or somethin’?” Ish laughs.

“No...! It’s fuckin’ Hank Williams,” I answer a little pissed.

“Oh..., fuck! That’s cool... That’s cool dude... I saw this movie about that guy. With that dude that’s always got a tan. That George Hamilton dude. He was always hangin’ out with black jazz dudes and all strung out and shit.”

“Yeah..., on morphine.”

We pick Ryan up at Knott and Katella then head to score some pot in a huge apartment complex near Disneyland.

“Dime..., dime.” Ryan almost whispers to a young Mexican guy then enquires, “You got any Columbian?”

“No..., just Humboldt.”

“Humboldt’s cool.”

A financial exchange is made. I pull out of an alley that’s got a row of garages on each side then turn left unto Lewis.

Ryan starts rolling a joint almost as soon as he gets the dime bag in his hands.

He lights up, takes a hit and passes the joint directly behind him to Jenkins. Jenkins hits it, and when we stop at Lewis and Chapman I have some.

“Fuckin’ Skidmore’s always goin on about that place and some dancer chick pushin’ big boobs in his face,” Ish comments from the back as we pass the Humdinger moving south on Harbor.

The joint goes around a couple more times.

“So fuckin’ stoned dude,” Jenkins mumbles.

“Those fuckin’ Mexicans dip this shit in PCP?” Ryan mutters back.

“She-eez law-AW-aw-AW-awng gaw-AW-aw-AW-awn and ah-AH-ah-AH’M-lo-OH-onesome blue-oo.”

“Fuu-uck...! No-o way!” Ish directly behind me explodes at Hank Williams’ yodeling.

“Can you hear the devil in the engine of this car...?!” Jenkins yells. “He’s harmonizing or somethin’, or whatever you call it!”

We end up heading south and pull up in front of a liquor store somewhere near El Toro. A marine, most likely from Camp Pendleton stands in front.

“Let’s trip this boothead out,” I laugh then check to make sure the equalizer is engaged. I turn the country music up good and loud. I switch the engine off and stare straight ahead at a Black Velvet ad with Hank Sr.’s pained voice echoing up against the front of the liquor store.

“I wanna get some ahh..., some ahh..., I’m gonna go inside and get some Beer-Nuts or somethin’,” Ryan all cotton-mouthed chokes out.

We cruise slowly around the laid back city of Laguna Beach. The Cutlass’ dual glass-pack mufflers rumble low as we pass small shops most of which are closed for the night.

A yuppie couple walks along a sidewalk in the summer night air.

“LA-LEE!” Jenkins abruptly screams high-pitched, Nazi like, at the two.

Photo by Cirrosis Aguda